Barefootwarden
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This is a fictional story I felt inspired to write — I hope you enjoy it.
Nataraja by Thebarefootwarden
The car struggled forward, its wheels skimming over cracked earth and weaving between patches of encroaching greenery. The road—if one could call it that—was a winding, stubborn path through thick tropical foliage. The air was hot, dense, and buzzing with life, the kind that never truly quiets. Around them, the landscape painted itself in layers of vivid green and dusty red, the rural charm pierced only by the sudden and commanding silhouette of a temple rising from the mountains above. Ancient and awe-inspiring, the structure seemed to float amidst the mist that curled lazily around its tiers.
As the car finally rolled to a halt near a faded wooden barrier, the soft crunch of tires over gravel marked the end of its ascent. A sign, written in precise Hindi script, leaned slightly on a rusted post. No gate. No guards. Just the sign and the mountain trail beyond.
Two women stepped out of the vehicle.
The first, Adèle Moreau, adjusted the sleeve of her lightweight field jacket as she scanned the landscape with the composed calm of someone trained to assess threats. Her dark brown hair was tied back in a low, no-nonsense ponytail, and her gaze—sharp, analytical—locked onto the sign. She moved with quiet confidence, her clothing practical but impeccably kept: fitted cargo pants, walking boots, a muted blouse, and a discreet shoulder holster beneath her jacket. There was something in the way she stood—shoulders back, chin slightly lifted—that betrayed her background. Not just law enforcement. Discipline.
The second, Grace Holloway, slammed her door shut with more force than necessary. Blonde hair tugged into a taut ponytail, she pulled her shirt slightly away from her back where it clung with sweat. Her expression was a mix of irritation and disbelief. Jeans, boots dusty from the ride, sleeves rolled up, shirt creased and hanging just enough to show she didn’t really care how she looked. She squinted toward the sign and then looked up toward the distant temple above.
Adèle stepped forward and read aloud, translating with clipped precision:
"No vehicles allowed beyond this point."
Grace exhaled sharply, already wiping at her neck with the edge of her shirt.
“Of course. Figures. Middle of nowhere, jungle heat, and now a freaking hike.” She looked up again, shielding her eyes.
“Three kilometers, easy. Why didn’t they build this cult palace closer to a Starbucks?”
Adèle didn’t humor her.
“It’s a religious sanctuary. Sacred ground, by their standards.”
She began walking, expecting Grace to follow.
“And I’ll remind you, this is a visit of courtesy. We’re here to observe and report. Nothing more.”
“Yeah yeah,” Grace muttered as she caught up, adjusting her backpack.
“A ‘courtesy’ to a group that may or may not be brainwashing the daughter of an American billionaire. Forgive me if I don’t bring flowers.”
Adèle stopped for a second, eyes narrowing slightly as she turned her head.
“That ‘group’ is officially recognized by several governments, including ours. Their influence runs deeper than you think. It took weeks of negotiation to even set foot here.” Her tone was low but firm.
“You will be respectful, Agent Holloway.”
Grace rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she kicked a stone off the trail and walked ahead.
“Fine. I’ll be respectful. But if one of these robe-wearing monks starts chanting at me, I’m out.”
The trail wound higher, cutting through thick brush and stone staircases carved into the mountain itself. Despite their banter, the climb was steep and exhausting. Sweat trickled down their backs, and the temple loomed ever closer—serene, untouched by time, like a monument to silence.
Finally, after nearly an hour of walking, they reached the grand staircase that marked the true entrance. Flanked by carved pillars and weather-worn statues, it rose like an invitation—or a challenge. The great wooden doors stood closed, but their intricate design, covered in old symbols and faded paint, spoke of traditions far older than either of them.
They paused at the base of the steps.
Grace, panting lightly:
“Well. We’re here. Should we knock? Or do we just let the holy mountain tell them we’ve arrived?”
Adèle didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were fixed on the temple—on something in the architecture, or perhaps something she couldn’t quite define.
“Let’s just… observe, for now,” she murmured, voice just a little softer.
“And stay alert.”
At the gates of the Temple – Southern India, late afternoon
The heavy wooden doors opened slowly, revealing a woman stepping forward with the poise of a seasoned performer. Her movements were measured and fluid, each footstep punctuated by the delicate chime of ghungroos wrapped around her ankles. She wore a Bharatanatyam dancer’s sari—simple but noble in its earthy tones of bronze and deep red. A gold-and-red tilak adorned her forehead, and her long black braid swayed gently with each step. She approached in a graceful pose of prayer, palms pressed together in a serene namaste.
Before she could speak, the two women standing at the threshold stepped forward and reached into their jackets.
Adèle Moreau, composed and precise, held up her badge with quiet authority.
“Agent Moreau. Interpol.”
Grace Holloway, sharp-eyed and slightly impatient, flipped her own badge open with a flick of her wrist.
“Agent Holloway. Interpol.”
The woman bowed her head politely, eyes briefly lingering on the badges before meeting Adèle’s gaze.
“Welcome to the sacred grounds of Nataraja, agents. I am Priestess Madhavi, instructor of Bharatanatyam and guardian of ritual purity. I apologize for the delay. Today is my Tapasya—a day of spiritual discipline.”
Grace let out a sigh and glanced toward the faded wooden sign behind them.
“Yeah, that explains the ‘no car’ part, I guess.”
Adèle shot her a warning glance.
“Agent Holloway.”
Then, turning back with measured courtesy:
“Thank you for receiving us, Priestess Madhavi. We’re here for a scheduled appointment with High Priestess Chandika Devadhikar.”
Madhavi smiled faintly, a knowing smile that seemed to hold layers of unspoken understanding.
“Yes… She is aware of your arrival. I will take you to her soon.”
She stepped aside, then added calmly,
“But first, if you wish to enter the temple, you must remove your shoes. No one—regardless of status—may cross these thresholds with their feet covered.”
Without hesitation, Adèle bent down and removed her boots and socks, placing them together neatly. Her discipline showed even in the smallest gestures. Now barefoot, she straightened and looked toward Grace.
Grace’s nose wrinkled.
“Seriously? What if there’s, like, worms or something?”
But under Adèle’s unwavering stare, she gave a groan, knelt down, and tugged her boots off, muttering under her breath. Her socks followed.
Madhavi’s gaze flicked down to their now-bare feet and a subtle look of satisfaction crossed her features.
From within the courtyard, a small group of barefoot women in simple cotton saris approached silently. They gathered the agents’ shoes and socks in woven baskets.
“These will be kept safely,” Madhavi said. “They’ll be returned to you upon your departure.”
Adèle gave a brief nod. Grace folded her arms, clearly uncomfortable but offering no further protest.
Then, led by the rhythmic chime of Madhavi’s anklets, the group began to move forward—ascending the wide, ancient steps carved into the stone, entering the temple’s inner world where incense hung in the air and silence felt sacred.
At the top, beyond towering doors etched with forgotten myths, the High Priestess awaited.
