Samira took out a small, glowing marble from the desk and brought it close to the machine called fan. The pale blue light contained within the sphere ebbed out, animating that machine.

As the cool air stole the sweat from my skin, I glanced around, taking in my surroundings. The room was cozy and was spacious enough for two people to practice. In one corner sat musical instruments such as bansuri, sarod, and veena, carefully arranged in their respective areas. At the opposite corner was a shelf with neatly organized musical compositions and texts related to music theory. In the middle of the room was a beautiful maroon carpet adorned with motifs and geometric patterns, stitched with golden thread.

Fixed to the ceilings and mounted on the walls were torch holders with mana spheres carefully positioned at perfect places to illuminate the room. The spheres gave off a warm luminescence, providing the perfect amount of light to set the mood for artistic endeavors

Some rakshakas carried these spheres in rectangular wooden bars with a glass frames to use them as torches. These tools were instrumental in finding nightcrawlers in dark corners—thieving wretches who put their sticky fingers where they did not belong.

You might be wondering what nightcrawlers are. Well, here's your answer: They are a guild of notorious thieves who accept anyone from any caste to work for their leader, the One-Eyed King. It was said that this so called king had a crown adorned with spheres of emerald hue to complement his majestic golden hair. This detail is worth noting since there are only fortunate few who have spheres filled with colorful mana stolen from magical beasts. But one rarely sees such opulence, as it is only reserved for the richest of merchants and kshatriyas.

"Let us begin," Samira said, her voice becoming stern, devoid of the previous sweetness, as if my willingness to be her pupill had licked the honey from her voice. Her once kind gaze regarded me as the worst possible creature in the world, and the only way to bring back her kindness was to learn what she taught.

At first, she wasn’t too strict. Our initial vocal and instrument sessions were simple. However, as time went by, my progress exceeded her expectations, prompting her to intensify the pace. With each passing day, I faced a demanding schedule and learned many things.

I worked hard to acquire proficiency in vocals while also mastering the sarod and sarangi, with the former becoming my favorite instrument. During this intense training, I found job opportunities for my sisters to work as servants in the house of a retired merchant who was in need of household help.

Though it may appear unbelievable, my learning journey was not solely driven by talent but also aided by vials of amrutham that revitalized my body. My master explained to me that it is used by crows, the monster hunters for endurance and focus.

To ensure that this isn't misused by others, every varna from birth is injected with a poison that counteracts the effects of amrutham, as well as other mutagens used by the crows. Ironically, they never considered doing it with untouchables. We were never seen as a threat. That was a mistake on their part: they made it easy for the asuras and their rebellion.

“I know you are gloating inside,” Samira said.

She was right; I was gloating inside. In fact, I still gloat about it because music was the only thing that I learned with little difficulty. Don’t get me wrong, it was not an easy endeavor, but to be good at something that you are passionate about is a feeling unmatched.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” she chided, and followed it with a surprise. “Today, I am going to take you somewhere.”

“Take me where?”

"To a luxurious hotel owned by a wealthy merchant who is fond of musical talents," I instinctively looked at my hand and spoke, without looking at her.

I can’t be there with you.”

"We'll assume the roles of two strangers meeting for the first time," she said. "You will join me, taking on the persona of a skilled musician who came from a distant land. Tell them you learned from this unknown master. Use the name Shankara. That man's a drunken leech who met an early grave before he could be known among elite circles."

“But my tattoo?”

"Pray, have I ever told you that I possess extraordinary skills as a makeup artist?"

My eyes widened at the implication. "You can't! If anyone among them possesses owl eyes, that will be the death of me."

“There won’t be any owls. They don’t allow those freaks of nature inside respectable establishments.”

“But still-“

“Have you ever heard of the phrase: Risk is the spice of life.”

“What?”

“I took you in, knowing the risks because I wanted to teach you. I took that decision because I liked it, and now you need to take the same risk. You agreed to my offer, knowing that you may never play music after this. So why not take this offer? This is the only time you will be able to showcase your talent.”

I couldn't help but agree with her. How could I disagree? After all, I yearned to be an eye-catching attraction - a firefly that would obscure others with its radiance, becoming the sole beacon they could latch onto. I wanted to be a marvel that would be forever etched in their hearts

The thought of such admiration fueled my determination to excel in our charade.

It is the dream of every artist: to showcase their art, crafted to reflect a trickle of their being, just to be loved by many. It’s a peculiar form of acceptance, where the sins you’ve committed or the love you’ve felt are embraced by everyone because you let them in with your charm and artistry. It is an art that is very deceptive and manipulative in nature, and men and women are very willing to get a taste of it.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Samira, armed with a mortar and pestle, made a paste using walnut shell powder, alkanet root, saffron threads, a pinch of red sandalwood, and ground cloves. With deft movements, she expertly blended the ingredients, creating a velvety brown pigment that flawlessly matched my skin tone.

She took my hand and, with a small brush crafted from polished oak and soft animal hairs, began her work. Her gaze was focused, and her strokes were delicate as she painted over the mark.

While it is true that the right hand needed to have a tattoo, it doesn’t have to be in one position. It just needs to be below the forearm. Samira dipped her brush in a gray paint and painted a nightingale bird mark on my hand.

“Hopefully, for your sake, nobody notices anything,” she said, and my face turned pale with concern.

When she noticed my countenance, her lips curled into a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to you. I will protect you, I promise”

She led me upstairs, handed me some clothes, and directed me to the guest room to change.

I put on a dark blue angarakha kurta, and on top of it, I wore a resplendent maroon waistcoat. The waistcoat was adorned with exquisite peacock motifs and delicate floral designs, all meticulously stitched using golden threads. The middle of the waistcoat gleamed with golden buttons.

