The neutral airstrip was a desolate stretch of cracked asphalt, forgotten by the maps and reclaimed by the high-altitude weeds. The federal transport sat idling at the far end, its rotors cutting through the thin, biting air like a rhythmic heartbeat. For the rest of the world, the House of Rajvansh had collapsed in the fire at the Justice's manor. For the two shadows standing at the edge of the tarmac, life was finally beginning.

Vikram sat on a rusted equipment crate, his head bowed. He had traded his heavy black silks for a simple, dark tactical jacket, but he still wore the exhaustion of a thousand-year-old dynasty on his shoulders. The "Iron King" was a title he had shed, yet the scars—both the ones on his skin and the ones in his soul—remained.