Back at the outpost, Vikram examined the feather under a flickering bulb. The Bhils were protective of their traditions, and Leela’s feathers were unique, crafted by her mother. Why was one here, miles from her body? His radio crackled—Constable Shinde, his only aide, reported whispers of a land dispute

The dense forests of the Bhil tribal lands in central India whispered secrets in the rustle of teak leaves and the distant calls of langurs. Inspector Vikram Rathore, a wiry man with a scar tracing his left jaw, stood at the edge of a clearing, staring at the body sprawled beneath a banyan tree. The victim, a young Bhil woman named Leela, had been found at dawn, her throat slit, a crude arrow carved into the dirt beside her. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something darker—fear.

Vikram, stationed at the remote Alirajpur outpost, was no stranger to the Bhil forests. He’d spent years navigating their labyrinthine trails, earning the wary respect of the tribes. But this murder felt different. Leela wasn’t just a villager; she was the daughter of the tribal chieftain, Mohan Singh. Her death could ignite tensions that had simmered for decades between the Bhils and the outsiders encroaching on their land.

The village was a cluster of mud huts, their walls painted with white tribal motifs. Mohan Singh sat cross-legged outside his home, his weathered face unreadable. “She was gathering herbs,” he said, voice low. “She knew these woods better than anyone. This wasn’t an accident.”

Vikram’s eyes scanned the crowd of villagers, their faces a mix of grief and suspicion. He noted the absence of Leela’s betrothed, Arjun, a young hunter known for his skill with a bow. “Where’s Arjun?” Vikram asked.

Mohan’s gaze hardened. “He left at sunrise. Said he was tracking a leopard.”

Vikram’s instincts prickled. He ventured into the forest, following a trail of broken twigs and faint footprints. The Bhil woods were a maze of sal trees and thorny underbrush, where sunlight barely pierced the canopy. His boots crunched on dry leaves as he moved deeper, the silence broken only by the occasional screech of a peacock.

An hour in, he found Arjun crouched by a stream, washing blood from his hands. The young man froze, his dark eyes wide. “It’s not what you think,” Arjun stammered. “I killed a deer. For the village.”

Vikram’s hand rested on his holster. “Show me.”

Arjun led him to a small clearing where a deer carcass lay, its throat cut clean. But Vikram’s eyes caught something else—a feather, black with a red tip, identical to the ones Leela wore in her hair, tangled in the underbrush. He pocketed it without a word. “Stay in the village,” he ordered Arjun.

Back at the outpost, Vikram examined the feather under a flickering bulb. The Bhils were protective of their traditions, and Leela’s feathers were unique, crafted by her mother. Why was one here, miles from her body? His radio crackled—Constable Shinde, his only aide, reported whispers of a land dispute. A mining company, Bharat Minerals, had been eyeing the Bhil forests for lithium deposits. Leela had been vocal against it, rallying the tribe to resist.

Vikram drove to the company’s local office, a squat building on the forest’s edge. The manager, a slick man named Kapoor, greeted him with a forced smile. “Tragic about the girl,” Kapoor said, wiping sweat from his brow. “But we’ve had no trouble with the Bhils.”

“Leela was trouble for you,” Vikram countered, noting Kapoor’s twitch. “She was organizing protests.”

Kapoor shrugged. “Tribal nonsense. We’re bringing jobs, progress.”

Vikram left, unconvinced. That night, he returned to the forest, guided by a hunch. The arrow carved beside Leela’s body wasn’t random—it mimicked the Bhil symbol for warning. Someone was sending a message. He retraced Leela’s last steps, using a flashlight to scan the ground. Near the banyan tree, he found a scrap of paper caught in a root, smudged with charcoal. It was a map, crudely drawn, marking a spot deep in the forest.

At dawn, Vikram followed the map, his heart pounding as the trail grew narrower. The air grew colder, the forest denser. He reached a hidden grove, where a pile of rocks formed an unnatural mound. Digging with his hands, he uncovered a cloth sack—inside were documents, contracts between Bharat Minerals and a local politician, promising land rights in exchange for bribes. Leela must have found them, a discovery that cost her life.

A twig snapped behind him. Vikram spun, gun drawn, to face Arjun, bow in hand. “You followed me,” Vikram said, voice steady.

Arjun’s face was pale. “I loved her. She told me about the papers. Said she was going to expose them. I tried to stop her, to protect her.”

“Then who killed her?” Vikram demanded.

Arjun’s eyes darted to the trees. A shadow moved—Kapoor, a knife glinting in his hand. Vikram dove as the blade flashed, tackling Kapoor into the dirt. The man fought like a cornered animal, but Vikram was stronger, pinning him down. “You killed her to keep your deal quiet,” Vikram growled.

Kapoor spat, “She was a threat. The Bhils would’ve followed her.”

Arjun dropped his bow, trembling. “I didn’t know… I thought I could scare her into stopping.”

Vikram cuffed Kapoor, his mind racing. Arjun’s guilt was in his inaction, not the murder, but the village wouldn’t see it that way. As he dragged Kapoor back, the forest seemed to close in, its secrets heavier than ever.

By nightfall, Kapoor was in a cell, and the documents were with the state police. Mohan Singh stood silent as Vikram explained, his eyes on Arjun, now an outcast. The Bhils would mourn, but their fight for the forest would continue. Vikram drove away, the scar on his jaw itching, knowing the shadows of the Bhils would never fully lift.