Far from the Sharma house, in a chamber buried beneath stone and shadows, the Puppeteer listened.
The sound wasn't one most could hear—it wasn't words, not exactly. It was the resonance of fear, the tremor of a soul extinguished too soon. The Phantom Warden had delivered, and the echo of Shalini's last breath rippled through the hidden network he commanded.
The Puppeteer leaned back in his carved obsidian chair, his long fingers drumming against the armrest. Behind the mask that covered his face, his lips curved into a slow smile.
"Efficient as always," he murmured.
The Warden knelt before him, silent and still, like a statue brought to life. His ember-like eyes glowed faintly in the dim light. Blood still clung to the edges of his gauntlets, though it wasn't visible to anyone but the Puppeteer.
"One piece removed," the Puppeteer said, rising and circling the Warden. His cloak whispered against the floor. "A small piece, yes, but one that mattered to them. Shalini was clever, resourceful. She gave Mukul and his little circle confidence." He chuckled, low and cold. "Confidence is fragile. Shatter it once, and the cracks spread."
The Warden said nothing. He never did. That was part of what made him perfect.
The Puppeteer moved toward a map pinned across the wall. It was no ordinary map—it shifted faintly, glowing lines tracing networks of influence, safehouses, hidden allies. The Sharma family and their companions appeared as golden sparks, faintly pulsing. One spark had just winked out.
He touched the space where Shalini's light had been.
"Do you feel it, Mukul?" he whispered, though the boy was nowhere nearby. "The first tug at the threads? Soon you'll see your web unravel."
A servant—hooded, faceless, trained never to look directly at him—approached with a tray. On it lay reports, messages gathered from spies across the city. The Puppeteer waved it aside. He didn't need scraps of paper to know how panic spread.
What interested him was the next step.
He turned back to the Warden. "You've proven your sharpness, but fear works best in waves. A strike, then silence. Then another strike, unexpected. Let them breathe, let them think they're safe, and then cut deeper."
The Warden inclined his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgement.
The Puppeteer's smile widened beneath his mask. "Good. Because they will not fight me head-on—not yet. Mukul will circle, analyse, and wait for the perfect move. That's his nature. And that, my dear Warden, is his weakness."
He paced again, voice rising with a strange, fevered delight. "Patience is a virtue, yes. But too much patience breeds hesitation. Hesitation breeds doubt. And doubt… is the sharpest blade I wield."
The chamber darkened further, as if shadows themselves leaned closer to hear him.
"Tonight," the Puppeteer whispered, "you've opened the door. Now… we send someone else through."
His gloved hand moved across the map to another golden spark. He tapped it lightly, almost lovingly. A name slipped from his lips like poison.
"They won't see it coming."
The Warden rose, towering, awaiting orders. The Puppeteer studied him one last time, then nodded. "Return to the shadows. Rest. Your work has only begun."
As the Warden dissolved into the darkness, vanishing like smoke, the Puppeteer finally let himself laugh. It was not loud, but sharp and cutting, a sound that echoed through the cavern like broken glass.
In the distance, unseen, golden sparks flickered on the map. Lives. Allies. People who thought themselves safe. The Puppeteer traced them with a finger, humming softly.
"One by one," he whispered. "Until the boy stands alone."