Chapter 1: A Sister's Vengeance
The heavy brocade curtains did little to soften the morning sun, slicing the bedroom into bars of light and shadow. Within the silken fortress of her bed, Bushra Afridi stirred. At thirty, her beauty was not delicate—it was commanding. Her eyes, a glacial blue that could darken to stormy grey, held generations of women's silent wars.
A voice, respectful but firm, cut through the stillness from the doorway. "You will not be going to the office today."
Bushra didn't turn. She rose, her movements fluid with purpose, and walked toward her dressing room. "Miana is not your concern, Basheer. Tell her I am ready. Send her to me. The matter will not wait."
Alone, the mask of composure slipped. Her hands, usually steady, fumbled with a shirt for her younger brother, Imran. A cold knot of dread tightened in her stomach. *Important matters are often lethal ones.*
In the sitting room, Miana, the family matriarch, was a portrait of anxiety. After tea was served and the servant dismissed, the old woman's voice trembled. "Imran… his heart is set on Emaan Karani."
The name landed like a death sentence. *Karani.* The rival family.
"The Karanis would sooner salt their own earth than allow this," Bushra stated, her voice dangerously calm. "The land disputes have their pride bleeding. This would be a declaration of war."
"I have pleaded until my throat is raw," Miana whispered, a tear tracing the map of wrinkles on her cheek. "He has gone to see her. What if they harm him?"
"They lack the courage for a direct strike," Bushra said, though the fear in her grandmother's eyes mirrored her own. "When he returns, I will handle it."
Miana grasped her hand. "Your uncles disowned you for giving voice to the voiceless. They traded you to settle a debt. But you… you became the keeper of this house. You must reach Imran. There is still humanity in him. Do not let this old hatred poison another generation."
Bushra's gaze softened. "While I breathe, they will not dare disrespect you, Miana. I bear this weight now."
***
Far from the haveli, in a dust-choked lane, Imran Afridi waited in a black sedan, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. A shrouded figure hurried from the Karani gates. Emaan.
She slid into the car, her face pale with terror. "Have you lost your mind? If you are seen, they will kill you and call it honor."
"I was suffocating," Imran said, his voice strained with desperation. "We leave for Islamabad tonight. A court marriage. Your family's consent is a fiction between our families. We must disappear."
Emaan stared at him as if he spoke a mad prophecy. "They are hunters, Imran. They will find us. Jasim arrives today. Let me speak to my brother. He may mediate. Do not let your heart overrule your mind. I will send word tonight. But I will not run with you."
Her refusal was a wall built from the hard stones of reality. As she slipped back into the shadows, neither noticed the figure watching from behind a tree—Zaron, Emaan's volatile younger brother, his eyes burning with betrayal.
Before Emaan could reach the gate, Zaron erupted from his hiding spot. He grabbed Johra, Emaan's maid, his fingers biting into her arm. "Who was she meeting? Lie, and I'll feed you your own teeth!"
Trembling, Johra stammered, "It… it was Imran Afridi. They were at university together…"
A savage rage contorted Zaron's face. He shoved Johra aside and stormed toward the car, pulling a pistol from his waistband.
Imran, seeing the approaching fury, opened his door. "Zaron, listen—"
"You defile my sister's honor and ask me to listen?" Zaron screamed, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Emaan's shriek tore through the air. "Zaron, NO!"
The gunshots were deafening, three rapid explosions that ripped the quiet afternoon apart. Imran's body jerked backward against the car, then slumped to the ground, dark blood blooming across his white shirt.
Time stopped. Emaan's world shattered into a thousand silent, screaming pieces. She stumbled forward, falling to her knees in the dirt beside him. His stormy grey eyes, so like his sister's, were already glassy, fixed on a sky he could no longer see.
Zaron stood frozen, the smoking gun dangling from his hand, the heat of his rage instantly replaced by the ice of realization. He had just killed an Afridi heir.
With a choked sound, he turned and fled, disappearing into the labyrinth of alleys, leaving his sister cradling a corpse and a future drenched in blood.
***
At the Afridi haveli, Bushra was reviewing documents when the ancient landline phone on her desk rang, its shrill tone ominous. It was Miana, her voice broken, barely recognizable through wracking sobs.
"Bushra… they… the Karanis… they have killed our Imran."
The words did not compute. They bounced off a mind refusing to accept them. The receiver slipped from Bushra's hand, clattering against the hardwood floor. The world narrowed to a single, silent point of absolute zero.
Then, the storm broke. Not in tears, but in a cold, crystalline fury that flooded her veins. She looked at her hands, imagining them stained with her brother's blood. The grief would come, a tidal wave that would drown her. But first, there would be justice.
Not the justice of wailing women or impulsive men. Her justice.
She picked up the receiver, her voice terrifyingly steady. "Miana. Have his body brought home. Do not let anyone touch him. I am coming."
She ended the call and stood, her reflection in the dark window showing a woman transformed. The sister was gone. In her place stood the Avenger.
Her brother's blood would not dry in the dust. It would be the ink with which she rewrote the rules of their brutal, ancient game. And she knew exactly how to begin.