As I stepped out, a whistle escaped from Sameera, an act considered inappropriate for a woman of her social status and varna. However, at that time, I was oblivious to the intricacies of social etiquette, so I did not stare at her with disapproval and whined about the waning traditions.

"You look handsome,” she mused. “You can pass as long as you imitate the body language of high society. Can you do it?”

I tried to do it. I strutted like a peacock and earned a sigh from her lips.

“You are doing it wrong,” she said, shaking her head. “Stand tall with your head held high and keep your spine straight. Do not slouch or hunch forward.”

I listened to her and did as she instructed.

"Now look at me with a steady gaze," she said. I complied, and she shook her head. "No, you seem too nervous. Keep your eyes relaxed."

My gaze met hers, and my heart became unruly, beating too fast, but I reined it in and relaxed a little.

She gave further instructions on how to put on a calm and composed fascade and smile with subtle grace, devoid of dandy flamboyance. She showed me how to let my arms swing and stride with the purpose of elegant simplicity, ensuring movements that are neither too fast nor too slow, mimicking the serenity of a gentle rivulet.

“You catch on quickly. Your head won’t roll on the floor after all,” she joked, much to my dismay, and tossed me a coin pouch. “Use it wisely,"

“If you don’t mind me asking, where do you get all that money? I rarely see you do anything but teach me,” I asked brazenly, and once again offense was not taken.

"I am glad you asked. I acquired it from a wealthy husband who died in an accident," she emphasized the last word as if it wasn't true. I waited for her to reveal that it was just a joke, but she did not, and I decided to let the matter be.

“If anyone pesters you with questions, I want you to tell them that you hail from Jayateera Nagaram. Most people don’t come from that side of the empire, all thanks to the taint.”

“The taint! Is it real?” I asked. I had heard that the worst of criminals would be sent to the taint, where they would be devoured by demons.

"I have personally witnessed it. It is a massive, unyielding barrier of darkness that divides the continent. It serves as a permanent scar upon the landscape, forcing all those who seek to travel south to undertake a dangerous sea journey." She said. "There are horrifying creatures that dwell within this barrier. Their screams were so terrifying they still echo in my mind. Legends says that these creatures have immortality, doomed to exist throughout the ages, their insatiable hunger remains a constant torment. Only a weapon of legend – a crow's sword – said to be capable of ending their life."

“If I get caught for this,” she said, gesturing at my tattoo, “I’ll be torn apart, piece by piece. So please, my dear student, be careful,”

I left her home sometime after she did. I walked among the crowd, no longer feeling the glares of disgusted people. A few glanced at me, and at first, I thought they had caught onto me, but soon realized they meant nothing by it. Eventually, I was convinced that no trouble awaited me. If I am being honest It was a strange feeling because for the first time in my life I ventured beyond the walls without facing the scrutiny of unified oppressive gaze. It truly felt liberating.

As I continued to walk, I found myself on the wide eastern road, bustling with activity. My ears were assaulted by the sounds of hooves, creaking wheels, and the bustling activity of passing pedestrians who seemed to move with purpose like ants. It was a mechanical scene with hundreds of people walking about, and a few maneuvering their horse carts, and carriages without injuring anyone.

I followed the trail of ants and arrived at the entrance. I showed the guards my mark, and they let me pass. When I stepped outside, I was greeted by a row of lined-up wagons and carts. One of them was a magnificent carriage with a gilded exterior and intricately carved windows adorned with floral designs.

The driver, neatly dressed in a plain grey kurta and a vibrant red turban, engaged in conversation with a woman who wore a flowing silk saree in the shade of the moon. Decorating her hair were glass flowers that emitted a dim blue glow in the morning light. The exquisite mana jewelry adorning her was opulent and captivating, possessing the power to dazzle and leave onlookers speechless.

“That’s very expensive for a two-hour trip,” Samira complained in a high-pitched, spoiled girlish voice that seemed very unfamiliar to me. I approached with a mindful step, smiling the way she had taught me.

“Is this wagon going to gulabnagar?” I asked politely.

The wagoner looked me up and down, judging whether to frown or smile in response. “Yes.”

“Is that so?” I said, smiling. “How much do you charge, may I ask? I am quite in a hurry.”

The man stared at the clinking coin pouch as I shifted about impatiently.

“Four bronze coins per person.”

“My, my,” I said, shaking my head. “That is too expensive, sir. Do you leave immediately?”

He nodded in response.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes, of course.”

"Do we look like we shit gold?" I asked and then turned to samira. "My apologies for the foul language."

“N-n-no,” He stammered, confused.

“Do not try to swindle us. The lady and I will only pay you two bronze each,” I stated firmly.

“If you don’t want a ride, you can find someone else to take you there,” He replied indignantly, and Samira cast a baleful gaze.

“I guess I have no choice but to report you for overcharging,” I said, raising my voice slightly. “Guards! Gua-“

The man grasped my hand and croaked, “What the hell are you doing, boy? Are you trying to get me killed?” He let out a tired sigh. “Fine, I will take you there. Get in.”

Samira came close and whispered. “I did not expect you to be the one to take risks. You are a nice little con, aren’t you? Maybe I won't be demon food after all”

She stepped back and politely greeted me by joining both her hands.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. May I know your name?”

“My name is Indrasena. I hail from southern province, It is my pleasure to meet you.”

"It's my pleasure. I'm Samira," she replied, concealing any hint of her place of origin. She never shed her cloak, never revealed the enigma beneath. She was an elusive spirit with veiled intents that always evaded my scrutiny for answers.