𝗣𝗿𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘂𝗲

The monsoon rains lashed the Western Ghats, turning the forest into a chorus of whispers. Some said the trees here remembered the blood of kings. Professor Rajan Kapoor no longer cared for legends—he cared for proof. 

His torch flickered as he crawled deeper into the cave, the air thick with the smell of wet earth and something older, sharper. 𝘐𝘳𝘰𝘯 , he realized. Or blood. The beam of light trembled over the wall, and there it was: a mural swallowed by moss and time. A queen astride a tiger, her crown a constellation of eight arms. 𝘈𝘴𝘩𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘩𝘶𝘫𝘢.