The pace was unhurried, dictated by the graceful stride of Priestess Madhavi. Her anklets chimed softly in rhythm, guiding the group forward through winding paths lined with carved stone walls and soft earth, still warm beneath their bare feet.
Around them, the temple stirred quietly with life. Women in simple, elegant saris moved with purpose between courtyards and shaded halls. A few paused as the group passed, their eyes drawn to the two outsiders in Western clothes and unfamiliar postures.
A cluster of young women, seated near a shaded fountain, looked up. One leaned forward, whispering something in Hindi to Madhavi.
“Kya yeh naye shishya hain?”
(Are they new initiates?)
Before Madhavi could respond, Adèle stepped forward calmly and replied in hesitant but clear Hindi:
“Nahin. Hum Interpol ke agents hain.”
(No. We’re Interpol agents.)
The women looked surprised, exchanging glances.
Madhavi turned her head, raising her brows slightly.
“You speak Hindi?” she asked, a faint flicker of interest in her otherwise composed tone.
“There is… a French accent.”
Adèle gave a slight nod.
“Basic training. I’ve been to India before. Case involving stolen ritual artifacts.”
Her tone was curt, not dismissive—professional.
Madhavi inclined her head in acknowledgment, then gestured for them to continue walking.
“Then you understand the value of preserving sacred traditions.”
As they moved deeper into the temple grounds, Adèle took a moment to observe the surroundings—the polished stone pathways, small shrines nestled under banyan trees, rows of clay lamps unlit for now, and murals that blended myth and history.
Then she asked, with quiet curiosity:
“Is it only women who live here?”
Madhavi didn’t hesitate.
“Yes. No men are permitted past the outermost gates.”
She spoke with neither pride nor disdain—just clarity.
“Many of the women you see came from abroad. Some found us in search of something. Others were led here by what they call chance.”
Grace, lagging a step behind, gave a sideways glance to Adèle and muttered under her breath:
“That’s not ominous at all.”
Adèle didn’t respond. Her gaze remained focused on Madhavi, whose tone had shifted subtly—becoming just slightly more distant, more guarded.
They turned a corner, and a new path opened before them: a narrow, elegant walkway flanked on both sides by tall trees in bloom. The air here was heady, filled with the fragrance of golden-white flowers that clung to the branches above. The petals shimmered faintly in the fading sunlight.
“This way,” said Madhavi.
“The High Priestess awaits you on the other side of this alley.”
She walked forward, the bells at her ankles ringing softly with each step.
Behind them, from across the courtyard, a few women watched with discreet amusement. One whispered something to another, who stifled a giggle. Their voices were too low to be understood—but their eyes followed the agents with something between curiosity and knowing amusement.
Adèle glanced briefly in their direction, then returned her focus to the path ahead.
The scent of champaka blossoms thickened as they approached the end of the path—where the presence of someone awaited, unseen, but unmistakably powerful.
They entered the alley slowly, with Priestess Madhavi at the lead—her steps light and confident, as if the path were made just for her. The air was thick with the scent of blooming champaka trees, their golden-white flowers crowding the branches above and carpeting the ground below. The blossoms gave off a heady fragrance—sweet, narcotic, almost hypnotic.
Silence fell, broken only by the soft chime of ghungroos at Madhavi’s ankles and the quiet breath of conversation—or its absence. Sunlight filtered through the foliage in gentle, shifting patterns, illuminating the crushed petals beneath their feet.
Madhavi walked without pause, the flowers offering no resistance to her barefoot grace.
Adèle followed closely. Her stride remained steady, but every so often, her brows twitched slightly. As her soles pressed into the ground, she could feel the soft give of fresh petals and the faint wetness of crushed blossoms. A subtle stickiness clung to her skin, and once or twice, she grimaced—but did not slow.
Behind them, Grace lagged.
Eyes fixed downward, she moved with visible irritation, making awkward detours to avoid the thicker clusters of petals. She muttered a curse when one stuck between her toes and kicked it off hastily, then winced as a moist streak of yellow ran across the arch of her foot.
“I swear, it’s like walking through perfume slime,” she grumbled to herself.
Unbothered, Adèle maintained her pace, using the quiet to probe gently.
“You mentioned that many foreigners live here. Is there a particular reason so many choose this place?”
Madhavi’s voice was soft and fluid as ever.
“Some come seeking answers. Others… peace. There are few places left in the world where silence is not empty, but sacred.”
She glanced back briefly, a knowing gleam in her eye.
“Wouldn’t you agree, Agent Moreau?”
Adèle raised an eyebrow but nodded diplomatically.
“There is… a kind of discipline in silence. I can understand the appeal.”
“And yet,” Madhavi continued, “most people run from stillness. They fill their lives with noise and doubt. You two are different. You’ve come into our silence, but with minds already full.”
Grace scoffed from behind, still dodging petals.
“Some of us would’ve preferred coming into air conditioning and clean floors.”
Madhavi chuckled lightly, not unkindly.
“Even resistance has meaning here.”
She turned her gaze back to Adèle.
“Tell me, Agent Moreau. Do you ever feel… pulled by something greater? Something beyond order and law?”
Adèle hesitated.
“I believe in purpose. In action.”
“That is not a no.”
Madhavi’s smile deepened.
“We have seen it before—women of strength who come for a moment, and find they cannot leave. Here, they are no longer weighed down by judgment or duty. They become… whole.”
Adèle’s tone remained polite, though a subtle edge crept in.
“I appreciate the invitation, Priestess. But we’re not here to join anything. Only to observe.”
Madhavi gave a graceful tilt of her head, as if conceding the point.
“Of course. You are welcome in any capacity.”
As they continued walking, the flowers grew denser, the scent more intense—now clinging to the air like a mist.
Adèle glanced back. Grace seemed to have given up dodging the petals. She walked in silence now, grimacing as if resigned. Perhaps she'd simply run out of steam.
The wind shifted. A gentle breeze stirred the branches above, and more blossoms drifted downward in lazy spirals, brushing against bare shoulders and arms.
Adèle slowed slightly.
She blinked, trying to refocus. Her train of thought—midway through forming another question—slipped from her grasp. She parted her lips to speak, but nothing came out.
There was a peculiar lightness in her limbs now. Her body still moved, but it felt slightly distant—like she was watching herself walk from somewhere just behind her eyes.
The scent filled her lungs again. Her heartbeat slowed.
For a moment, she forgot what she had meant to ask.
She frowned… and walked on.
The alley seemed longer now, as if it bent with time, folding back on itself in floral spirals and filtered light. The petals beneath their bare feet grew thicker, softer—no longer a simple carpet of blossoms, but a bed of fragrant surrender. Each step pressed their soles deeper into crushed champaka, now warm and faintly sticky.
Madhavi walked ahead, serene and unhurried. The soft jingling of her ghungroos was like a metronome beneath her voice—gentle, rhythmic, ever-present.
“You are fortunate, you know,” she said, almost casually.
“Few are permitted to speak with the High Priestess. Fewer still come with hearts that might… open.”
Adèle nodded automatically.
“We’re here to speak with her, yes. To ensure everything is as reported. Interpol protocols.”
