The desert fortress crouched low against a jagged ridge of black rock, thirty kilometers deeper into the Thar than any sane man would travel without a death wish. Built centuries ago by a mad Rajput chieftain who believed the dunes could be tamed, it was half-ruined now—sandstone walls cracked and wind-scoured, inner courtyards choked with thorn bushes and rusted iron gates. Arjun had claimed it five years earlier. Turned it into his final redoubt. No roads led here. Only hidden trails known to his blood-sworn men. Satellite phones jammed by the ridge. No escape except on foot through killing heat.

They arrived at dawn.