The sun beat down like a blacksmith's hammer on the parched earth, raising dust devils that danced across the Thakur's vast domain. Rajveer, astride his stallion, a beast as dark and imposing as himself, rode at the head of his retinue. Sixteen villages stretched under his iron will, each mud-caked hut and struggling field a testament to his family's unyielding grasp. He wasn't merely inspecting; he was a living embodiment of their power, a silent reminder that defiance invited ruin.

“Sahab, aage naya pul ban raha hai. Zyada kharcha…,” a gaunt man on a smaller horse offered, his voice a low, deferential murmur beside Rajveer’s knee.