Years passed in the Thar like sand through open fingers—slow, relentless, erasing edges.

The fortress changed little. Walls stood taller against encroaching dunes; new iron gates replaced rusted ones; the inner circle thinned by age, betrayal, or bullets, but Arjun remained—scarred deeper, hair streaked silver at the temples, body still hard and unyielding. His men called him the Dune King now, half in fear, half in reverence. He ruled the smuggling routes with the same ruthless precision, but fewer raids, fewer bodies left in the sand. Age had not softened him; it had focused him.