Onish was anything but relieved when Oman left him on the cluttered table, surrounded by the oppressive aroma of herbs and tiny jade bottles. The air was thick, almost suffocating, as if the room itself conspired against him. Dragging his weary body to the cage's bars, Onish noted they had lost their glow—but he dared not touch them. He'd had his fill of searing pain. And besides, any disturbance might draw attention from the group. For now, Oman, the lord of Minaak, seemed to have forgotten him, and for that, Onish was thankful.
Yet, the room itself was a grim enigma. The heavy aura of death weighed on him, unmistakable and foreboding. Someone was dying here—that much was certain—and the thought gave Onish a spark of hope. A dying soul meant an opportunity: the chance to claim a human body. Slowly, he craned his neck, his beady eyes seeking the figure lying in the bed.
A boy, no older than twelve, lay there, his ruddy face far from the pallor of death. Yet the concentrated death energy surrounding him was undeniable. It made no sense, another layer of this world's unrelenting strangeness.
Onish extended his spiritual sense toward the boy, scrutinizing him carefully. The boy's body brimmed with vitality, but his breathing was a different story, growing fainter with each passing moment. Something was happening—something bizarre and unnatural. Even more unsettling was the faint connection Onish felt with the child, a thread so delicate it was slipping away. It was as though he knew the boy… but how? His fragmented memory offered no answers.
The elder, a man with a face carved by time and worry, approached the boy and took his pulse. His frown deepened, and Padma, the boy's mother, halted her sobbing, watching him with a desperate mix of hope and dread. Oman, ever composed, betrayed nothing in his expression.
After what seemed like an eternity, the elder sighed heavily and shook his head. "What is it, Nimohi? Speak plainly!" Padma's voice quivered. "Is my Ishit beyond saving?"
Nimohi looked troubled, glancing briefly at Oman before replying. "Milady, the truth can sometimes defy understanding. Your son's pulse races with the vigor of life, his body brimming with vitality… and yet, the signs of the white wives are unmistakable."
Padma gasped, her face draining of color. "Then mend his navel-spirit!" she pleaded. "It would buy him time. Surely that much can be done?"
"None but the Nimai can mend the navel-spirit," Nimohi replied gravely. "And the Nimai has not been seen since he vanished from his chamber."
Padma's shoulders sagged as she returned to the bedside, her sobs renewed. Nimohi, looking apologetic, retreated to his chair. Oman's face remained unreadable, but a shadow of grief flickered in his eyes.
Onish, perched in his cage, struggled to piece together the puzzle. Who were these white wives? And what role did they play in this tragedy? As if in response, a mournful chorus filled the air, its source elusive yet omnipresent. The sound sent chills down Onish's spine. None of the four seemed to hear it.
Before Onish could react further, the ghostly figures emerged. A dozen ethereal beings, no taller than a thumb, materialized. They wore flowing snow-white sarees and bore faces of celestial beauty marred by sorrow. Their dirge filled the room with an almost unbearable melancholy. The air grew cold, and Onish instinctively tucked his wings tight against his body.
The melody tugged at him, weaving through his thoughts like a siren's call. Onish's resolve wavered, his emotions flaring wildly. The dirge spoke to his deepest pain, whispering promises of rest, of an end to his suffering. His glittering eyes dimmed, and he felt his soul begin to shrink, as if drawn into a bottomless abyss.
*Come, weary traveler,* the white wives intoned, their voices sweet and dreamlike. *Come home. Leave this wretched world behind.*
A warmth washed over him, soothing and maternal, pulling him into a memory long buried. A tear-streaked face loomed in his mind—his mother's—as her lips moved in silent farewell. The memory unraveled, replaced by the irresistible pull of sleep.
Onish's soul began to separate from the parrot's body, and small, ghostly hands reached out, caressing him. He was floating now, surrounded by the white wives. Their whispers became a gentle tide, erasing his thoughts.
But then a sharp voice cut through the haze, breaking their spell.
"Milady, you must pull yourself together. Lamenting will not bring him back. The white wives have come to take him," Nimohi said, his voice firm but sorrowful.
The words jolted Onish to clarity. He began chanting a mantra, forcing his awareness outward. The dirge faltered, and the white wives' caresses became colder, angrier. Their attention shifted fully to him, and Onish's dread deepened.
Why were they so interested in him? They had come for the boy, yet none of them approached the child. Onish's spiritual senses confirmed his worst fear: the white wives were this world's Yamadutas—messengers of death—and they had been after him all along.
The white wives' song stopped abruptly. They joined hands, and the death energy in the room surged. Onish had no time to think. He acted on pure instinct, launching himself toward the boy.
Everything happened in a blur. Nimohi's medallion flared with blinding light, sending a beam toward where Onish had floated moments before. Oman and the girl shattered the cage with synchronized attacks. The white wives opened their mouths, and Onish felt an overwhelming pull. But he had already made his move. With a desperate dive, he plunged into the boy's navel.
Behind him, a black shadow materialized, holding a net of swirling darkness. It barely had time to react before the medallion's light struck it, drilling a glowing hole through its chest. The shadow snarled, clutching at the wound as it began to mend itself.
Oman's voice boomed. "Who are you? How dare you invade my castle?" A shimmering blade appeared in his hand, but the shadow remained unfazed.
"Who I am is none of your concern," the shadow growled. "I'm here because of a prisoner—one who escaped thanks to this meddling elder."
Nimohi's expression hardened, but his hand tightened around the medallion. Oman's grip on his blade faltered, unease creeping into his stance. The shadow's red eyes glowed menacingly.
"Do not test me, Oman," it warned. "As for you, Mitra," the shadow said, addressing Nimohi, "consider this mercy. But there will be no second chance."
Before anyone could respond, the white wives acted. Their combined energy surged toward the shadow, forcing it to dissolve into mist with a guttural curse. The room fell eerily silent.
In the aftermath, all eyes turned to the boy. Against all odds, his breathing had steadied, his pulse racing with newfound strength. Padma's tears flowed freely as she embraced her son. Oman's stoic demeanor cracked, a rare smile breaking through as he held his wife close.
But none were more baffled than Onish, now nestled in the boy's heart chakra, undergoing changes he couldn't begin to understand.