They called him a man of a thousand scars and believed he wore them with pride—a symbol of freedom, a price paid for defiance.

  But the truth was far different. Those scars were Karma’s greatest shame.

  He still remembered that accursed day when he begged his father to attack the city of Jalalpur. Against his better judgment, his father finally agreed. Karma himself led the assault—and it became his greatest failure. The rebellion was crushed. His father was killed while saving him, and Karma was taken captive.

  Now, whenever he looked at his body, each scar reminded him not of freedom, but of loss and failure. And now Fazel was asking him to do the very same thing Karma had once asked his father all those years ago.

  Karma’s fingers drifted to the deepest scar—the one carved straight across his chest.

  That scar had burned the most.

  The pain itself had long faded, but the scar never truly slept. On cold nights, it still burned, a dull, living reminder beneath the skin, as if his body refused to forget what his mind tried to bury.

  His thoughts turned, as they always did, to Aryan.

  Ten years old. Too young to understand war, too young to understand choice. Karma felt a knot tighten in his chest as fear crept in—not fear of death, but of inheritance. If he acted alongside Fazel, would he carve the same wounds into his son that fate had carved into him? Would Aryan one day sit like this, counting scars instead of years?

  And yet, if he refused…

  His men would starve.

  The thought weighed just as heavily.

  Karma sat alone in his tent, wrapped in the same khaki kurta and turban he always wore, garments as familiar as his regrets. One hand rested on his thick mustache, slowly shaping it into a perfect curve—a habit as old as command itself, a small ritual to steady thoughts that threatened to unravel.

  The tent flap lifted.

  Jagga stepped inside.

  He was massive—broad shoulders, arms thick with old strength, his bald head catching the dim light. A black patch covered his left eye, the other sharp and watchful. Jagga had lost that eye at Jalalpur. Seeing him was like staring at the past made flesh.

  Jagga’s mustache was as proud as Karma’s, though a heavy beard framed it now. In battle, the man stood nearly sevhen feet tall, a wall of muscle and rage. At Jalalpur, he had been the one who stopped Taimur, who forced him to step back when no one else could.

  Jagga inclined his head.

  “We’ve got Sauf,” he said. “And five of his men. They’re in the cell.”

  Karma rose to his feet.

  “Do you want to speak with them?” Jagga asked.

  Karma adjusted his turban once, then nodded.

  “Yes,” he said. “Let’s go. And pray the others don’t make it difficult for me to talk to him.”

  As Karma stepped out of the tent, Sukha was waiting just outside.

  His arms were crossed, his jaw tight. “What is this, Karma?” he demanded. “Now we’re talking to prisoners from our own men? What did Fazel tell you, huh? He’s filling your head with stupid thoughts.”

  Hamza stood beside him, nodding sharply. “This is foolish,” he added. “We should stick together.”

  Karma stopped.

  Slowly, he turned to face them.

  His scarred eyes moved from Sukha to Hamza—not hurried, not angry. Just steady. The kind of look that felt like being weighed and found wanting. For a moment, neither man spoke. Their words died in their throats.

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  Karma’s voice, when it came, was calm.

  “Let me speak to him first,” he said. “Yes—he is a traitor. That much I know.” His gaze hardened. “But I want to hear why he chose it.”

  He stepped closer, close enough that they had to look up at him.

  “And Fazel didn’t tell me anything,” Karma went on. “He didn’t fill my head with anything. I make my own decisions.”

  Silence.

  Neither Sukha nor Hamza said another word.

  Karma turned away and walked on.

  Jagga fell in behind him without hesitation, giving a small nod to the twins—Piru and Pilu—who stood ahead, already waiting.

  Karma stood before the three small prison rooms—spaces meant for frightened new children, for quiet isolation. Tonight, they served their true purpose.

  He paused.

  “Wait here,” he told Jagga and the twins.

  They didn’t question it.

  Karma pushed open the old wooden door and stepped inside, closing it behind him.

  The room was narrow and dim. A single torch burned low on the wall. Sauf sat on the bed, his wrists cuffed to the frame, shoulders slumped but eyes still sharp.

  Karma looked down at him.

  Sauf spoke first, his voice low and rough.

  “How did you find out?”

  “There are still men loyal to me in your camp,” Karma replied calmly. “Did you forget who built all five of them?” He stepped closer. “No matter who leads, there will always be men who remember.”

  Sauf’s gaze dropped to the floor.

  “So,” he muttered. “What now?”

  “We’ll see,” Karma said. Then, after a pause, “Tell me something first.”

