Kings don’t kneel. They conquer or burn.

The city never slept under Aryaveer Raizada’s reign—it merely held its breath.

Rain bled from the night sky like it too feared the man who ruled Mumbai’s underworld with a voice that could silence gunfire and a stare that made grown men forget how to breathe.

Inside the cold, concrete heart of an abandoned slaughterhouse—now his empire’s silent chamber of justice—Aryaveer stood, coat soaked in blood that wasn't his. His sleeves were rolled up, hands bare, knuckles torn open like scripture written in violence. The man at his feet had begged. They always begged.

But mercy was a language Aryaveer had never learned.

He looked down at the broken body, ribs crushed inward, one eye swollen shut. Still breathing. A mistake he’d fix shortly.

"Start talking," Aryaveer said, voice low, calm—terrifying. "Where is the shipment?"

Before the man could cough out another lie, Aryaveer’s phone buzzed. Dev, his right hand, never called during an interrogation. Aryaveer frowned, wiped his hand on a silk handkerchief, and answered.

"Arya..." Dev's voice was careful. Too careful. "You need to hear this from me."

"Speak."

"It’s Mahira."

Everything paused. Not the rain. Not the trembling man below. Just Aryaveer.

"What about her?"

"She’s gone. She ran away last night. With Ayansh Khanna."

Silence. Sharp. Deafening.

"And?"

"They got married."

Time didn't just stop—it shattered.

Aryaveer’s fist closed so tightly around the phone it cracked like brittle bone. Mahira. His blood. His baby sister. The only part of him left untainted. Taken by him. Ayansh Khanna—the one name that soured on his tongue like rot. His rival. His enemy. His curse.

His vision turned red, not from rage, but from betrayal that felt like fire crawling up his throat.

He turned to the half-conscious man on the floor.

"Change of plans," he said coldly. "I’m in a bad mood."

And with a quiet, brutal efficiency, he finished the job. No hesitation. No theatrics. Just death.

The room went still again. Then Aryaveer straightened, rolled down his sleeves like a man done with business.

"Tell the men," he said to Dev, eyes glinting with something ancient and lethal. "I want every one of Ayansh’s hideouts scorched. I want the names of the priest, the witnesses, and anyone who looked at them."

"And Mahira?"

Aryaveer’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped to a growl.

"I will bring my sister back," he said. "And I will rip her from his arms even if it means burning this city to the ground."

Because Aryaveer Raizada did not lose.

Not his empire.

Not his blood.

And never to a Khanna.

_________________

Some girls are not raised. They are starved, silenced, and forged in cruelty.

The basement was always cold—colder than death, and more familiar than sunlight.

Heer sat curled against the far wall, her knees to her chest, her breath shallow. A single, rusted bulb flickered above, swinging slightly from the chain as if even light was too afraid to stay with her for long. Her wrists ached where the rope had dug too deep. Her back throbbed with fresh welts. She didn't cry anymore. Crying was a luxury, a waste of energy in a place where no one came to listen.

The money had been worth it.

Books. She had stolen money for books.

Sheer madness.

A girl like her, living in a house like this, under a name like Khanna—she wasn’t allowed to dream, let alone read. But for a moment, she had imagined pages instead of prison bars, ink instead of blood.

And as always, hope had a price.

The door above groaned open, and she flinched instinctively, pressing herself into the wall as footsteps echoed down the stairs. Heavy, angry.

Vijay Khanna. Her uncle. Bloodshot eyes. Rum on his breath. Rage in every step.

He stopped at the last stair, staring at her like she was filth he’d stepped in.

“Get up,” he spat.

Heer blinked. Her lips were split. “W-Why—”

“Adyant’s dead.”

Silence fell like a blade.

Heer’s heart stopped. Not from grief, not from disbelief—but from something darker. Something colder. A silence she didn’t understand yet. Her mouth opened, then closed again.

Vijay's lip curled. “Don’t think you’re free. You’re not. Not ever. You’re his daughter. Even in death, your blood stains this house.”

Then he turned and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls trembled.

Moments later, the maids came—four of them, eyes downcast, quiet, efficient. They untied her wrists, dragging her up the stairs with hands that weren’t gentle but weren't cruel either. One of them whispered something in a tongue Heer didn’t understand. A prayer, maybe. A warning.

They took her to her room—the room that wasn’t really hers, just a space they threw her into when they didn’t know where else to hide her. The sheets were thin, the walls were gray, and the windows were nailed shut.

She was placed on the floor like an object. The maids began cleaning her with warm water and soft cotton, brushing over old wounds, cleaning the fresh ones, murmuring about how fast she bruised.

One of them wiped blood from her mouth and whispered, “You’re too pretty to bleed this much.”

Heer didn’t respond. Pretty had never saved her.

And then the door opened again.

Srisha.

The matriarch. The venom of the house.

She entered like a storm in silk—sharp jewelry clinking against her skin, perfume laced with poison. In her hands, she carried a blood-red lehenga—rich velvet, embroidered gold, far too beautiful to be meant for a girl like Heer.

She laid it across the bed and smiled. Cold. Triumphant.

“Get cleaned up properly,” Srisha said, looking her over like cattle. “The makeup artist will be here soon.”

Heer stared at the lehenga. Her voice cracked. “Why?”

Srisha's smile deepened. “Because you’re getting married tonight.”

The room spun.

“No…” Heer whispered.

“Yes,” Srisha snapped. “You should be grateful someone still wants you after everything. After all, your father may be dead, but his debts aren’t.”

“I’m not ready,” she breathed.

“You weren’t born to be ready. You were born to obey.”

The door slammed shut behind her.

And for a moment, Heer simply sat there—half-dressed, half-cleaned, entirely unraveling.

The maids continued, as if nothing had happened. As if preparing a girl to be sacrificed was just another task on their list.

Somewhere between the brushing of her hair and the bandaging of her wrists, Heer looked into the cracked mirror in the corner. A girl stared back. Hollow-eyed. Fragile. But somewhere, deep in that reflection, something stirred.

Not innocence.

Not fear.

But fury. The quiet, poisonous kind.

They thought she was nothing. A tool. A burden. A girl to be sold, discarded, forgotten.

But they didn’t know what she knew.

They didn’t know the truth that Adyant Khanna had buried deep.

That Heer wasn’t his only child.

That she wasn’t truly a Khanna at all.

She was a Devraj.

Daughter of a bloodline darker, older, crueler than this house could imagine.

And though they had tried to bury her in shadows, something had grown in the dark.

Roots. Thorns. Fire.

She would wear their red dress. She would smile for the cameras. She would play the lamb being led to slaughter.

But one day—

She would burn every name they ever gave her.

And rise.

_______