The air in the abandoned stone temple at the edge of the ravine was freezing, smelling of damp moss and ancient rot. Nandini was shoved into the center of the circular chamber, her sunset-gold saree torn at the shoulder, her hair disheveled. The silver anklets that Arjun had just restored to her clattered harshly against the cold stone—a jagged, panicked rhythm.

Thakur stood over her, silhouetted by a single torch. He held a thick stack of legal documents in one hand and a jagged ritual knife in the other.