In the halls of Rathore Niwas, the floors were made of Italian marble that was polished twice a day—once for the sun, and once for the moon. But mostly, it was polished so that Ananya Rathore would never see a speck of dust on the path to her studio.

To her brothers, she was not just a sister. She was a religion.

Shaurya would often stand at the balcony, watching her paint, his hands clasped behind his back. "She is too good for this world, Kabir," he would murmur.

"Then we will build her a better one," Kabir would reply, his hand resting on the hilt of his tucked-away blade.

They did not realize that the "better world" they were building was a fortress. And in a fortress, it only takes one person with the keys to turn a sanctuary into a dungeon.

Aunt Gayatri sat in the parlor below, sipping tea from a porcelain cup that cost more than a common man's life savings. She watched the brothers worship their sister and smiled into her tea. 

Love them, my darlings, she thought. 

Love her until it hurts. 

Because when I show you she has poisoned your well, you will be the ones to bury her alive.