Madhavi turned her head slightly, just enough for her voice to carry back, velvet smooth.
“Of course. You are professionals. But tell me… is it not curious? So many young women from far away, renouncing their nations, their names, their pasts… to stay here, to serve something higher?”
Adèle glanced at her.
“We’ve read reports,” she said, her voice steady.
“We know of two women from Scandinavia. One married into the community, the other relinquished citizenship entirely.”
Madhavi’s smile was subtle, never sharp.
“You’ve done your homework. That is admirable.”
But something in her tone seemed to linger—like warm breath on skin.
Adèle’s brow furrowed. Why had she said that? She wasn’t supposed to acknowledge specific nationalities. The report was confidential. Internal.
She tried to recover.
“We monitor transnational movements. It’s standard.”
The jingling of the ghungroos grew louder, or perhaps closer. It was hard to tell.
“And yet you knew their names,” Madhavi said softly.
“You carry more truth than you share, Agent Moreau.”
Adèle didn’t answer immediately. Her mind felt… fogged. Not dulled, exactly—more like everything was happening underwater. The perfume in the air. The soft sounds. The lack of shoes. The chant-like cadence of Madhavi’s words. It all wrapped around her thoughts, blurring the lines between control and suggestion.
“You’ve come to see the High Priestess,” Madhavi continued, gently.
“You’ve come… to pronounce your vows to her.”
Adèle blinked.
“Yes,” she murmured.
A pause.
Her eyes widened.
“No. I mean—we’ve come to observe. That’s all.”
She turned sharply to look at Grace.
Grace had said nothing for minutes now. She trailed behind, her arms limp at her sides, the anger and sarcasm gone from her face. Her expression was calm—too calm. Her eyes were distant.
“Yes,” she said softly.
**“We’ve come to pronounce our vows.”
Adèle stopped walking.
“Grace—?”
But Grace didn’t respond. She continued forward, her pace matching Madhavi’s.
The priestess’s smile was unreadable.
The wind rose again, lifting more blossoms around them. And with it came the first real sound beyond the trees—the murmur of voices, female and gentle, and the trickle of water, rhythmic and echoing. It wasn’t loud, but it was unmistakable.
A communal space.
A bathing area.
Adèle stood still for a second longer, then forced herself to keep walking, even as the ghungroos kept chiming, and the words she hadn’t meant to say kept echoing in her mind.
The alley opened onto a stone courtyard, dappled in golden light. At its center, a vast pool shimmered, fed by a quiet stream trickling from a carved lion’s mouth. Steam curled gently above the water, and floating on its surface were dozens—perhaps hundreds—of champaka flowers. The fragrance was overwhelming now, clinging to skin, breath, and memory.
Around the pool, women in light saris moved gracefully—some bathing, some tending to the edges with woven baskets of fresh petals and cloth. The atmosphere was peaceful, but not idle. It was a ritual space.
Madhavi stopped and brought her hands together again in a soft gesture of reverence. A tall woman in a pale saffron sari approached from the side. Her posture was upright, her gaze sharp behind her calm demeanor. The two exchanged a quiet conversation in Hindi.
Adèle caught a few words.
“Interpol... foreigners… ready… purification…”
The other woman’s name, from the rhythm of the exchange, appeared to be Shalini. She glanced toward the agents with a curious look—half appraising, half amused. Her gaze lingered on Grace in particular, and she said something that made Madhavi smile in response.
Adèle shifted her weight slightly, the air thick around her.
Grace, now behind her, leaned in.
“Adèle—can we talk? Something’s off. I don’t feel…”
Her voice was a hushed tremble, but Adèle didn’t turn. She heard the words. She did. But she couldn’t quite respond. Her thoughts were muffled, like walking through fog.
Before anything more could be said, several temple women emerged from one of the shaded alcoves and began moving toward them in pairs.
Madhavi turned with poise.
“You will be prepared now. The High Priestess does not receive guests in worldly garments. You will be made ready. With honor.”
Adèle didn’t resist. She simply nodded, her eyes a little wide, her movements slow. Two women came to her, hands soft, almost reverent. She didn't move away when they gently began to undo the buttons of her shirt.
Grace, on the other hand, took a step back.
“Whoa—hey—hey! No. This isn’t—this isn’t part of the protocol.”
Her voice cracked a little. But her words faltered when one of the women placed a fragrant crown of champaka blossoms on her head. Another draped a soft garland of the same flowers around her neck.
The scent, heavy and warm, hit her like a wave.
Grace’s breath caught.
She froze.
A voice deep inside her screamed that something was wrong—but her limbs didn’t obey. She lowered her arms. Her shoulders fell slack. She let them undo her shirt.
Adèle, nearby, tried to speak.
“No… this… this isn’t…”
But the words came out barely louder than a whisper. She winced slightly as her belt was unclasped, but she didn’t stop it. A woman next to her smiled and whispered something in Hindi:
“We will make you beautiful. You will shine before the High Priestess when you speak your vows.”
Grace’s jeans were removed. Adèle’s blouse was folded carefully. Their undergarments followed, unresisted now, dropped gently into woven baskets. Neither agent protested as their last traces of identity were placed in the same containers that had held their shoes.
The baskets were picked up with care and carried away, disappearing into the temple’s quiet machinery.
Grace blinked. She stared ahead blankly as the women surrounded her, adjusting the garland, brushing champaka petals onto her shoulders.
Then one took her hand.
“Come. The bath will purify you.”
Still silent, she was led forward.
The surface of the water rippled gently as her foot touched it, disturbing the delicate constellation of floating petals. The steam curled up around her like a veil, and as she stepped deeper in, her silhouette grew softer, less distinct—fading into the sacred mist.
Behind her, Adèle remained standing. Bare, vulnerable, her body motionless—her mind unsure whether to follow, or to run.
The steam swirled like silk in the air, blurring the forms of bodies and petals alike. In the water, warm and fragrant, Grace was surrounded by four women—bare like her, their skin shimmering from the moisture and floral oils.
They moved around her with practiced ease, dipping soft brushes and cloths into shallow bowls lined along the edge of the bath. Another woman had a small sponge shaped like a lotus blossom. Their hands moved gently at first—washing her arms, shoulders, back.
Then came the giggles.
One of the women leaned forward and ran her fingers across Grace’s foot, where it broke the surface of the water.
“Oh… ticklish?” she asked, her voice teasing.
Another echoed, laughing softly in Hindi:
“Kitne naram pair hain… jaise phool ke jaise.”
(Such soft feet… like a flower’s petal.)
Grace let out a soft gasp, her body twitching.
“Hey—ah! Wait, no—don’t—!”
But her words were drowned in laughter, her own included.
The women redoubled their efforts, this time playfully scrubbing and tickling her feet, her ribs, her thighs. Grace squirmed, helpless under their touch, her laughter echoing high and uncontrolled.
“She is like a little girl,” one of them said in English, amused.
“A very ticklish little girl…”
Grace had no strength to protest. She let her head fall back, giggling, gasping for air, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and warmth.
