The night air of Chandanpur was no longer silent; it was vibrating with the thunderous beat of the nagada and the triumphant blare of the brass band. Vikram Singh had spared no expense. The entire path from the Haveli to Meera’s house was illuminated by men carrying flaming torches and portable chandeliers, making the dusty village road look like a path to heaven.

Vikram sat atop a magnificent white stallion, looking every bit the royal sovereign. He wore a heavy, midnight-maroon sherwani with intricate gold embroidery that traced the broad lines of his chest and shoulders. A traditional sword hung at his waist, and his head was held high under a silk turban adorned with a glittering sarpech. Despite the noise and the crowd of dancing villagers, his dark, piercing eyes were fixed only on one destination: the small wooden window on the upper floor of Hariram’s house.