Aftaab POV
The city looked different before dawn — quieter, stripped of its pretenses. The air carried the chill of the sea, brushing against streets that would soon drown in noise and greed.
I rode alone, the hum of my black Triumph echoing through the sleeping lanes. The machine suited me — sleek, ruthless, and silent when needed. Every head it passed would lower, every curtain would draw shut. Mistranpur knew that sound.
I wasn't out for control tonight. I was out because I couldn't sleep.
The meetings. The politics. The endless rot beneath my father's empire — it all clung to me like a second skin. I needed air, and this was the only way I knew how to breathe.
So I wandered.
No destination. No thought. Just the road, the fog, and the city that belonged to me yet never felt mine.
And then — a sound that didn't belong here.
Laughter.
A group of men.
And a girl standing against them, still as stone.
I would have ignored it. I should have.
But as I passed them, my gaze flickered toward her.
She wasn't pleading. She wasn't trying to run.
She stood there — still, her shoulders tight, breath caught in her throat — as if holding herself together by sheer will. From where I sat, it almost looked like defiance.
But it wasn't. It was something else.
A quiet kind of strength that doesn't shout — it endures.
The men caught sight of me and stiffened. It took them only seconds to recognize who I was. The laughter died. The arrogance drained. Without a word, they scattered, disappearing into the alleyways like rats.
The girl's shoulders relaxed slightly, but she didn't meet my gaze. Her head bowed, and she stepped back, the faint tremor of her breath giving her away. I should have left.
Instead, I lingered for half a second too long
That's when I caught it—a scent, soft but unmistakable. Sandalwood.
It cut through the dust and iron of the streets, lingered like an afterimage long after she had moved past me, her shawl brushing the air between us.
We parted ways.
I turned the bike toward the heart of the city. The morning haze had begun to lift, revealing the marble spires of Khan's Estate — my father's fortress of power and politics.
The grand hall reeked of greed and hunger, the kind that fed on wealth and bled loyalty dry. Every so-called "important" man in the country had gathered here, their voices a dull roar of desperation disguised as strategy.
I walked past them in silence, their conversations tapering off one by one. They greeted me with forced smiles, half-bows, and nervous glances — like vultures pretending to be peacocks under my father's gaze.
Their eyes didn't hold respect. Only fear.
The polished marble, the golden chandeliers, the portraits of long-dead Khans — everything about this place screamed power. But beneath that shine was rot. The kind that no one dared to name.
I already knew what this gathering was about. I could see it in their faces — the anxiety, the greed, the hunger for more than there could chew.
The heavy wooden doors shut behind me with a low thud. The sound alone was enough to silence the murmurs. My father was already seated at the head of the table — poised, untouchable, the very image of power he wanted the world to believe.
"Quiet," he said, not raising his voice — yet the room froze.
"Trade is bleeding. Borders are restless. Our allies want minerals, not promises. Tell me, gentlemen — where does loyalty come from when the treasury is empty?"
He let the question hang, enjoying their silence like a cat watching trapped mice. Then, softly:
"There is a land that once answered to us — before cowards called it forbidden. Before a woman thought she could protect it."
The ministers shifted uneasily. Everyone knew who he meant.
"She failed," he said, almost fondly. "She burned everything she touched, including herself. And for what? A patch of soil the world forgot. But soil doesn't forget what it owes."
He turned toward the map spread before him, a finger tracing the edge where the mountains bled into mist. "The forbidden land is rich. Enough to buy silence. Enough to buy war. Enough to buy men."
Someone stammered, "Sir, the curse—"
He smiled — slow, patient, venomous. "Curses are what the weak use to justify their losses. There's no curse. There's ownership. And we are simply taking back what should never have left our hands."
His gaze swept the table, stopping briefly — too briefly — on Aftaab.
"This time," he said, "nothing will stand in our way. Not myths. Not history. Not blood."
The hall stayed silent. I showed no reaction. I already knew how this would end — my father never spoke of conquest unless blood was part of the plan.
I said nothing and walked out the chamber without any care for him.
The meeting ended with shallow applause — men nodding, pretending they understood his madness. My father rose first, his silhouette framed by the gold of the chandeliers.
"Prepare yourself," he said, his tone final. "This time, the land will kneel."
The elders bowed.
As the room began to empty, one of the younger heirs — barely in his twenties, his turban slipping from nervous hands — leaned toward his superior and whispered,
"Forgive me, sir… but the Khan claims the land as his own? How is that possible? No one's ever ruled it."
The older man's eyes flickered briefly toward the departing figure of my father before replying, his voice low and wary.
"Once… long ago… a Khan woman was chosen as its guardian. She was meant to protect it from the greed of men — from our own bloodline. But when she refused to surrender its secrets, the family turned on her. They say she sealed herself within the land rather than let it fall into Khan hands."
The boy swallowed, speechless.
The elder sighed. "And now, her descendant seeks to claim it again — not to protect it, but to break its curse."
The boy's gaze lingered on the door where my father had left. "A curse?"
"No," the elder said quietly. "A promise."
Unbeknownst to everyone in that room, another pair of ears listened.
Not from the balcony. Not from behind a door.
But from within the walls themselves. Hidden in a narrow, ancient passage—where no one would think to look—it listened.
And it heard everything.