After two long, exhausting days of travel, Aryan finally returned home. His clothes were wrinkled from the journey, and his eyes stung from lack of sleep. As he reached the familiar iron gate of his house, a sense of relief began to wash over him. He imagined Zahira waiting inside, arms crossed in mock annoyance, before breaking into her warm smile, teasing him about taking too long.
But something didn't feel right.
The gate was ajar. The front door, wide open.
His footsteps slowed. A knot formed in his stomach.
"Zahira?" he called out, stepping into the silent house. No reply. The living room was untouched, the lights off, the air stale. A heavy silence pressed down on the walls like an invisible fog.
He hurried upstairs, calling her name again, louder this time.
Nothing.
He checked every room. The kitchen. Their bedroom. The studio. The balcony.
Empty.
His heartbeat quickened. He pulled out his phone to call her. No signal. Just a loading circle. Then, nothing. The bars disappeared completely.
"This doesn't make sense," he muttered.
Just two days ago, during a brief video call from the hotel room, he'd noticed something in Zahira's voice—an uneasiness, like she wanted to say something but held back. Now, returning to a house with the door left open and no sign of her, it felt like the world had been knocked off its axis.
He rushed to the household workers.
"Where is Zahira? Why is no one home? Why is she not answering her phone?" Aryan's voice was almost trembling.
An older housemaid stepped forward, her eyes filled with confusion. "Sir, Zahira ma'am left in a hurry... two days ago. She took the car. You were with her."
Aryan stared at her, stunned. "What are you talking about? I've been abroad for the past two weeks! I just arrived an hour ago."
"But... but we saw you," another staff member added. "You left with her that night. We all saw it."
"No, I didn't! That's impossible!" Aryan's voice rose. "Are you saying I was here when I wasn't?"
Fear was starting to replace confusion.
Something was terribly wrong.
He rushed to the local police station and filed a missing person's report. The officers were cooperative, but when they interviewed the household staff, they repeated the same claim—Zahira had left with Aryan.
It was a nightmare.
Whispers of suspicion crept in. Did Aryan harm her? Was he covering something up?
Luckily, Aryan had solid proof—his passport stamps, airline tickets, hotel receipts. After hours of cross-verification, the police cleared him of suspicion.
But a deeper, more chilling question remained:
If Aryan was abroad… who was the man that left with Zahira?
The answer struck him like a bolt of lightning.
"Sajiya... Elyas!" he gasped. "Maybe they know something!"
He immediately rushed to the city hospital where both of them had been recovering. But when he arrived, he was greeted with yet another shock.
"They're not here," the receptionist said. "Both of them left yesterday. They took sudden leave."
"And their phones?" Aryan asked.
"Switched off."
The walls seemed to close in on him.
He stood outside the hospital, staring into the distance, trying to make sense of everything. A silent scream echoed inside his chest. He clenched his fists and whispered, "Zahira… I'm going to find you. No matter what it takes."
He stormed back to the police station. "I want a city-wide alert. Use every camera, every drone, every officer. I want my wife back."
Meanwhile, far from the chaos of the city, Zahira, Sajiya, and Elyas had found shelter on a distant sacred island. The three of them, weary and worn, stood beneath the towering arches of a centuries-old monastery carved into the side of a cliff. The air smelled of incense and sea breeze, and the chants of monks echoed faintly through the corridors.
The high priest, an elderly man with pale eyes and a voice like stone, stood before them in silence.
"You cannot stay here long," he finally said. "The spirit that followed you… it feeds on fear. And the longer it lingers in your world, the more powerful it becomes."
Zahira stepped forward. "Then what do we do?"
"You must return to the place where the spirit first entered your realm," the priest replied. "There, and only there, can the sealing ritual be completed again. Only then will the angels come and close the rift between your world and theirs."
Sajiya's voice trembled. "But that place... it's corrupted now. It's where we nearly died."
Elyas added, "If it attacks us again—how do we survive?"
The priest turned solemnly, then reached behind the altar. He revealed an ancient blade, its silver surface glowing faintly with a cold, ethereal light.
"This sword was forged to fight spirits. Zahira must wield it."
"Me?" she asked, shocked.
The priest nodded. "You carry the rarest bloodline—blessed by the cosmos. You are one of the 0.01 percent able to summon celestial guardians. To call them, you must mix your blood with Zamzam water... and recite a sacred prayer."
Zahira's voice was barely a whisper. "What prayer?"
The priest smiled gently. "That is not written. It must come from your soul. The angels will only respond to truth."
He handed her a satchel filled with the blessed water, then turned and faded into the shadows of the temple.
Sajiya sat silently, staring at the floor. "This... this all began because of my mistake."
Zahira placed a hand on her shoulder. "It doesn't matter how it began. What matters now is how we finish it. Together."
Back in the city, Aryan's search had become the talk of the media. News outlets flashed headlines:
Prominent entrepreneur Zahira Aryan missing under mysterious circumstances.
Police had pulled CCTV footage from the street near Aryan's house. Most clips were grainy or inconclusive. But one short video caught everyone's attention—Zahira stepping into a car, followed by a man who looked exactly like Aryan.
Aryan watched the clip over and over.
"That's not me…" he whispered. "That's… something else."
The spirit had returned. And it had taken his form.
Back on the sacred island, the monastery courtyard was now filled with three majestic horses—white as snow, with eyes like obsidian stones. The priest emerged from the shadows one last time.
"These horses will carry you through the spiritual fields. The place you must go… no ordinary vessel can reach it."
As Zahira mounted her horse, the priest looked up at the darkening sky.
"Be swift. The moon is nearly full. Each moment that passes gives the spirit more power."
The three riders exchanged solemn glances.
The air was thick with dread. The ocean whispered with ancient voices. Somewhere, deep in the darkness, a force was watching... waiting.
And the final battle had begun.
To be continued...