THE ANTHROPOPHAGUS

SIX FINGERS?!

Flashback.........

The air in the dimly lit room hung heavy with anticipation as Meera, her face drawn with both pain and determination, labored through the throes of childbirth. Her husband, alive and steadfast beside her, stood as a pillar of support—a silent witness to the unfolding miracle.

Harsha, the younger of the two, came into the world first—a cry that echoed through the quietude of the night, announcing his arrival with a vigor that belied the ominous portents to follow. Meera cradled him in trembling arms, her husband's reassuring presence a balm to her weary soul.

But it was Harshit's birth that held the room in a breathless hush. As he emerged, a faint whisper of awe mingled with the mother's labored breaths. There, amidst the small, fragile fingers that reached out to grasp the uncertain world, was an anomaly—a sixth digit, delicate yet unmistakable.

Meera's heart skipped a beat as she beheld her firstborn, marked by a symbol that carried weight beyond the realms of ordinary existence. The extra finger, an enigma etched upon his hand, whispered of ancient prophecies and latent powers—the legacy of their bloodline intertwined with mysteries and secrets buried deep within Umshing.

In the flickering light of the candles, Meera's eyes traced the contours of Harshit's tiny hand, her husband's hand gently resting on her shoulder. Together, they marveled at the wonder before them, their thoughts a maelstrom of wonder and apprehension. The village would whisper of omens and curses, of blessings and burdens borne upon such marks. Yet, amidst it all, Meera felt a surge of fierce maternal love—a determination to protect and guide her sons through the labyrinthine paths their intertwined fates would tread.

Present.......

In the dimly lit depths of the cave, where shadows danced eerily upon the damp walls, Harsha, Bhairava, and Meera stood around a flickering fire. The acrid scent of burning herbs mingled with the metallic tang of blood, creating an atmosphere thick with dread and anticipation.

Harsha, his eyes gleaming with a sinister light, meticulously placed Nandini's tongue into a boiling pot. The bubbling liquid hissed and spat, the smell of cooking flesh mingling with the smoke that rose in serpentine curls towards the cave ceiling.

Meera, her expression veiled behind a mask of calm detachment, stirred the pot with an air of authority born of dark knowledge. Her movements were precise, almost ritualistic, as she added various herbs and whispered incantations, the words blending with the crackling of the fire.

"Stop this madness!" Bhairava's voice cracked with anguish, his hands trembling as he stepped forward, his gaze locked with Harsha's cold, unyielding stare. "This isn't right. We can't do this!"

Meera turned to face Bhairava, her eyes piercing through the shadows with an intensity that sent shivers down his spine. "Silence, Bhairava," she commanded, her voice low and commanding. "This is necessary. It is the only way to reclaim what was taken from us."

Harsha's lips curled into a cruel smile as he observed Bhairava's turmoil, his hands continuing their grim work. "Bhairava, you always were weak," he sneered, a cold amusement glinting in his eyes. "We must show strength. Sacrifice brings power."

Bhairava recoiled as though struck, torn between horror and a desperate need to act but the weight of his family's dark legacy bearing down upon him, a deep sense of powerlessness settled in his heart. the flickering fire casting dancing shadows upon the cave walls—a silent witness to the unfolding darkness.