Months had passed since the last ritual, yet the village of Dharampur remained trapped in its ancient cycle. The air hung heavy with the scent of incense, damp earth, and the distant smoke of cooking fires. Saanvi, now twenty-four, still lived in the headman’s household under the watchful eyes of Raghav and the elders. Her body had recovered from the previous ceremony, the bruises faded, the marks on her skin softened into pale memories, but the fear and defiance in her eyes burned brighter than ever.

She sat on the edge of the low wooden cot in the small room allotted to her, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tightly around them. Outside, the village stirred with unusual activity. New voices drifted through the open window—rough male laughter, the clink of metal, the low murmur of negotiations. Outsiders had arrived that morning: three men from the neighboring district, traders who had been invited for the next ritual after offering generous gifts of grain, cloth, and silver.