He opens his eyes and looks at Baarish. The Dar smiles, triumph in his eyes, on his face, and in his voice. “Did you think you could escape me? Fool. I have caught you, and soon I will catch those girls who prance around the Between. I will reclaim the stars they wear. And you? You can watch as my men pleasure themselves on those girls. Perhaps I won’t have to torture you directly, then—”

“Dada-ji,” Tabassum Naaz says, interrupting him. “Please don’t touch the pendant. It might be dangerous,” she cautions. “One of the girls told me it is a talisman that protects the keeper.”

Baarish turns and glares at Tabassum Naaz. “Dangerous? For me?” He returns his gaze to Taraana and gives the pendant a piercing look. Finding nothing dangerous about it, he picks it up and pulls it free.

I almost forget to breathe. This is the moment, Taraana.

As if hearing my unspoken words, Taraana’s lips move, hopefully speaking the word to awaken the magic in the pendant.

“How is this trinket supposed to be dangerous?” Baarish bellows. “Boy, you should know that nothing is going to keep you safe from me. By the time I am done with you, you will be lucky to still be ali—”

Baarish comes to a discordant silence in the middle of the word. He looks down at the pendant he is holding in his hands. It is now glowing purple. He tries to speak again, but his voice fractures and his face becomes tangled up in a frown. He looks at the men he calls his friends, and they jump to their feet and back away from him. Baarish flings away the pendant and it falls to the floor with a thud.

But it is far too late. The damage has been done.

Baarish’s skin cracks like the earth in a drought. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He turns in silent appeal to his minions, but they are frozen. Then he turns to Tabassum Naaz, his hand stretched out, an entreaty in his eyes.

She crosses her arms and steps back. She is not as unaffected as she pretends, however. Her eyes speak volumes.

The next few minutes are an instruction in pain. One that we didn’t need but are forced to endure. At the end, all that is left of Baarish is a pile of dust and the echoes of his screams.

A New Era, a New Dar; the River Sings

We are not monsters, so we aren’t indifferent to the violence enacted in front of us. Though we didn’t wield the knife, we still killed Baarish. We retain enough of selves to feel the pinch of our consciences. Baarish’s friends, however, are another story.