On the far side of the pool, in deeper water where the tiled floor gave way to a drop, Adèle stood waist-deep.
She pressed her arms over her chest, trying to shield herself. Her eyes were locked on the scene before her—eyes wide, horrified.
That wasn’t the woman she knew.
Grace—sarcastic, sharp, impulsive—was reduced to giddy submission, letting herself be washed, teased, and played with like a docile initiate. Her eyes seemed clouded, as if no longer seeing what was happening to her.
Adèle shivered despite the heat. She took a small step back, instinctively trying to disappear into the fog, into herself.
That’s when she heard the chime of anklets again.
Footsteps, soft and wet, approached the bath’s edge. One of the temple women leaned down, her face half-lit by steam and sun, her hair slick against her neck.
Adèle turned slightly, but the woman was already behind her.
She whispered close, her voice warm, almost affectionate:
“Don’t worry, little flower… we’ll take good care of you.”
Adèle flinched.
But there was nowhere to go.
She was surrounded.
And the bath waited.
The steam curled thick around Adèle as the gentle splash of water drew closer. Grace was now quiet, nestled deeper in the warm pool, her head resting against the edge, her smile vague and dreamy. She looked like a different woman—softened, surrendered.
And now it was Adèle’s turn.
The women came for her in silence, moving like a ritual, like dancers. She backed instinctively against the edge of the bath, her arms still folded across her chest, but they didn’t reach for her harshly. Instead, they encircled her, whispering sweetly in English and Hindi.
“Such shyness... so rare in strong women.”
“She covers herself like a flower hiding from the sun.”
Hands touched her shoulders, her back. The cloth was warm and soaked in scented oils. They slid it over her arms, her neck, down her spine. The tension in her body held—for a while.
But the women were patient.
They did not rush.
They coaxed her open, little by little—washing, massaging, teasing in slow, circular movements. Her arms lowered despite herself, her breathing grew deeper. The cloth passed over her chest, tender but unashamed.
“So beautiful. So pale. You carry your strength like a secret.”
Adèle winced slightly, but she didn’t pull away.
Then the giggles returned.
A brush ran gently over the arch of her foot. She jerked.
“Ticklish?” one whispered.
“Oh, she’s trying not to laugh.”
Another voice from behind:
“Bigger feet than the blonde one… more to enjoy.”
They seized the opportunity.
Two women held her lightly by the ankles while the others dipped sponges into warm water and dragged them across her soles, her toes, the tender flesh beneath.
Adèle bit her lip. She closed her eyes.
She would not laugh.
She was an Interpol agent.
She—
“Ehehe—!”
A burst escaped her lips. She tried to smother it, but the women grinned, delighted.
“Ahhh, there she is… so serious, and yet so ticklish…”
“She laughs like a child.”
They tickled with fingers now—across her ribs, behind her knees, her belly, and especially her feet, which they treated like a treasure. Adèle writhed in their arms, her laughter rising, breaking through all resistance.
“S-stop—please—ha-hahaha—!”
She squirmed, helpless, flushed and gasping, her dignity melting away like soap in the water. Her breasts were teased as well—gentle flicks, small touches, followed by teasing remarks in Hindi too soft to understand, but their meaning was clear in the laughter that followed.
Adèle couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched her this way—not sexually, but intimately, playfully. Not since… childhood? Maybe never.
And now, surrounded by soft hands, kind voices, and warm water, she found herself laughing like Grace, tears in her eyes, her body open and loose, like a little girl being bathed by older sisters.
Her legs trembled. Her head lolled back.
She was ready.
Or at least, they had made her ready.
And somewhere in the rising mist, the temple waited.
Night had begun to settle over the temple, casting deep blue shadows across its stone walls. The air was thick with warmth, incense, and the heady scent of champaka.
From within the sacred halls, a procession advanced silently—Adèle and Grace, walking side by side in a trance-like calm, their hands folded in prayer before their chests. A pair of acolytes followed just behind, barefoot, their anklets chiming softly on the stone floor.
The two agents were barely recognizable.
They were draped in diaphanous white garments, like simplified saris, loosely wrapped around their oiled bodies. The fabric shimmered faintly in the candlelight, and though modest in design, it left little to the imagination. The outline of their breasts showed clearly, nipples faintly visible through the translucent material. Their hair was coiled into simple chignons, and their heads were adorned with crowns of fresh champaka blossoms. Around their necks hung long garlands of the same flowers. Bracelets of blooms circled their wrists and ankles, accompanied by a delicate golden anklet on each leg that caught the light with every step.
Their skin gleamed with sacred oils, polished to ritual perfection. With every movement, the scent of champaka rose from their bodies—warm, intoxicating, and deeply unnatural.
They were guided into a grand, open chamber lit by flickering fire basins and framed with towering columns carved in floral spirals. At the center: a raised platform of white marble, draped in saffron and ivory silks. Two plush cushions awaited them at its base.
They were motioned to kneel.
Obediently, both women sank down, knees spreading slightly as they settled, heads bowed, hands in a prayerful pose. The soft folds of their garments shifted, offering tantalizing glimpses of bare thigh and hip, hinting at their vulnerability without fully exposing it.
Silence fell.
Then, a deep gong resonated, its sound ancient and full, echoing through the chamber like the breath of the temple itself.
From behind a veil of golden fabric, she appeared.
The High Priestess Chandika Devadhikar.
She stepped forward with sovereign poise, her bare feet gliding across the polished floor, adorned only with silver rings and ceremonial paint. Her sari shimmered with deep crimson and gold threads, and her forehead bore the triple mark of her station. Her presence was commanding—calm, maternal, absolute.
And just beside her, sat Stella.
The missing American girl.
Now adorned in a traditional silk saree, layered with golden jewelry—bangles, earrings, a delicate nose chain. Her lips were painted dark, her eyes sharply defined with kohl, and her gaze… proud. Detached. Almost regal.
She looked down on the kneeling agents with a slow, assessing stare, one that said without words:
“You are not equals. You are beneath me now.”
There was no recognition in her face. No concern. Only silent satisfaction.
Adèle’s chest tightened. She had come to find and rescue this girl. And yet… this wasn’t Stella anymore.
Then the High Priestess spoke.
“Child…”
Her voice was low, measured, and perfectly clear in its English—each syllable placed with ceremonial weight.
She raised her hand slightly, her fingers tracing a slow arc in the air as her voice deepened.
“You were sent to investigate. But here, investigation ends. Here, there is only offering.
You have been washed. You have been seen. You have been softened.
Now, you are ready to be claimed.”
The words hit like a slow knife.
Grace lifted her chin.
“Yes.”
Her voice didn’t waver. Her answer was absolute.
Adèle hesitated.
She looked sideways at Grace—so still, so serene. Then forward again, toward the Priestess. Toward Stella.
Toward the abyss.
“Ye—” she faltered, then gave in.
“Yes.”
The High Priestess smiled.
“Good girl.”
And in that instant, Adèle knew.
Not spiritually. Not mystically.
Professionally. Tactically. Strategically.
They were no longer agents.
