“You call me low-born,” Maula whispers, his face inches from hers. “You say a Jatt belongs in the mud. Look around, Queen. The mud is the only honest thing left.”

Daro screams. She orders the horsemen to charge. But Maula has already vanished.

In the village of Guru Nagar, no one sleeps. They whisper a name that tastes like ashes: .

“The Jatt dog,” Daro hisses, “thinks the earth is clean because he washed his hands in our father’s blood. Tonight, we salt his soil.”

Flashback: A younger Maula. A massacre at a wedding. The Natt clan slaughtered his bloodline while the drummers played. He was left for dead under a pile of women’s dupattas. He rose not as a farmer, but as a curse.

The fakir stops playing. He turns his sightless eyes toward the camera.