Zinari’s Hold was a sanctuary carved from ancient weather-beaten granite and stubborn hope. Towering walls rose like silent guardians, weathered by centuries yet unbroken, shielding those within. The great darwaza, the gates, studded with iron spikes and flanked by ancient stone elephants, had never known defeat, their weight a testament to the strength of those who built them. The air carried the scent of jasmine and sandalwood mingling with the sharp tang of medicinal herbs from the healers' quarters.

Inside, the vast aangan connected the living quarters and the old devasthanam — now repurposed, its sanctum sanctorum serving as a quiet haven for healers and the wounded. The fortress itself, once a place of pilgrimage, had become a cradle of survival, where every woman found shelter, purpose, and the thinnest thread of defiance. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the courtyard, dappling the stone floor through intricately carved jali screens.

Along the fortress walls, faded carvings and once-vibrant murals told forgotten stories — their colors long scorched away by the relentless sun. The temple itself was a masterpiece of devotion and craftsmanship, its soaring torana arches, gopuram-like gateways carved with deities and mythical beasts. There were whispers of a time when beauty and faith were stronger than fear. The once resonant chants, the bhajans, were replaced by the murmurs of the wounded and the rhythmic clacking of women grinding grain, but the divine presence lingered like the faint scent of incense in a closed room.

Saria could only hope that Maa Rokhani would see the desperation that clung to this place like the heat haze over desert sands. And that her husband, the god Shaaron, would at last grant a miracle to the men still standing on the battlefield.

The heiress to the throne wiped the sweat from her brow as she watched from the balcony, her gaze fixed on the kuccha road leading to the gates of the temple-fortress. Over the past ten days, the number of women arriving had dwindled more and more. It could mean only one thing—something terrible, suffocating, something that filled Saria’s heart with despair: more and more villages were falling to the cursed horde of barbarians from the kingdom of Orbaitan.

These monsters destroyed, burned, killed, raped, and stole precious heirlooms. But worst of all... they tore children from their mothers’ arms, taking them away to raise in their horrifying lands — shaping a new generation of conquerors who would never know their true homeland. Saria's fingers tightened around the stone balustrade until her knuckles whitened.

The women pressed their palms together in a silent Namaste, heads bowed, and began to lower themselves into a full pranam, but Saria raised a hand to stop them.

“Don’t,” she said softly. “We are all women caught in hardship here. If anything, I should fall at your feet — you survived, and you made the journey to this place.” Her voice held the melodic quality of temple bells, soft yet carrying across the courtyard.

Velia whispered that they needed to start rationing food — even if the hunting party returned, even if more women came bearing sacks of rice, supplies would not last long, especially with winter approaching in two months. Her pregnant belly swelled beneath her tattered sari as she spoke, a worried crease between her brows.

Gaezzi shared that many women had never held a weapon in their lives — she did all she could, but more bows and arrows were needed. For when — gods, please let it be if — the Orbaytans reached them, the women would have to shoot from the walls. Her gnarled hands, marked with age and now calloused from work, gestured emphatically.

And to Halian — no longer so little, forced to grow up far too fast — her voice was firm, childlike but edged with steel, declaring that a dozen children had volunteered: to stand watch, help in the kitchen, build barricades, care for the younger ones. The girl stood straight as she spoke, though her lower lip trembled slightly.

Saria composed herself, her voice calm and firm. "First — the food shortage. There's an ancient passage beneath this fortress leading to underground waters. We might find fish, algae — anything edible down there. Assign a team of strong women with axes — we need wood. For barricades and for weapons. And Chhoti Didi, split the older children into two groups. One helps in the kitchen, the other with the little ones. Can you handle that?"

As the women rushed off to carry out their tasks, Saria exhaled — and made her way to the inner aangan. She never shied away from laundry, cooking, chopping wood — whatever needed doing. Here, every hand worked. But her thoughts lingered on the horizon, on the absence of the one person she most needed by her side. Her Meri Rakshika was late.