The docks were nearly silent, only the creak of ropes and the gentle splash of water against wood.
Vikram Das held his daughter tight, his strong arms trembling ever so slightly.
"My little lotus… you are a flower that blooms even in the harshest soil."
From his robe, he pulled out a leather‑bound book and pressed it into her hands.
"A rare gift from an Arab trader," he whispered. "In his land, women can study medicine… even become healers. He gave me this when I told him about you."
His voice wavered.
"Never forget who you are."
Leena hugged the book to her chest. Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry.
If she cried now… she might never let go.
The boat pushed away from the dock.
Vikram's figure grew smaller and smaller under the moonlight, until the fog swallowed him whole.
Hours later, the river opened into the sea. The salty wind bit at their cheeks. The world smelled of wet wood, brine, and freedom… yet Leena's chest felt unbearably heavy.
Then—
"Madam…" Maya's weak voice broke the night.
Leena turned.
Her maid was clutching her stomach, face pale as paper.
"I… I don't feel well…"
Before Leena could move, Maya's legs gave out.
She collapsed onto the wooden deck with a dull thud.
Leena's blood ran cold.
The journey had only just begun…
…and already, death might be on board.