The heavy teak doors of the Rana Haveli’s master bedroom usually shut with a sound that felt like a prison bolt sliding into place. For months, this room had been a site of cold commands or terrifying violence. Tonight, however, the silence was different. It wasn't the jagged, expectant silence of a storm; it was the heavy, stagnant quiet of a tomb that had suddenly been disturbed.

Surbhi sat before the ornate dressing table, the flickering light of a single lamp casting long, dancing shadows across the walls. Her movements were mechanical. She picked up the wooden comb, pulling it through the long, dark tresses of her hair. Stroke. Pause. Stroke. In the reflection of the silver-backed mirror, she looked like a ghost—pale, hollow-eyed, and perpetually braced for a blow that hadn't come in weeks.