They were compromised.
And there was no turning back.
Nataraja by Thebarefootwarden
The car struggled forward, its wheels skimming over cracked earth and weaving between patches of encroaching greenery. The road—if one could call it that—was a winding, stubborn path through thick tropical foliage. The air was hot, dense, and buzzing with life, the kind that never truly quiets. Around them, the landscape painted itself in layers of vivid green and dusty red, the rural charm pierced only by the sudden and commanding silhouette of a temple rising from the mountains above. Ancient and awe-inspiring, the structure seemed to float amidst the mist that curled lazily around its tiers.
As the car finally rolled to a halt near a faded wooden barrier, the soft crunch of tires over gravel marked the end of its ascent. A sign, written in precise Hindi script, leaned slightly on a rusted post. No gate. No guards. Just the sign and the mountain trail beyond.
Two women stepped out of the vehicle.
The first, Adèle Moreau, adjusted the sleeve of her lightweight field jacket as she scanned the landscape with the composed calm of someone trained to assess threats. Her dark brown hair was tied back in a low, no-nonsense ponytail, and her gaze—sharp, analytical—locked onto the sign. She moved with quiet confidence, her clothing practical but impeccably kept: fitted cargo pants, walking boots, a muted blouse, and a discreet shoulder holster beneath her jacket. There was something in the way she stood—shoulders back, chin slightly lifted—that betrayed her background. Not just law enforcement. Discipline.
The second, Grace Holloway, slammed her door shut with more force than necessary. Blonde hair tugged into a taut ponytail, she pulled her shirt slightly away from her back where it clung with sweat. Her expression was a mix of irritation and disbelief. Jeans, boots dusty from the ride, sleeves rolled up, shirt creased and hanging just enough to show she didn’t really care how she looked. She squinted toward the sign and then looked up toward the distant temple above.
Adèle stepped forward and read aloud, translating with clipped precision:
"No vehicles allowed beyond this point."
Grace exhaled sharply, already wiping at her neck with the edge of her shirt.
“Of course. Figures. Middle of nowhere, jungle heat, and now a freaking hike.” She looked up again, shielding her eyes.
“Three kilometers, easy. Why didn’t they build this cult palace closer to a Starbucks?”
Adèle didn’t humor her.
“It’s a religious sanctuary. Sacred ground, by their standards.”
She began walking, expecting Grace to follow.
“And I’ll remind you, this is a visit of courtesy. We’re here to observe and report. Nothing more.”
“Yeah yeah,” Grace muttered as she caught up, adjusting her backpack.
“A ‘courtesy’ to a group that may or may not be brainwashing the daughter of an American billionaire. Forgive me if I don’t bring flowers.”
Adèle stopped for a second, eyes narrowing slightly as she turned her head.
“That ‘group’ is officially recognized by several governments, including ours. Their influence runs deeper than you think. It took weeks of negotiation to even set foot here.” Her tone was low but firm.
“You will be respectful, Agent Holloway.”
Grace rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she kicked a stone off the trail and walked ahead.
“Fine. I’ll be respectful. But if one of these robe-wearing monks starts chanting at me, I’m out.”
The trail wound higher, cutting through thick brush and stone staircases carved into the mountain itself. Despite their banter, the climb was steep and exhausting. Sweat trickled down their backs, and the temple loomed ever closer—serene, untouched by time, like a monument to silence.
Finally, after nearly an hour of walking, they reached the grand staircase that marked the true entrance. Flanked by carved pillars and weather-worn statues, it rose like an invitation—or a challenge. The great wooden doors stood closed, but their intricate design, covered in old symbols and faded paint, spoke of traditions far older than either of them.
They paused at the base of the steps.
Grace, panting lightly:
“Well. We’re here. Should we knock? Or do we just let the holy mountain tell them we’ve arrived?”
Adèle didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were fixed on the temple—on something in the architecture, or perhaps something she couldn’t quite define.
“Let’s just… observe, for now,” she murmured, voice just a little softer.
“And stay alert.”
At the gates of the Temple – Southern India, late afternoon
The heavy wooden doors opened slowly, revealing a woman stepping forward with the poise of a seasoned performer. Her movements were measured and fluid, each footstep punctuated by the delicate chime of ghungroos wrapped around her ankles. She wore a Bharatanatyam dancer’s sari—simple but noble in its earthy tones of bronze and deep red. A gold-and-red tilak adorned her forehead, and her long black braid swayed gently with each step. She approached in a graceful pose of prayer, palms pressed together in a serene namaste.
Before she could speak, the two women standing at the threshold stepped forward and reached into their jackets.
Adèle Moreau, composed and precise, held up her badge with quiet authority.
“Agent Moreau. Interpol.”
Grace Holloway, sharp-eyed and slightly impatient, flipped her own badge open with a flick of her wrist.
“Agent Holloway. Interpol.”
The woman bowed her head politely, eyes briefly lingering on the badges before meeting Adèle’s gaze.
“Welcome to the sacred grounds of Nataraja, agents. I am Priestess Madhavi, instructor of Bharatanatyam and guardian of ritual purity. I apologize for the delay. Today is my Tapasya—a day of spiritual discipline.”
Grace let out a sigh and glanced toward the faded wooden sign behind them.
“Yeah, that explains the ‘no car’ part, I guess.”
Adèle shot her a warning glance.
“Agent Holloway.”
Then, turning back with measured courtesy:
“Thank you for receiving us, Priestess Madhavi. We’re here for a scheduled appointment with High Priestess Chandika Devadhikar.”
Madhavi smiled faintly, a knowing smile that seemed to hold layers of unspoken understanding.
“Yes… She is aware of your arrival. I will take you to her soon.”
She stepped aside, then added calmly,
“But first, if you wish to enter the temple, you must remove your shoes. No one—regardless of status—may cross these thresholds with their feet covered.”
Without hesitation, Adèle bent down and removed her boots and socks, placing them together neatly. Her discipline showed even in the smallest gestures. Now barefoot, she straightened and looked toward Grace.
Grace’s nose wrinkled.
“Seriously? What if there’s, like, worms or something?”
But under Adèle’s unwavering stare, she gave a groan, knelt down, and tugged her boots off, muttering under her breath. Her socks followed.
Madhavi’s gaze flicked down to their now-bare feet and a subtle look of satisfaction crossed her features.
From within the courtyard, a small group of barefoot women in simple cotton saris approached silently. They gathered the agents’ shoes and socks in woven baskets.
“These will be kept safely,” Madhavi said. “They’ll be returned to you upon your departure.”
Adèle gave a brief nod. Grace folded her arms, clearly uncomfortable but offering no further protest.
Then, led by the rhythmic chime of Madhavi’s anklets, the group began to move forward—ascending the wide, ancient steps carved into the stone, entering the temple’s inner world where incense hung in the air and silence felt sacred.
At the top, beyond towering doors etched with forgotten myths, the High Priestess awaited.
The pace was unhurried, dictated by the graceful stride of Priestess Madhavi. Her anklets chimed softly in rhythm, guiding the group forward through winding paths lined with carved stone walls and soft earth, still warm beneath their bare feet.
