Virinchi nursed his resentment like a festering wound. Ira. The name itself was a thorn in his side. How could the threads of Destiny, so meticulously woven by him for centuries, now be placed in the hands of... her? A child spun from blessings, a mere afterthought, not even a drop of his lineage flowed in her veins.

Successor? It was an absurd jest played by the very powers he commanded.

But atleast he had taken away the powers wrongfully awarded to her. He would make sure Rayer learnt it all. A caretaker? Huh! He would be the caretaker of fates, the one who shapes them.

Virinchi perched, knees drawn up, upon the cold, stone mantle, the hearth below long extinguished, mirroring the dying embers of his authority. Before him lay the Granth, the Book of Destinies, its pages vast and blank, waiting for the ink of fate to stain them with life's unfolding tapestry. A feather quill rested obligingly on the wooden table, dipped in the ink invisible to mortal eyes, yet potent enough to shape worlds.

To the ordinary gaze, it would appear to be merely water, but Virinchi knew its power, or, rather, what had been his power.

With a frustrated sigh, he grasped the quill. No matter what, he was still the creator, he had to finish the destinies he had started writing.

He turned a few pages, to the one that needed his attention as of now. A newborn baby, wailing its entry into existence in a small village nestled by the Kaveri. He had traced the child's initial joys - the mother's love, the father's pride. Then, the shadow of his intent crept in. Fever. Rashes. Smallpox. He documented the child's suffering, the weakening cries, the fading light in its infant eyes.

He was nearing the end, the final, decisive stroke of death on the eighth day. That was what was destined for the infant. Eight days of mortal world and then the cycle of Karma would do its calculation and serve the deserving. All he had to was write the final judgement.

But as he held the quill to write the final word, 'death', the ink seemed to move on its own accord. The letters shimmered, rearranged themselves, defying his will.

'Death' dissolved, replaced by words that bloomed on the page against his furious intent: 'disease free, vibrant health, prosperity through diligent work'. The words flowed in elegant Devanagari script, not his own hurried hand. Virinchi stared, aghast.

He gripped the quill tighter, trying to overwrite, to blot out the blasphemous change. He willed the ink to return to his command, to rewrite 'disease free' into the dreaded 'smallpox', to reinstate 'wealth' with 'poverty', 'health' with 'death'. But the quill remained unresponsive, an inert twig in his trembling hand. His powers felt...muted, distant.

Roaring in impotent rage, Virinchi swept his arm across the table, sending the Granth tumbling to the floor with a resounding thud. Ink splattered, unseen, unheard, yet felt as a chilling dampness against his skin. Who dared to interfere? Who challenged his decree? Hadn't he, in his desperation to retain his rightful place, snatched away Ira's nascent powers, binding them to his will? Or so he had thought.

The air in the chamber shimmered, then solidified, resolving into the form of Madhav. A smile touched his lips, a smile that held no mirth, only a knowing secret that grated on Virinchi's frayed nerves.

"Only your worthy successor can alter what you have written in fate, Virinchi," Madhav's voice was soft, yet resonated with an undeniable weight. "But sadly, you cannot alter what she has written."

"Ira?" Virinchi spat the name like venom.

Madhav's smile widened, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Yes."

Virinchi's eyes blazed. "But how? How could she reach across realms, across intentions, to alter what I have written? She is not even my blood!"

Madhav simply replied, his voice imbued with a profound certainty, "Because the power was hers to begin with. And she is your child, you are no mortal, Virinchi. A blessing child is more than blood."

Madhav paused, letting the words sink into Virinchi's bewildered rage. "She is simply reclaiming what was hers. And you, Virinchi, cannot stand against the tide of Destiny, you know that well. Don't you? Especially when it flows through its rightful conduit."

With a final, inscrutable smile, Madhav was gone, dissolving back into the ethereal fabric from which he had emerged.

Virinchi was left alone, the silence in the chamber amplifying the chaos in his mind. He had written countless destinies, guided empires to rise and fall, orchestrated love and loss, joy and sorrow. He had been the architect of countless lives, and now, he was powerless against a child, a mere slip of a girl he had dismissed as an anomaly.

His anger hardened into a cold, calculated resolve. He would not accept this. He would not be relegated to insignificance. If subtle manipulations failed, if stealing power proved futile, then he would take a more direct path. He would shape Ira's destiny, mould it into something wretched, something broken. He would make her suffer, make her question her own worthiness, make her relinquish the power he coveted.

