Rebuilding The Bridges of Relationships (2) heirs

The three cars glided through the narrow lanes of Kashi like silent predators. The locals, used to processions of pilgrims and mourners, paid no mind to the convoy. Yet, if anyone had looked closer, they might have noticed the steel behind the tinted windows, the tension in the way those inside sat.

Inside the first car, Siyara Rathore, the eldest, sat upright, her gaze sharp as the pyre’s last flames replayed in her mind. The money she had thrown into the fire wasn’t just paper—it was an oath. Wealth meant nothing without power. And now, with their grandfather gone, she knew the Rathores had to build a new throne. Her lips curved into the faintest smile. Tonight had been an ending. But it was also a beginning.

In the second car, Aarav Rathore, the second-born, leaned back, his jaw tight with unspoken fury. The gun he had thrown into the flames had been his protector, his shadow. Burning it meant letting go of his past—but it also meant choosing a new weapon for the wars to come. His hand tapped restlessly against his knee, already hungry for the battles ahead.

The third car carried Vivaan Rathore, the youngest of the bloodline. He stared out the window, lost in thought, his mind circling around the crown he had consigned to the fire. It had been more than a relic—it was a symbol of their grandfather’s legacy. By destroying it, he had vowed to rebuild in a different way, not through kingship, but through influence. His silence was deep, but his resolve even deeper.

The convoy finally came to a halt at a sprawling haveli on the outskirts of the city. The Rathore ancestral home—half palace, half fortress—stood against the night like a beast that refused to die, its darkened windows watching them approach.

The siblings entered through the massive gates, their footsteps echoing in unison. The air inside was thick with the weight of history—portraits of ancestors stared down at them from dusty walls, warriors and kings whose stories had long been buried beneath layers of betrayal and silence.

They gathered in the Durbar Hall, where once their grandfather had held meetings of power. Now it was only the three of them. The silence pressed heavily, until Siyara finally spoke.

Siyara Rathore[FL]

(calm, cutting)He’s gone. And with him, the last shield protecting us.

Aarav Rathore [FL younger brother]

(grimly)Or the last chain holding us back.

Vivaan Rathore [FL youngest brother]

(flatly)Whichever it is, we don’t have time. You know what his death means.

The words hung in the air. They all knew. With Ravi Rathore gone, vultures would circle. Old rivals, unfinished debts, broken alliances—every ghost of the Rathore legacy would return.

Aarav lit a cigarette, exhaling slowly.

Aarav Rathore [FL younger brother]

Then let them come. We’ll finish what he started.

Siyara’s eyes glittered in the dim light.

Siyara Rathore[FL]

No. We’ll start something entirely new.

And as if on cue, a knock thundered at the door of the haveli. Not gentle, not hesitant—a deliberate strike. The siblings exchanged glances. No words were needed.

Aarav stubbed out the cigarette. Vivaan reached for the dagger strapped to his ankle. Siyara’s smirk deepened.

The Rathores were no longer mourners.

They were heirs.

They were hunters.

And tonight, the game had just begun.

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picture credits to respective owners