Zian’s hand trembled. The needle clattered to the ground. For the first time, the cruel smile vanished from his face. His eyes welled with tears—not of pain, but of shame. He fell to his knees.
That night, the mood in Dholakpur was uneasy. Bheem dismissed the warnings. “Muscles always win! What is this ‘Chee’? A new type of pickle?”
Bheem laughed. “A finger? Ha! I can break a wall with my forehead!”
The sun over Dholakpur was a warm, generous coin in the sky, melting the morning dew and promising a day of mangoes and mischief. In the palace courtyard, Bheem was, as usual, engaged in a friendly contest. He was lifting the massive stone bell of the temple with one hand while juggling three laddoos with the other. Raju, Chutki, and Jaggu cheered.
But before the cheer could rise, a shadow fell over the courtyard. It wasn’t a cloud. It was a man.
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