Violence ahead

The heavy scent of burning sandalwood and fresh mogra blossoms filled the air of the Rathore household's expansive prayer sanctuary. The flickering amber glow of the brass diyas cast long, dancing shadows across the pristine marble idols. Shivanya stood with her eyes closed, her palms pressed together in quiet devotion, her lips moving in silent supplication as she completed the morning ritual. The rhythmic clinking of her glass bangles was the only sound breaking the husked quiet of the early hours, until the soft, hurried rustle of silk approached from the archway.