The room was chosen carefully.
Not the court. Not the council chamber. A narrow inner hall beside Kalyan Singh Rathod's private apartments—used when matters were too small for ceremony and too large for witnesses. The windows were high, narrow slits cut into thick stone. Afternoon light entered in pale bands, stopping short of the floor.
Raghuveer arrived first.
He did not sit. He stood with his hands behind his back, eyes lowered, listening to the fort breathe—the distant clink of metal, a shouted order fading down a corridor, the low murmur of clerks somewhere beyond the walls. Power, he had learned, was never silent. It only learned to whisper.
Zafar Khan entered without announcement, silk rustling softly. He smiled when he saw Raghuveer waiting.
"Off the books," Zafar said lightly, as if naming a game. "That alone tells me this meeting is worth my time."
Raghuveer inclined his head. "Thank you for coming."
Bhairav Malik arrived last.
He did not greet either of them. He paced the length of the room once, slow and deliberate, boots scraping faintly against stone. His presence changed the air—not louder, not heavier, just… tighter. Like a rope pulled one notch closer to snapping.
Zafar watched him with amusement. "Always walking, Kotwal? Sit. You'll wear a trench into the floor."
Bhairav did not answer. He continued pacing.
Raghuveer waited until the rhythm settled. Then he spoke.
"There will be war again."
Zafar's smile widened. "There is always war."
"Yes," Raghuveer agreed. "But not always delay. Not always uncertainty. Armies can be raised quickly. Grain cannot."
That caught Zafar's attention. Not surprise—interest.
Raghuveer continued, voice even. "When conflict begins, three things happen in this region. Grain is seized. Prices rise. Villages resist. Order weakens."
Bhairav stopped pacing.
Raghuveer did not look at him.
"We have reduced corruption in records," Raghuveer said. "We have tightened seizures. But these are reactions. I am proposing preparation."
Zafar folded his hands. "Preparation earns no coin unless it creates scarcity."
"It creates control," Raghuveer replied. "And profit."
That earned a short laugh.
"Go on," Zafar said.
Raghuveer turned slightly now, including both men. "I propose the formation of a grain provisioning house. Quiet. No banners. No proclamations. It will buy grain directly from farmers at fixed rates. Not generous. Not exploitative. Predictable."
Bhairav's boots resumed their slow movement.
"Purchased grain will be stored in controlled granaries," Raghuveer said. "Released during shortages, wars, or transport disruption. Not seized—distributed."
Zafar raised an eyebrow. "You want to replace fear with contracts."
"I want to replace panic with planning," Raghuveer said. "Fear will remain."
Zafar leaned back, studying him. "And the farmers agree to this because…?"
"They already sell," Raghuveer said. "To middlemen. To hoarders. To men who vanish when war comes. I offer them something else."
"Stability," Zafar murmured. Then, sharper: "At what margin?"
"Enough," Raghuveer said. "Enough to make it worth your attention."
That was when Zafar smiled in earnest.
"This is new thinking," he said. "Dangerous thinking. I like it."
Bhairav stopped pacing again. "Who decides," he asked, voice low, "when grain stops moving?"
Raghuveer met his eyes for the first time.
"We do."
Silence stretched.
Zafar broke it. "Ownership?"
"Shared," Raghuveer said.
Zafar's fingers tapped once on the arm of his chair. "Equal?"
"Proportional," Raghuveer corrected.
Zafar considered. Then, almost casually, "Thirty-three. Thirty-three. Thirty-four."
Bhairav's gaze flicked to him.
"I assume," Zafar added, "the extra one is for… coordination."
Raghuveer did not smile. "For responsibility."
Bhairav exhaled through his nose. Not approval. Not rejection.
"And enforcement?" Bhairav asked.
"No law will mention this house," Raghuveer said. "No court will hear its disputes. We will operate by understanding."
Zafar laughed softly. "You see, Kotwal? The teacher understands us."
Bhairav resumed pacing. "Misuse?"
"Slow punishment," Raghuveer replied. "Quiet reassignment. Delay before force."
"That delays fear," Bhairav said.
"It sharpens it," Raghuveer answered. "When it finally comes."
Zafar watched them like a man observing a duel fought with shadows. "Who loses first?" he asked.
"Everyone," Raghuveer said. "Slowly."
Middlemen. Hoarders. Clerks who sold time instead of grain. The losses would not come with screams. They would come with missing opportunities, contracts that never arrived, doors that stayed closed.
Zafar nodded. "I warned you," he said to Raghuveer, almost kindly. "Once this begins, it will not stop at grain."
"I know," Raghuveer said.
"And Kalyan?" Zafar asked. "What does the Faujdar think of this… ambition?"
"He wonders," Raghuveer replied. "What I am doing. And why."
"That means he is watching," Zafar said. "Which means this is already permitted."
Bhairav turned at last. "If this fails," he said, "you lose credibility."
Raghuveer inclined his head. "Yes."
"If it succeeds," Bhairav continued, "you gain influence."
"Yes."
Bhairav's mouth twitched—not a smile, but something close. "Then proceed."
The decision was made without paper. Without witness. Without ceremony.
As they rose to leave, Zafar paused beside Raghuveer. "You are changing how power feeds itself," he said. "Be careful you do not starve it."
Raghuveer answered quietly, "Power that cannot wait deserves to collapse."
Zafar laughed, amused, and left.
Bhairav lingered a moment longer, studying Raghuveer as if measuring a blade by weight alone.
Bhairav had reached the doorway when he stopped.
He did not turn.
"One question," he said.
Raghuveer waited.
"You could have done this without me. Paper and grain do not need a blade."
Bhairav turned now, eyes steady.
"Why did you add me?"
Raghuveer answered without pause.
"Because when war comes, paper will lie. Grain will hide. And men will panic.
Someone must decide what is released—and enforce it without hesitation."
Bhairav studied him for a long moment.
"Then I add a condition."
Raghuveer inclined his head. "Speak."
"In war," Bhairav said, "this house will supply grain to the fort at a discounted rate.
Not charity. Strategy.
Soldiers who eat do not loot.
Cities that are fed do not burn."
Silence followed.
Raghuveer nodded. "Agreed."
Bhairav's mouth curved—just barely.
"Good," he said. "Then this is not a business."
He turned away.
"It is logistics."
Then he turned and walked away, already thinking in routes, stores, names.
Raghuveer remained where he was.
Outside, somewhere beyond the fort walls, grain waited in fields. It always had.
This time, it was being remembered.
And for the first time since arriving in Rohtak, Raghuveer allowed himself a single thought—not pride, not relief, but something colder and more precise.
This will work.
He exhaled slowly.
Restrained triumph was still triumph.