The night was thick with silence, broken only by the distant howls of the wind and the rhythmic pounding of her heart. Shadows stretched long under the moon’s gaze, wrapping around the towering walls of the Shekhawat estate like silent sentinels.

Amani stood at the threshold of the only home she had ever known—yet had never truly belonged to. The Shekhawats had taken her in, raised her, molded her into a weapon, but never as one of their own. To them, she had been an obligation, a puzzle piece that refused to fit, no matter how much they tried to shape her edges.

The memories flashed in her mind like lightning—Ekash’s cold smirk, Prithvi’s watchful gaze, Rudra’s silent intensity, Tushar’s cryptic amusement. They had never voiced it outright, but she had always felt it—the tension of being an outsider in their world of power and bloodlines.

She had tried to carve a place for herself, but the realization had struck like a blade to the heart: she was not meant to fit into someone else’s kingdom.

She was meant to build her own.

Amani took one last glance at the grand estate, her fingers tightening around the straps of the bag slung over her shoulder. There would be no goodbyes, no explanations. They would wake to find her gone, and for years, they would search. Perhaps they would hate her for it. Perhaps they would never forgive her.

But one day, they would understand.

She turned and vanished into the night, leaving behind the girl they had once known.

One day, they would see her again.

And by then, she would no longer be theirs to claim.