The sweltering heat of the Indian plains hit them like a physical wave the moment they touched down on the private tarmac, a stark, suffocating contrast to the clinical, gray chill of London. Yet, within the towering, labyrinthine walls of the Rathore estate, the air felt even heavier—thick with the silent, suffocating weight of generational decay, lingering vengeance, and the slow, inevitable ticking of a clock running out of time.

A full month had bled into the calendar since the assassination attempt, and while Shivanya’s physical wounds were slowly knitting together beneath pale, jagged scars, her world had shrunk to the heavily guarded sanctuary of the family wing.