Jiya had always been the picture of quiet obedience in her family's old, creaking house on the outskirts of the village. The air there was thick with the scent of incense and marigold flowers, remnants of rituals her mother performed daily to ward off evil spirits. Jiya's family clung to ancient beliefs like lifelines—black magic, tantrics, and the unseen forces that governed their fates. At 18, Jiya had blossomed into a young woman with soft curves, long black hair that cascaded down her back, and wide, innocent eyes that hid a world of unspoken fears. But since her birthday, illness had gripped her like a shadow. Fevers that came and went without warning, weakness that left her bedridden for days, and a persistent ache in her body that no village doctor could explain.