Chapter 6: The Sword Letters Clash

Kabir's killing intent grew even stronger. He wrote a large 'talwar' (sword) letter in the air.

His hand shook, but the strokes were bold, the letter shimmering like real steel.

I was even faster, also writing a 'talwar' letter.

My finger traced the air, forming lines as natural as breathing. The sword shimmered, its hilt glowing with a strange warmth.

"Hahaha!"

Kabir saw my letter and burst out laughing. "You want to copy me and beat me with the same letter? But you even wrote it wrong!"

He doubled over, slapping his knee, the laughter tinged with hysteria. The watching maids exchanged uncertain glances.

Meera gave a bitter smile. "You really did write it wrong. The 'talwar' letter has at least eighteen variations, but I've never seen yours."

She shrugged helplessly. All her life, she’d memorized the forms, but never dared to dream she’d use them for real.

She had been obsessed with divine script all her life, but as a woman, she couldn't cultivate. The letters she wrote had no power.

Her notebooks were filled with perfect letters—practice, but never power. I’d seen her eyes linger on her brother’s calligraphy, longing and envy mixed in every glance.

But I said confidently, "Who says I wrote it wrong?"

I winked, trying to lighten the mood. Meera’s frown deepened, curiosity burning in her eyes.

Meera looked puzzled. "I've practised this letter. There are at least eighteen ways to write 'talwar,' but I've never seen your version."

She leaned in, her curiosity stronger than her fear. The kitchen staff peeped around the corner, whispering to each other in excitement.

I smiled. "This is the simplified letter."

My voice was soft but sure, as if I was sharing a secret only the two of us understood.

"Simplified letter?"

Meera tilted her head, thinking, then asked, "What kind of divine script is that? Why have I never heard of it?"

She looked genuinely puzzled, her brow furrowing as she tried to remember her lessons.

"It's my... own creation."

I didn't want to reveal my identity as a transmigrator, so I told a little lie.

I forced a smile, hoping she wouldn’t probe further.

"You created your own divine script?"

Meera was so shocked she covered her mouth. "Can you teach me?"

She clung to hope like a drowning person to driftwood. Her eyes shone, her earlier bitterness forgotten.

Then her eyes dimmed. "I know I can only write ordinary letters, but I just love it. I want to learn."

Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. Yet, the longing in her words filled the room like the scent of jasmine on a humid night.

"If you want to learn, I'll teach you."

I nodded with quiet assurance. For the first time, I felt like I could give something back.

I patiently explained, "This script was created so that everyone could learn it. Men can learn, and so can women."

She blinked, hope flaring again. Even Kabir paused, thrown off by my confidence.

"Even women?"

Meera still seemed doubtful.

Years of oppression are not erased so easily. She looked at me, torn between belief and skepticism.

I nodded. "Of course, women too."

I made sure to look her in the eye, willing her to believe.

Meera said excitedly, "If we survive, you must teach me!"

Her words were a prayer, a promise, and a challenge all at once.

Before I could reply, Kabir roared, "You won't get that chance!"

His anger was a wounded animal’s—wild and dangerous. The storm was far from over.