Thirty days had passed since Pankhudi had arrived at her father’s house. Half of her forced exile was over, but the physical and mental changes she was undergoing had turned her life into a shimmering, agonizing fever dream.

The silver vials Nakul had given her were no longer just healing her; they were transforming her. Her skin glowed with a preternatural radiance, her breasts felt heavy and perpetually tender, and her core remained in a state of sensitized, weeping readiness. But now, a new symptom had arrived—one that made her heart race with a mixture of terror and dark realization.