The fortress had one chamber no outsider had ever seen: a sunken stone sanctum carved deep beneath the central courtyard, accessed by a narrow spiral stair hidden behind a false wall of thorn bushes and rusted iron. Arjun called it the Moon Vault. No windows. No light except what filtered through a single high shaft that pierced the rock like a wound—moonlight on full-moon nights, nothing otherwise. The walls were etched with ancient Rajput carvings: warriors impaling enemies, women bound in ecstasy and agony, gods drinking blood from skulls. The floor was smooth black basalt, worn glossy by centuries of bare feet and spilled fluids. In the center stood a low altar—three feet high, four feet wide, carved from a single slab of red sandstone veined with black. Four iron rings were sunk into each corner. A fifth, larger ring protruded from the top center.