Years melted into one long, unbroken night inside the haveli walls. The village outside Jaipur had learned silence. No more rebellions. No more whispers. Rudra’s name was spoken only in hushed prayers for protection—or curses too quiet to reach his ears. The children grew—two boys from Meera, strong and dark-eyed like their father, and one girl from Riya, delicate but already carrying the same quiet hunger in her gaze. They lived in a separate wing with nannies and tutors. They saw their mothers only at certain hours, always dressed modestly, always smiling. They never entered the main house after dusk. They never asked why their mothers sometimes limped, why faint red lines peeked from under saree blouses, why their father’s footsteps made both women straighten instantly.