Even if it meant facing her head-on, force against force, he would strip her of her future, of her very essence. He would make her the worst of all, a twisted parody of a successor, a living testament to his enduring, vengeful will.

The harder way, yes, but the only way to reclaim what he believed was his. The game, he decided, was far from over. It had just begun.

•••

Word had spread like spice market gossip: she could write destinies.

People lined up, clutching crumpled horoscopes, whispering wishes for love, wealth, escape from their humdrum lives. She sat on a stony mantle made around an old oak tree. Her little kitten sat by her.

A woman, her voice trembling, begged, "Write away my husband's illness, Maa!"

She listened; my gaze zeroing on her forehead. Nothing. Then, she simply smiled. Not a pitying smile, nor a mocking one. Just a simple smile. She was still discovering her powers. She was yet to cater to her own thoughts until she could navigate her ways.

With the swirling chai steam, whispers followed them - "Perhaps her smile is the writing?" "Maybe destiny isn't ink on paper, but something else..."

Saroshi remembered well. She had seen her father in his study, hunched over a massive, leather-bound book. She remembered the strange type of the ink he used - transparent, invisible to the untrained eye. She could never discern what he wrote, but he'd always said, that silenced even her childish questions, that it was there.

That's what destiny was, right? Something unseen, yet undeniably present.

Her own internal questioning had barely finished when two figures detached themselves from the lingering crowd and approached. They moved with an air of ingrained authority. Wealth radiated from them, thick and palpable, like the scent of sandalwood.

The woman was draped in white silk, its border a vibrant red, almost obscured by the sheer weight of gold adorning her - bangles climbing her arms, necklaces cascading down her chest. The man, equally opulent, wore a crisp white dhoti and panjabi, a single, heavy golden button flashing like a captured sunbeam at his chest.

She watched as people around them bowed low, instinctively picking up the cues of deference, understanding that these were figures of influence in this village.

"Namoshkar Maa," the lady bowed deeply, her jewelled hands reaching to touch her feet. Saroshi touched the woman's head in blessing, the words flowing unbidden from her lips, "May your holy bangle and the vermillion on your head be immortal."

The couple introduced themselves as the Zamindars of Kaveri, the very village where she had, seemingly by chance, stumbled. And because she had saved a small child of their village from what everyone believed to be certain death, the Zamindars, overflowing with gratitude and a touch of awe, insisted she stayed at their haveli.

Was this was fate? Perhaps destiny, in its inscrutable way, was leading her towards this unexpected place. As she was about to accept their generous offer, a figure materialized from the edge of the lamplit square. He was old, impossibly old, with hair and beard the colour of winter snow. He wore a simple white dhoti, his chest bare.

Saroshi froze. Sheer, unadulterated shock jolted through me. Standing there, amidst the flickering lantern light, as real and tangible as the ancient oak behind her, was Virinchi, her father. She was sure her father had come all the way down, just to help her to succeed, like every other parent.

The Zamindars, however, who had straightened at his arrival with polite curiosity, showed no flicker of recognition. Virinchi however addressed them.

"Roy babu, I have seen more of this world, tasted more of its ages, than you can possibly imagine. Why are you seeking to take this woman into your home? A woman who has dared to defy destiny, who has interfered with the very threads of fate by saving a human destined to depart?"

"Who are you?" The zamindar asked.

Introducing himself as an astrologer from a neighbouring village, his tone shifted to one of grave warning. "Taking her into your home will bring misfortune. She is... unsettled. She carries energies that are not meant to be meddled with."

The Zamindars exchanged bewildered glances. "But... she saved a dying child," the male Zamindar stammered. "A miracle!"

Virinchi's voice hardened, losing its initial polite veneer. "Miracles are deviations. They are ruptures in the ordered tapestry. It was wrong. Not following one's destiny is profoundly wrong. The child living would only bring misfortune and she is the reason." He turned his gaze towards Saroshi. "Isn't it true, child? You were searching for a place, for people... to... to unmake?"

The villagers around them reacted instantly. Fear, primal and swift, rippled through the crowd. They recoiled from her as if she'd suddenly sprouted venomous fangs. Even the Zamindars, their faces paling under the lantern light, took a hesitant step back.

The promised haven vanished in a puff of fear-laced air. Almost in an instant, the square emptied, leaving her and Virinchi alone. She had expected him to leave as well, instead, his voice dropped to a low, menacing whisper.

"I will ensure that you never again attempt to change the fates written by me."