The heavy mahogany doors of the master bedchamber were firmly shut, sealing away the cold drafts of the corridor and the lingering malice of the estate. Inside, the room was bathed in the soft, amber glow of bedside lamps, casting long, shifting shadows across the intricate carpets and the towering velvet-draped bed.

Srishti stood behind the high-backed velvet armchair where Vidyut sat, her fingers—manicured, elegant, yet bearing the invisible, hardened calluses of an assassin’s past—dipped into a small bowl of fragrant herbal oil. With slow, rhythmic precision, she began to massage his temples, her touch practiced and steady, though a subtle tension lingered in her shoulders. She knew the exact limits of her husband's patience, and she knew when the invisible lines of power had been redrawn.