Around them, the temple stirred quietly with life. Women in simple, elegant saris moved with purpose between courtyards and shaded halls. A few paused as the group passed, their eyes drawn to the two outsiders in Western clothes and unfamiliar postures.
A cluster of young women, seated near a shaded fountain, looked up. One leaned forward, whispering something in Hindi to Madhavi.
“Kya yeh naye shishya hain?”
(Are they new initiates?)
Before Madhavi could respond, Adèle stepped forward calmly and replied in hesitant but clear Hindi:
“Nahin. Hum Interpol ke agents hain.”
(No. We’re Interpol agents.)
The women looked surprised, exchanging glances.
Madhavi turned her head, raising her brows slightly.
“You speak Hindi?” she asked, a faint flicker of interest in her otherwise composed tone.
“There is… a French accent.”
Adèle gave a slight nod.
“Basic training. I’ve been to India before. Case involving stolen ritual artifacts.”
Her tone was curt, not dismissive—professional.
Madhavi inclined her head in acknowledgment, then gestured for them to continue walking.
“Then you understand the value of preserving sacred traditions.”
As they moved deeper into the temple grounds, Adèle took a moment to observe the surroundings—the polished stone pathways, small shrines nestled under banyan trees, rows of clay lamps unlit for now, and murals that blended myth and history.
Then she asked, with quiet curiosity:
“Is it only women who live here?”
Madhavi didn’t hesitate.
“Yes. No men are permitted past the outermost gates.”
She spoke with neither pride nor disdain—just clarity.
“Many of the women you see came from abroad. Some found us in search of something. Others were led here by what they call chance.”
Grace, lagging a step behind, gave a sideways glance to Adèle and muttered under her breath:
“That’s not ominous at all.”
Adèle didn’t respond. Her gaze remained focused on Madhavi, whose tone had shifted subtly—becoming just slightly more distant, more guarded.
They turned a corner, and a new path opened before them: a narrow, elegant walkway flanked on both sides by tall trees in bloom. The air here was heady, filled with the fragrance of golden-white flowers that clung to the branches above. The petals shimmered faintly in the fading sunlight.
“This way,” said Madhavi.
“The High Priestess awaits you on the other side of this alley.”
She walked forward, the bells at her ankles ringing softly with each step.
Behind them, from across the courtyard, a few women watched with discreet amusement. One whispered something to another, who stifled a giggle. Their voices were too low to be understood—but their eyes followed the agents with something between curiosity and knowing amusement.
Adèle glanced briefly in their direction, then returned her focus to the path ahead.
The scent of champaka blossoms thickened as they approached the end of the path—where the presence of someone awaited, unseen, but unmistakably powerful.
They entered the alley slowly, with Priestess Madhavi at the lead—her steps light and confident, as if the path were made just for her. The air was thick with the scent of blooming champaka trees, their golden-white flowers crowding the branches above and carpeting the ground below. The blossoms gave off a heady fragrance—sweet, narcotic, almost hypnotic.
Silence fell, broken only by the soft chime of ghungroos at Madhavi’s ankles and the quiet breath of conversation—or its absence. Sunlight filtered through the foliage in gentle, shifting patterns, illuminating the crushed petals beneath their feet.
Madhavi walked without pause, the flowers offering no resistance to her barefoot grace.
Adèle followed closely. Her stride remained steady, but every so often, her brows twitched slightly. As her soles pressed into the ground, she could feel the soft give of fresh petals and the faint wetness of crushed blossoms. A subtle stickiness clung to her skin, and once or twice, she grimaced—but did not slow.
Behind them, Grace lagged.
Eyes fixed downward, she moved with visible irritation, making awkward detours to avoid the thicker clusters of petals. She muttered a curse when one stuck between her toes and kicked it off hastily, then winced as a moist streak of yellow ran across the arch of her foot.
“I swear, it’s like walking through perfume slime,” she grumbled to herself.
Unbothered, Adèle maintained her pace, using the quiet to probe gently.
“You mentioned that many foreigners live here. Is there a particular reason so many choose this place?”
Madhavi’s voice was soft and fluid as ever.
“Some come seeking answers. Others… peace. There are few places left in the world where silence is not empty, but sacred.”
She glanced back briefly, a knowing gleam in her eye.
“Wouldn’t you agree, Agent Moreau?”
Adèle raised an eyebrow but nodded diplomatically.
“There is… a kind of discipline in silence. I can understand the appeal.”
“And yet,” Madhavi continued, “most people run from stillness. They fill their lives with noise and doubt. You two are different. You’ve come into our silence, but with minds already full.”
Grace scoffed from behind, still dodging petals.
“Some of us would’ve preferred coming into air conditioning and clean floors.”
Madhavi chuckled lightly, not unkindly.
“Even resistance has meaning here.”
She turned her gaze back to Adèle.
“Tell me, Agent Moreau. Do you ever feel… pulled by something greater? Something beyond order and law?”
Adèle hesitated.
“I believe in purpose. In action.”
“That is not a no.”
Madhavi’s smile deepened.
“We have seen it before—women of strength who come for a moment, and find they cannot leave. Here, they are no longer weighed down by judgment or duty. They become… whole.”
Adèle’s tone remained polite, though a subtle edge crept in.
“I appreciate the invitation, Priestess. But we’re not here to join anything. Only to observe.”
Madhavi gave a graceful tilt of her head, as if conceding the point.
“Of course. You are welcome in any capacity.”
As they continued walking, the flowers grew denser, the scent more intense—now clinging to the air like a mist.
Adèle glanced back. Grace seemed to have given up dodging the petals. She walked in silence now, grimacing as if resigned. Perhaps she'd simply run out of steam.
The wind shifted. A gentle breeze stirred the branches above, and more blossoms drifted downward in lazy spirals, brushing against bare shoulders and arms.
Adèle slowed slightly.
She blinked, trying to refocus. Her train of thought—midway through forming another question—slipped from her grasp. She parted her lips to speak, but nothing came out.
There was a peculiar lightness in her limbs now. Her body still moved, but it felt slightly distant—like she was watching herself walk from somewhere just behind her eyes.
The scent filled her lungs again. Her heartbeat slowed.
For a moment, she forgot what she had meant to ask.
She frowned… and walked on.
The alley seemed longer now, as if it bent with time, folding back on itself in floral spirals and filtered light. The petals beneath their bare feet grew thicker, softer—no longer a simple carpet of blossoms, but a bed of fragrant surrender. Each step pressed their soles deeper into crushed champaka, now warm and faintly sticky.
Madhavi walked ahead, serene and unhurried. The soft jingling of her ghungroos was like a metronome beneath her voice—gentle, rhythmic, ever-present.
“You are fortunate, you know,” she said, almost casually.
“Few are permitted to speak with the High Priestess. Fewer still come with hearts that might… open.”
Adèle nodded automatically.
“We’re here to speak with her, yes. To ensure everything is as reported. Interpol protocols.”
