I stand at the edge of the village square, the wind carrying the scent of burning paper—ballot applications, set alight by the Raja’s men. My hands are calloused from years in the war, but my heart trembles now, not from fear, but from purpose.

Behind me, the people wait. Farmers, teachers, widows, students. They look to me, not because I’m a hero, but because I’m the only one who’s spoken.

Inside the courthouse, Shishupal laughs, signing documents with a gold pen. The Collector watches, silent. The Raja hasn’t shown his face, but his shadow is everywhere.

Bharati touches my arm. 'They’re ready,' she says. 'But if we march, there’s no turning back.'

I know what’s at stake. My brother’s in prison. My name’s on a list. And yet—this is our moment.

Do I raise my voice and lead the protest? Do I seek a secret deal with the Collector? Or do I wait, hoping reason prevails?