“Yes. He killed our Khalu jaan as well. And that was not the first blood he spilled. We have watched him erase our family one by one, slowly, deliberately, as if every death is repayment for some festering wound from his past,” Bhai jaan said. His voice was low and controlled, yet edged with a warning that felt heavier than the silence surrounding us. His gaze stayed fixed on my face, the lantern between us trembled slightly as its flame flickered, casting sharp shadows across his hardened features. The night had swallowed the palace whole, every corridor hushed, every breath amplified. Sleep had abandoned me long ago, and it was in this hour of secrets that Bhai jaan finally spoke of Rana Devyansh and the hatred he carried like a second skin toward our bloodline.
“The way you’re telling me this is only feeding the fire inside me. With every second that passes, my hatred for him grows stronger, more unforgiving,” I replied, my voice calm but lethal, as if the resolve had already settled deep within my bones.
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