Madhavi turned her head slightly, just enough for her voice to carry back, velvet smooth.
“Of course. You are professionals. But tell me… is it not curious? So many young women from far away, renouncing their nations, their names, their pasts… to stay here, to serve something higher?”
Adèle glanced at her.
“We’ve read reports,” she said, her voice steady.
“We know of two women from Scandinavia. One married into the community, the other relinquished citizenship entirely.”
Madhavi’s smile was subtle, never sharp.
“You’ve done your homework. That is admirable.”
But something in her tone seemed to linger—like warm breath on skin.
Adèle’s brow furrowed. Why had she said that? She wasn’t supposed to acknowledge specific nationalities. The report was confidential. Internal.
She tried to recover.
“We monitor transnational movements. It’s standard.”
The jingling of the ghungroos grew louder, or perhaps closer. It was hard to tell.
“And yet you knew their names,” Madhavi said softly.
“You carry more truth than you share, Agent Moreau.”
Adèle didn’t answer immediately. Her mind felt… fogged. Not dulled, exactly—more like everything was happening underwater. The perfume in the air. The soft sounds. The lack of shoes. The chant-like cadence of Madhavi’s words. It all wrapped around her thoughts, blurring the lines between control and suggestion.
“You’ve come to see the High Priestess,” Madhavi continued, gently.
“You’ve come… to pronounce your vows to her.”
Adèle blinked.
“Yes,” she murmured.
A pause.
Her eyes widened.
“No. I mean—we’ve come to observe. That’s all.”
She turned sharply to look at Grace.
Grace had said nothing for minutes now. She trailed behind, her arms limp at her sides, the anger and sarcasm gone from her face. Her expression was calm—too calm. Her eyes were distant.
“Yes,” she said softly.
**“We’ve come to pronounce our vows.”
Adèle stopped walking.
“Grace—?”
But Grace didn’t respond. She continued forward, her pace matching Madhavi’s.
The priestess’s smile was unreadable.
The wind rose again, lifting more blossoms around them. And with it came the first real sound beyond the trees—the murmur of voices, female and gentle, and the trickle of water, rhythmic and echoing. It wasn’t loud, but it was unmistakable.
A communal space.
A bathing area.
Adèle stood still for a second longer, then forced herself to keep walking, even as the ghungroos kept chiming, and the words she hadn’t meant to say kept echoing in her mind.
The alley opened onto a stone courtyard, dappled in golden light. At its center, a vast pool shimmered, fed by a quiet stream trickling from a carved lion’s mouth. Steam curled gently above the water, and floating on its surface were dozens—perhaps hundreds—of champaka flowers. The fragrance was overwhelming now, clinging to skin, breath, and memory.
Around the pool, women in light saris moved gracefully—some bathing, some tending to the edges with woven baskets of fresh petals and cloth. The atmosphere was peaceful, but not idle. It was a ritual space.
Madhavi stopped and brought her hands together again in a soft gesture of reverence. A tall woman in a pale saffron sari approached from the side. Her posture was upright, her gaze sharp behind her calm demeanor. The two exchanged a quiet conversation in Hindi.
Adèle caught a few words.
“Interpol... foreigners… ready… purification…”
The other woman’s name, from the rhythm of the exchange, appeared to be Shalini. She glanced toward the agents with a curious look—half appraising, half amused. Her gaze lingered on Grace in particular, and she said something that made Madhavi smile in response.
Adèle shifted her weight slightly, the air thick around her.
Grace, now behind her, leaned in.
“Adèle—can we talk? Something’s off. I don’t feel…”
Her voice was a hushed tremble, but Adèle didn’t turn. She heard the words. She did. But she couldn’t quite respond. Her thoughts were muffled, like walking through fog.
Before anything more could be said, several temple women emerged from one of the shaded alcoves and began moving toward them in pairs.
Madhavi turned with poise.
“You will be prepared now. The High Priestess does not receive guests in worldly garments. You will be made ready. With honor.”
Adèle didn’t resist. She simply nodded, her eyes a little wide, her movements slow. Two women came to her, hands soft, almost reverent. She didn't move away when they gently began to undo the buttons of her shirt.
Grace, on the other hand, took a step back.
“Whoa—hey—hey! No. This isn’t—this isn’t part of the protocol.”
Her voice cracked a little. But her words faltered when one of the women placed a fragrant crown of champaka blossoms on her head. Another draped a soft garland of the same flowers around her neck.
The scent, heavy and warm, hit her like a wave.
Grace’s breath caught.
She froze.
A voice deep inside her screamed that something was wrong—but her limbs didn’t obey. She lowered her arms. Her shoulders fell slack. She let them undo her shirt.
Adèle, nearby, tried to speak.
“No… this… this isn’t…”
But the words came out barely louder than a whisper. She winced slightly as her belt was unclasped, but she didn’t stop it. A woman next to her smiled and whispered something in Hindi:
“We will make you beautiful. You will shine before the High Priestess when you speak your vows.”
Grace’s jeans were removed. Adèle’s blouse was folded carefully. Their undergarments followed, unresisted now, dropped gently into woven baskets. Neither agent protested as their last traces of identity were placed in the same containers that had held their shoes.
The baskets were picked up with care and carried away, disappearing into the temple’s quiet machinery.
Grace blinked. She stared ahead blankly as the women surrounded her, adjusting the garland, brushing champaka petals onto her shoulders.
Then one took her hand.
“Come. The bath will purify you.”
Still silent, she was led forward.
The surface of the water rippled gently as her foot touched it, disturbing the delicate constellation of floating petals. The steam curled up around her like a veil, and as she stepped deeper in, her silhouette grew softer, less distinct—fading into the sacred mist.
Behind her, Adèle remained standing. Bare, vulnerable, her body motionless—her mind unsure whether to follow, or to run.
The steam swirled like silk in the air, blurring the forms of bodies and petals alike. In the water, warm and fragrant, Grace was surrounded by four women—bare like her, their skin shimmering from the moisture and floral oils.
They moved around her with practiced ease, dipping soft brushes and cloths into shallow bowls lined along the edge of the bath. Another woman had a small sponge shaped like a lotus blossom. Their hands moved gently at first—washing her arms, shoulders, back.
Then came the giggles.
One of the women leaned forward and ran her fingers across Grace’s foot, where it broke the surface of the water.
“Oh… ticklish?” she asked, her voice teasing.
Another echoed, laughing softly in Hindi:
“Kitne naram pair hain… jaise phool ke jaise.”
(Such soft feet… like a flower’s petal.)
Grace let out a soft gasp, her body twitching.
“Hey—ah! Wait, no—don’t—!”
But her words were drowned in laughter, her own included.
The women redoubled their efforts, this time playfully scrubbing and tickling her feet, her ribs, her thighs. Grace squirmed, helpless under their touch, her laughter echoing high and uncontrolled.
“She is like a little girl,” one of them said in English, amused.
“A very ticklish little girl…”
Grace had no strength to protest. She let her head fall back, giggling, gasping for air, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and warmth.
On the far side of the pool, in deeper water where the tiled floor gave way to a drop, Adèle stood waist-deep.
