Rohtak Fort wore its power openly.
Red sandstone walls rose from the plain like a held breath, their surfaces darkened by years of dust, smoke, and sun. Flags stirred lazily above the gates, less a symbol of pride than a reminder of permanence. The fort did not need to announce itself. It existed. That was enough.
A single rider crossed the outer courtyard at a measured pace, his horse lathered but disciplined. This was not an alarm run. It was routine—dispatch, records, numbers. The kind of message that kept empires standing while men suffered quietly beneath them.
The courier dismounted, bowed, and was led inside.
Faujdar Kalyan Singh Rathod sat where he always did, as if the chamber had been arranged around him rather than the other way around.
He was completely bald, the skin of his head smooth and carefully kept, catching the faint light from the high windows. There was no turban, no mark of faith, no ornament—only a deliberate absence that made his face difficult to read. His features were sharp and disciplined, the kind shaped by control rather than age.
He wore dark robes tailored more precisely than Mughal custom demanded—layers of deep indigo and black fitted close at the shoulders and wrists. The cloth was expensive but unadorned. Nothing on him glittered. Power, in his presence, did not need decoration.
He sat on a low-backed chair of carved teak, one hand resting loosely on the arm, the other still. When he listened, he did not nod. When he thought, he did not frown. His eyes—dark, steady, unblinking—remained half in shadow, watching like a man counting breaths.
The courier knelt.
"Bandit attacks have increased near Agra and along the Delhi–Rohtak route."
Kalyan Singh inclined his head slightly. That was permission.
The clerk stepped forward.
He carried a bound register, its pages thick, its edges darkened by fingers and time. He did not dramatize. He read.
"In the last month," the clerk said, "there have been eleven reported incidents along the trade road. In the previous month, there were four."
A page turned.
"Three caravans failed to arrive at Delhi on schedule. One did not arrive at all. Two smaller merchant groups reported partial loss of goods—grain, cloth, oil."
Another page.
"Trade from Rohtak and nearby villages has slowed. Petitions cite unsafe roads. Tax remittance from six villages is delayed."
The clerk paused, waiting. Kalyan Singh did not look up.
"Complaints from Delhi traders have increased," the clerk continued. "They claim escorts are insufficient. Some are requesting Company protection instead."
Kalyan Singh's finger tapped once against the arm of his chair.
Violence was tolerable. Disorder was not. Disorder invited rivals.
Zafar Khan cleared his throat.
As Amil, he stood apart from soldiers and clerks alike—robes well kept, posture respectful, eyes sharp with calculation. Where Kalyan Singh governed land, Zafar governed flow.
"Revenue is leaking, Huzoor," Zafar said smoothly. "Villages cry 'bandits' while hiding grain. Losses are exaggerated. Delays are convenient."
He spread his hands in practiced regret.
"When fear rises, honesty falls. They withhold payment and call it survival."
Kalyan Singh finally lifted his gaze.
"When roads become unsafe," he said calmly, "someone has forgotten his duty. Are my patrols incompetent… or merely careless?"
No one answered.
"Bandits do not grow on their own," he continued. "They require food, shelter, and silence."
His eyes moved across the room, resting on no one and everyone.
"Who fed them?" he asked. "My rival… or my enemy?"
Silence deepened.
Kalyan Singh did not believe in confession. Men confessed to survive. Systems confessed through results.
"Increase patrols along the trade route," he said. "From Agra to Rohtak. No gaps."
The clerk wrote.
"Empower the Kotwals," Kalyan Singh continued. "Give them freedom to act. Results matter. Methods do not."
Zafar Khan's lips curved almost imperceptibly.
"Let them collect what they need," Kalyan Singh added. "From traders. From villages. From anyone who benefits from peace."
The clerk hesitated, then wrote again.
"And if proof is lacking?" someone asked carefully.
Kalyan Singh did not look at him.
"Order does not wait for proof," he said. "It creates it."
The words settled like dust on a ledger.
"Punish obstruction," he went on. "Search without delay. Detain without argument. Fear travels faster than bandits."
He turned to Zafar Khan.
"Recover lost revenue," he said. "With interest."
Zafar bowed. "As you command, Huzoor."
Kalyan Singh rose. The meeting was finished.
Outside the chamber, ink dried quickly. Seals were pressed. Messengers were dispatched. Names were written. Routes were marked. Authority stretched its limbs.
By afternoon, Kotwal Bhairav Malik received his instructions.
They were brief.
They gave him room.
They promised protection.
Bhairav read them once, then folded the paper carefully. He did not smile. He did not need to.
When bandits were hunted, villages always bled first.
Far from the fort, beneath a neem tree in Rohtak, a wounded man slept—unaware that numbers had shifted, that ink had moved, that the road he had crossed had now been claimed by order.
And order was coming.