The wrought-iron gates creaked open with no one in sight. Tara Vashisht stepped through, the fog curling at her boots, her black skirt swishing like a shadow. The lace webbing clinging to her arms glimmered faintly under the lanterns, every thread marking her craft. Her cross rose and fell against her chest as she climbed the worn stone steps of the semi-castle, semi-fortress.

The massive wooden doors groaned open before she could knock.

Inside, the hall was tall, arched, built of stone that seemed to breathe cold. A single chandelier burned above — wax dripping like slow blood.

And there he stood. Tall, perfectly still at the far end of the hall, his face pale but composed, his eyes catching light in a way that wasn't entirely human. His clothes were old-fashioned but sharp, as if he had stepped out of another century and into this moment just for her.

"Tara Vashisht," he said, his voice rich and deliberate, each syllable echoing off the fortress walls. "Welcome... to my home."

He bowed slightly, though his gaze never broke from hers — lingering on the spiked bracelet glinting at her wrist, on the clear glasses that framed her steady eyes, on the cross resting low at her cleavage.

The doors shut behind her with a low thud.

For a moment, Tara only adjusted the strap of her satchel, its weight familiar against her shoulder, filled with relics and mantras. Her bangles clinked softly as she moved.

She gave him a nod, the kind she'd give any client — cautious, assessing.

"Your message said there are souls bound here," she replied, her voice calm but edged. "Show me where."

The man smiled faintly, almost amused.

"All in good time," he said. "But first... a host must welcome his guest."

He glanced around furtively before speaking in a low voice: "Tara, help me! I'm in a situation where I must marry some ladies whom I don't want to marry. I can't speak much now, but they are not normal women."