She pressed her arms over her chest, trying to shield herself. Her eyes were locked on the scene before her—eyes wide, horrified.
That wasn’t the woman she knew.
Grace—sarcastic, sharp, impulsive—was reduced to giddy submission, letting herself be washed, teased, and played with like a docile initiate. Her eyes seemed clouded, as if no longer seeing what was happening to her.
Adèle shivered despite the heat. She took a small step back, instinctively trying to disappear into the fog, into herself.
That’s when she heard the chime of anklets again.
Footsteps, soft and wet, approached the bath’s edge. One of the temple women leaned down, her face half-lit by steam and sun, her hair slick against her neck.
Adèle turned slightly, but the woman was already behind her.
She whispered close, her voice warm, almost affectionate:
“Don’t worry, little flower… we’ll take good care of you.”
Adèle flinched.
But there was nowhere to go.
She was surrounded.
And the bath waited.
The steam curled thick around Adèle as the gentle splash of water drew closer. Grace was now quiet, nestled deeper in the warm pool, her head resting against the edge, her smile vague and dreamy. She looked like a different woman—softened, surrendered.
And now it was Adèle’s turn.
The women came for her in silence, moving like a ritual, like dancers. She backed instinctively against the edge of the bath, her arms still folded across her chest, but they didn’t reach for her harshly. Instead, they encircled her, whispering sweetly in English and Hindi.
“Such shyness... so rare in strong women.”
“She covers herself like a flower hiding from the sun.”
Hands touched her shoulders, her back. The cloth was warm and soaked in scented oils. They slid it over her arms, her neck, down her spine. The tension in her body held—for a while.
But the women were patient.
They did not rush.
They coaxed her open, little by little—washing, massaging, teasing in slow, circular movements. Her arms lowered despite herself, her breathing grew deeper. The cloth passed over her chest, tender but unashamed.
“So beautiful. So pale. You carry your strength like a secret.”
Adèle winced slightly, but she didn’t pull away.
Then the giggles returned.
A brush ran gently over the arch of her foot. She jerked.
“Ticklish?” one whispered.
“Oh, she’s trying not to laugh.”
Another voice from behind:
“Bigger feet than the blonde one… more to enjoy.”
They seized the opportunity.
Two women held her lightly by the ankles while the others dipped sponges into warm water and dragged them across her soles, her toes, the tender flesh beneath.
Adèle bit her lip. She closed her eyes.
She would not laugh.
She was an Interpol agent.
She—
“Ehehe—!”
A burst escaped her lips. She tried to smother it, but the women grinned, delighted.
“Ahhh, there she is… so serious, and yet so ticklish…”
“She laughs like a child.”
They tickled with fingers now—across her ribs, behind her knees, her belly, and especially her feet, which they treated like a treasure. Adèle writhed in their arms, her laughter rising, breaking through all resistance.
“S-stop—please—ha-hahaha—!”
She squirmed, helpless, flushed and gasping, her dignity melting away like soap in the water. Her breasts were teased as well—gentle flicks, small touches, followed by teasing remarks in Hindi too soft to understand, but their meaning was clear in the laughter that followed.
Adèle couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched her this way—not sexually, but intimately, playfully. Not since… childhood? Maybe never.
And now, surrounded by soft hands, kind voices, and warm water, she found herself laughing like Grace, tears in her eyes, her body open and loose, like a little girl being bathed by older sisters.
Her legs trembled. Her head lolled back.
She was ready.
Or at least, they had made her ready.
And somewhere in the rising mist, the temple waited.
Night had begun to settle over the temple, casting deep blue shadows across its stone walls. The air was thick with warmth, incense, and the heady scent of champaka.
From within the sacred halls, a procession advanced silently—Adèle and Grace, walking side by side in a trance-like calm, their hands folded in prayer before their chests. A pair of acolytes followed just behind, barefoot, their anklets chiming softly on the stone floor.
The two agents were barely recognizable.
They were draped in diaphanous white garments, like simplified saris, loosely wrapped around their oiled bodies. The fabric shimmered faintly in the candlelight, and though modest in design, it left little to the imagination. The outline of their breasts showed clearly, nipples faintly visible through the translucent material. Their hair was coiled into simple chignons, and their heads were adorned with crowns of fresh champaka blossoms. Around their necks hung long garlands of the same flowers. Bracelets of blooms circled their wrists and ankles, accompanied by a delicate golden anklet on each leg that caught the light with every step.
Their skin gleamed with sacred oils, polished to ritual perfection. With every movement, the scent of champaka rose from their bodies—warm, intoxicating, and deeply unnatural.
They were guided into a grand, open chamber lit by flickering fire basins and framed with towering columns carved in floral spirals. At the center: a raised platform of white marble, draped in saffron and ivory silks. Two plush cushions awaited them at its base.
They were motioned to kneel.
Obediently, both women sank down, knees spreading slightly as they settled, heads bowed, hands in a prayerful pose. The soft folds of their garments shifted, offering tantalizing glimpses of bare thigh and hip, hinting at their vulnerability without fully exposing it.
Silence fell.
Then, a deep gong resonated, its sound ancient and full, echoing through the chamber like the breath of the temple itself.
From behind a veil of golden fabric, she appeared.
The High Priestess Chandika Devadhikar.
She stepped forward with sovereign poise, her bare feet gliding across the polished floor, adorned only with silver rings and ceremonial paint. Her sari shimmered with deep crimson and gold threads, and her forehead bore the triple mark of her station. Her presence was commanding—calm, maternal, absolute.
And just beside her, sat Stella.
The missing American girl.
Now adorned in a traditional silk saree, layered with golden jewelry—bangles, earrings, a delicate nose chain. Her lips were painted dark, her eyes sharply defined with kohl, and her gaze… proud. Detached. Almost regal.
She looked down on the kneeling agents with a slow, assessing stare, one that said without words:
“You are not equals. You are beneath me now.”
There was no recognition in her face. No concern. Only silent satisfaction.
Adèle’s chest tightened. She had come to find and rescue this girl. And yet… this wasn’t Stella anymore.
Then the High Priestess spoke.
“Child…”
Her voice was low, measured, and perfectly clear in its English—each syllable placed with ceremonial weight.
She raised her hand slightly, her fingers tracing a slow arc in the air as her voice deepened.
“You were sent to investigate. But here, investigation ends. Here, there is only offering.
You have been washed. You have been seen. You have been softened.
Now, you are ready to be claimed.”
The words hit like a slow knife.
Grace lifted her chin.
“Yes.”
Her voice didn’t waver. Her answer was absolute.
Adèle hesitated.
She looked sideways at Grace—so still, so serene. Then forward again, toward the Priestess. Toward Stella.
Toward the abyss.
“Ye—” she faltered, then gave in.
“Yes.”
The High Priestess smiled.
“Good girl.”
And in that instant, Adèle knew.
Not spiritually. Not mystically.
Professionally. Tactically. Strategically.
They were no longer agents.
They were compromised.
And there was no turning back.
