𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐕𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐎 : 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐎𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐬

..𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒..

unwind with : Jee Karda By Sachin- Jigar, Divya Kumar

Vescaria
Northern Italy

The town of Vescaria stretched along the cliffs like a forgotten world carved into white marble and winter air.
Its streets shimmered beneath the pale sun though half of them carried the scent of hunger while the other half glowed with gold dust.
Palaces leaned over crumbling alleys as though royalty and poverty were forced to share the same light.
Lanterns flickered even in daylight, their trembling flames reflecting secrets the town had carried for centuries.
Vescaria was beautiful the way broken glass is beautiful, sharp, delicate, dangerous when held too tightly.
And beneath its elegance, beneath its perfume of wine and old prayers, there pulsed a silent warning that this city had seen too much.

At its darkest edge where the marble dimmed and shadows thickened, towered a villa built entirely from black marble. Locals spoke of it with the caution reserved for graves and angels.
Latin pillars rose like skeletal limbs reaching for mercy that never came. Wolf-headed crowns crouched above the arched entrances, their stone fangs dripping with rainwater and menace.
Armed mens patrolled every perimeter, stiff and silent as if anger had carved them from the same stone.
The gates never opened for daylight and even the wind learned to lower its voice while passing through.
The villa stood like an old curse, untouched, unchallenged and unyielding.

Inside the air felt heavier almost swollen with the weight of unspoken sins.
Velvet curtains in the color of old blood suffocated the air, denying sunlight the right to enter.
The chandelier hanging in the grand hall was crafted from obsidian crystals, scattering fractured shadows across the marble floor.
Every footstep echoed like a verdict. Every breath felt like trespassing.
This was not a home, rather it was a kingdom built for the living and a tomb crafted for the ghosts he created.

And in the center of that kingdom stood him, the man the world only whispered about.

He stood before a towering portrait of an elder, a stern, ancient man painted with eyes so cold they seemed capable of freezing entire bloodlines.
The figure beneath the portrait stood motionless, hands clasped behind his back with a precision that suggested discipline sharpened by cruelty.
His posture was a blade.
His silence was its edge.
He wore black from throat to glove as if even color had learned to fear him.
The dim light sketched hard lines across his face, leaving half of him in shadow and half in hardened grief.
He stared at the portrait like a student staring at a divination he could not rewrite.