  His voice hardened. “You fought beside me. We were brothers. Why did you betray me?”

  Sauf laughed—short, bitter. He lifted his head, eyes burning.

  “I’ll tell you why,” he said. “The man I called my brother is dead. You only wear his face now.”

  Karma didn’t move.

  “You’re weak,” Sauf continued. “Miserable. You can’t even control your own camp. Fazel is already becoming a second leader.” He spat to the side. “Why did you bring him in? He made you soft.”

  His chains rattled as he leaned forward.

  “People hate us now. They don’t help us. We’re starving.” His voice rose. “I lived in that camp, Karma. You built them—but I stayed. I watched children die. Women die. From sickness. From thirst. From hunger.”

  Silence pressed in.

  “You did nothing,” Sauf said hoarsely. “The man I fought beside was brave. Mighty.” He looked straight at Karma now. “The one standing in front of me is nothing but Fazel’s arse-licker.”

  The torch flickered.

  Karma’s face didn’t change.

  But something in his eyes did.

  “Who helped you?” Karma asked.

  His voice was calm. Too calm.

  Sauf said nothing.

  Karma leaned closer. “You care about your five men, don’t you?” His eyes never left Sauf’s face. “If you don’t answer, they will die. Look at me, Sauf. You know I mean it.”

  Sauf’s jaw tightened. He stared at the floor.

  “So it comes to that,” he muttered.

  Then he spoke.

  “It was the village chief,” Sauf said quietly. “Khedi. The village near our camp.” He swallowed. “They promised food. Medicine. Shelter for our wounded, women, and children.”

  Karma didn’t interrupt.

  “All we had to do,” Sauf continued, voice rough, “was attack the places they marked. Other villages. We burned their grain. Took their homes. Killed their burdens.” His hands clenched in the chains. “In return, Khedi tended our sick and fed us properly—for the first time in years.”

  When Sauf fell silent, Karma’s composure finally cracked.

  “That’s not enough,” Karma snapped. “A village doesn’t risk the king’s fury on its own. Not unless someone told them to.” He stepped closer. “Who’s behind it?”

  Sauf hesitated. Then, quietly, “One of the king’s royal men. That’s all I know. The chief never said more.” His voice broke. “Please. Leave my men out of this.”

  Karma turned away, fingers twisting his mustache into its familiar shape.

  “Taimur burned Khedi last week,” he said after a moment. “I suppose they served their purpose—and became useless.”

  Sauf looked up sharply.

  Karma hesitated. Just once.

  Then: “I can’t let you live. Or your men.” His voice was steady again. “They’re loyal to you, not to me. If I let them go, I’ll never sleep easy.”

  He looked down at Sauf.

  “I’m sorry, brother,” he said quietly. “You should have come to me the moment you received that offer.”

  He turned and walked out.

  Behind him, Sauf screamed his name.

  Outside, Jagga stood with the twins. Hamza and Sukha had joined them, drawn by the noise. Hamza opened his mouth—

  Karma raised a finger.

  Silence.

  “Jagga,” Karma said. “Bring my sword.”

  Jagga blinked. “You haven’t used it in years.”

  “It’s time I start again,” Karma replied. “Take Sauf and his men deep into the forest. You know the place.”

  Understanding dawned on Jagga’s face. He nodded and moved.

  The others stared at Karma as if they were seeing him for the first time.

  “He’s one of us,” Sukha said hoarsely.

  “He was,” Karma answered.

  No one spoke.

  “I’ve been thinking for a week,” Karma continued. “Trying to decide.” He looked at them one by one. “I’ve decided.”

  “For what?” Hamza asked.

  “For war,” Karma said. “Better to die fighting than rot from hunger and sickness.”

  The words settled heavy among them.

  “Go,” Karma ordered. “Ready your men. Wait for my call.”

  He turned to the twins. “One of you will go to Sauf’s camp. Tell them what happened. If they still want to fight beside us, they’re welcome. If not, they’re free to leave—but we offer no help.”

  He paused.

  “If they attack you,” he added coldly, “kill them.”

  The twins nodded.

  “Fazel will return with food,” Karma said. “It was a good raid. I’ll send men to help carry it. Eat. Regain your strength. Be ready.”

  Finally, he looked at Hamza and Sukha.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Karma said quietly. “That I’m wagging my tail at Fazel’s command.” His eyes hardened. “You know me better than that.”

  He stepped closer.

  “Don’t disappoint me,” he said. “It’s time we stand together.”

  This time—

  “We won’t fail.”