Kritika Nayak 1 The first body was found at dawn, sprawled beneath the ancient banyan that stood like a sentinel at the village’s edge. A ring of vermillion dust, turmeric paste, and burnt hibiscus petals encircled the corpse, meticulously drawn like a sacred yantra. Her eyes had been closed gently, palms folded over her chest, and a curved knife still rested between her fingers. Carved into her bare skin were symbols that hadn’t been seen in generations—spirals, flames, and a crescent moon that bled red. The villagers gathered in hushed awe, not terror. “The Devi has returned,” someone whispered, voice…