The iron-rimmed wheels of the carriage ground into the Shitapur gravel—but beneath the grinding, there was a thin, uneven hum, as if the earth itself resisted the weight. The gray silt churned into slush that smelled of rotten straw and horse foam.
Up front, the driver stiffened. The small copper-lined locket against his chest gave a faint, irregular rattle—once, then again—before settling.
The horses stood shivering, their flanks steaming in the pre-dawn damp.
Azgaar Ahmed stepped out. He didn't hesitate at the edge of the carriage; he put his leather boots directly into the muck. He wasn't like the old Zamindars who fussed over their silk hems.
To Azgaar, the mud was just a variable. The ground seemed to take a moment to settle under him—like something adjusting to his weight. He adjusted his thin-framed glasses, his ash-black hair moved slightly in the morning breeze.
Behind him, Natasha descended. She moved with a stiff, practiced grace, her yellowish eyes fixed on the treeline. Tucked beneath her sleeve, she gripped a small Tabeez—a lead talisman filled with mustard seeds and verses meant to ward off the 'Nazar' of the Clan Elders. It was a peasant's comfort, but even as a Masterer, the ancestral weight of the Evil Eye felt heavier than any Rank.
The driver, a man with the gaunt face of a lifelong biri smoker, stood by the horses. He kept his gaze fixed on the dirt near Azgaar's feet.
"Five hundred and fifty Baowa, Karta," the driver muttered, using the old title for the head of the house.
Azgaar's hand moved. He didn't reach for a purse. He simply flicked his fingers, and a stack of notes slid from his sleeve, carried by a precise ripple in the air. The money landed in the driver's hand with a dry snap.
As the carriage turned and rattled away into the mist, the driver reached into his vest. He pulled out a small, copper-lined locket and spoke into it, his voice hushed against the wind. "The Eagle's settled. Brought the scent of the High City in with him. No eyes on him."
A rasping sound, like dry husks rubbing together, came from the locket: "Wait for the tea-stall report. Do not linger."
Inside the estate gates, the air changed. This was the Hawa—the atmospheric pressure of a Rank 3 Masterer. It was a sudden, suffocating stillness. The crickets stopped as if asking why the air suddenly become so dense. The wind died, leaving the smell of horse sweat and damp stone hanging heavy in the yard.
Shirin, the head servant, stood by the threshold. She had already painted the Alpana—the ritual white-paste patterns—across the stone entrance. Beside her stood a brass thali with a flickering oil lamp and a few grains of paddy.
Azgaar walked forward, his mind already halfway into a decryption of the foreign text the Wing Captain showed him before leaving the Bhola Sadar Thana.
He didn't see the Alpana. His heavy, mud-caked boot landed right in the center of the delicate white swirls, smearing the ritual pattern into a gray, ugly blur.
Shirin let out a tiny, choked gasp. Stepping on the Alpana was an omen of a broken house, a sign of a mind so distracted it had lost its footing. Azgaar didn't even notice. He saw the sweat on Shirin's upper lip and the way her hands shook the lamp, but he attributed it only to the cold.
He led Natasha into the Baithak-Khana—the heavy-timbered sitting room that smelled of dust and the bitter, peppery heat of the tobacco he liked to burn. He didn't sit. He stood by the window, watching the faint, bruised light of the Bloodmoon.
"The seventh day," Azgaar said. His voice was a flat.
Natasha leaned against a heavy mahogany chair, her fingers white as she clutched her talisman.
Her expression softened. "Ruhan's birthday."
Pausing for a moment, she sighed. "The servants are already whispering about his 'F' grade, Azgaar."
"Let them whisper. I will declare a three-day leave for every stuff on this estate," Azgaar replied. He pulled a small, dark leather case from his robes and set it on the table. It smelled of old paper and something metallic. "The gates will be barred. No spies, no elders, no 'listening ears' from the village council. We will celebrate in the old way. As a family."
Natasha's breath hitched. "Empty? You're going to break the Clan's observation laws?"
"Laws are for those who cannot calculate the consequences of breaking them," Azgaar said.
Stepping toward her, he didn't offer a warm embrace. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his thumb pressing a specific nerve point to force her racing heart to slow down.
