It all began on a night just like this one.
A chill seeped into my skin as I stood in the Leader's Room—a chamber carved from dark, ancient stone. The walls were cold to the touch, damp with age, and echoed every breath like a whisper of judgment. The faint hiss of oil lamps flickered in the corners, their smoky glow casting long, dancing shadows on the floor. The scent of burnt oil mixed with steel and sweat—sharp, metallic, unwelcoming.
In front of me stood the man they called the Head of the Singhaniya Clan.
My father.
He towered over me in silence, his sharp jawline bathed in the flickering amber light. His presence loomed like a wall, unmovable and cold. His eyes—black, pitiless—stared at me as if searching for a mistake.
It was the night I returned from my first mission.
I was five.
They called it an assassination. But it wasn't. Not really.
It was a hunt. A message.
