Seven days after the branding, the brand above Riya’s mound had scabbed over—dark crimson edges flaking, the crescent-dagger sigil now a permanent, raised scar against her golden skin. She no longer flinched when fabric brushed it. Instead she touched it constantly—fingers tracing the rough edges while she lay chained to the stone platform in the courtyard, letting the desert sun burn the fresh skin darker. The pain had become part of her rhythm, like breathing.

Arjun decided it was time for the next ritual.