"I have found the trailhead, Natasha. The curse on our son isn't a wall; it's a lock. I have spent the last six months in the High City libraries looking for the key."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that didn't even disturb the dust motes. "The mission I am on... it is the reason I cannot stay past tonight. If I succeed, Ruhan won't just have his nobility back. He will have something the Ahmed line hasn't seen in three generations."
Azgaar turned to her. He stepped forward and gently kissed her forehead.
"Wait for me," he said.
The Hawa in the room spiked. Curtains snapped outward as if something had exhaled through the room.
Azgaar didn't leave. He came apart—thread by thread—his form slipping into the vibrations he'd been tracing since the carriage ride, until there was nothing left to see.
Only the dry, bitter scent of tobacco lingered.
Natasha stood in the silence, her gaze drifting toward the far end of the garden, toward the shed under the mango trees.
"Ruhan..." she whispered, her hand trembling as she tucked the Tabeez deeper into her bodice.
"Just a little longer. We haven't forgotten you."
(Editing... Do not proceed for now.)
✦✦✦
5:30 AM.
The storeroom was freezing. The gray light of dawn made the dust in the air look like floating ash.
Tasnim entered, the hinges of the door giving a long, high-pitched shriek. She carried a tray with a glass of water and a rough towel. She looked at Ruhan, who was curled up under a thin, gray blanket, and felt a dull pang of pity. But she needed the money.
"Young Master... wake up."
Ruhan stirred, his brain a fog of fever and the lingering terror of the axe. He saw a figure standing over him, offering a tray. In his delirium, the shape looked soft. Familiar.
"Mom...?" he slurred, reaching out a hand. His fingers brushed against the rough fabric of Tasnim's apron.
The slap was sharp.
The sting on Ruhan's cheek brought the room back into focus. The dream of his mother vanished, replaced by the damp stone walls and the cold light. He scrambled back against the headboard, clutching his face.
Tasnim stood there, her face red, clutching her collar. "What... what was that?" she hissed.
Panic hit Ruhan. He saw the trap. He was the exiled heir, and she was the help. If she screamed, his life was over. The Elders were just waiting for a reason to throw him into the street.
"I—I was dreaming—" his voice was a pathetic rasp.
The door clicked. Aspia stepped in and turned the key. She didn't look angry; she looked like she was conducting a business meeting.
"You crossed a line today, Ruhan," she said. Her voice was level, almost gentle.
"I didn't do anything!" Ruhan's heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"It doesn't matter," Aspia said, stepping closer. "If I call the guards, who do you think they'll believe? A 'failure' who touches the maids? Think about what Linara would say."
Ruhan felt a sickening hollow in his stomach. The fight went out of him. He pointed a trembling finger at the bottom drawer of his desk. "Take it. Just go."
Aspia moved quickly. She pulled out the stash—seven thousand Baowa. It was every coin Ruhan had saved over two years to fix his sword. She stuffed the notes into her pocket. Then, she saw the mahogany box in the back.
"Not that," Ruhan whispered, his voice cracking. "Please. It's my grandmother's."
Aspia picked up the box. She didn't look at Ruhan. She just felt the weight of it and slid it into her apron. "If you have a problem with it, I can always open that door and start screaming," she said.
Ruhan didn't move. He watched them turn. He watched the door click shut.
Then, the rage hit. It was a hot, suffocating heat in his chest. He clenched his fists until his nails drew blood. I'll kill them. I'll wait for them in the dark and I'll—
Then it stopped.
Abruptly.
The anger didn't fade; it was simply gone. It was as if a file had been deleted from his brain.
Ruhan blinked. He looked at his bloody palms, then at the empty drawer. The memory of what happened was there, but the feeling of it was missing. It felt like a story he'd read about someone else.
"...What was I thinking?" he murmured.
A strange, artificial calm settled over him.
"They're poor," he said to the empty room. His voice was flat, almost pleasant. "They needed the money more than I did. It's fine."
He lay back down on the mattress and closed his eyes. He felt perfectly content, entirely unaware that the thoughts in his head no longer belonged to him.