CHAPTER TWO: LAW AND ORDER

Amrita Saxena stood in the village square like she didn't know fear. Like she hadn't read the file that whispered of missing women, seized land, and a mansion that doubled as a throne and a prison. She wore a crisp off-white cotton saree, no jewelry, hair tied back tight. She looked like she belonged in a courtroom or a university seminar—not in the kingdom of a man like Thakur Viren Pratap Singh.

But she was exactly where she intended to be.

He watched her closely, arms folded behind his back. His men stood a few feet away, silent, alert, hands resting casually on lathis and pistols.

"You've built quite the empire," she said, eyes sweeping the town square.

"I built a civilization," he replied, almost gently. "Empires fall. Civilizations endure."

"I've seen your school," she said. "No registration. No government oversight. Children taught by men with no degrees."

"Degrees are not knowledge," he said. "You have a law degree, yes? How many lives has it saved? How many minds has it healed?"

She tilted her head. "You're not uneducated. I've read your thesis on decentralized power grids. Your proposal for seed sovereignty using ancient strains. But somewhere along the way, you stopped serving people and started owning them."

Viren laughed softly. "Serving? The state has failed them for decades. No jobs. No power. No dignity. I gave them all three. And you think I'm the problem?"

"You own the police."

"I trained them. Paid for their coaching. Uniforms. Laptops. In return, they serve stability."

"You own politicians."

"I made them electable. Funded their rallies. Gave them speechwriters. I don't own them—I built them."

"You take women."

"I rescue them," he said calmly. "From abusive husbands. From grinding poverty. From a life of being spat on and stepped over."

"They're not free to leave."

"They're not prisoners. They live better than they ever dreamed. Security. Education. Culture. Purpose."

"They're not yours to decide for."

"And yet everyone else abandoned them until I arrived."

Amrita took a step forward, lowering her voice but not her eyes. "You speak of dharma. Civilization. Gurukul. But you're running a feudal fantasy, not reviving anything. You're not a rishi. You're a ruler. With lust disguised as benevolence."

Something flickered in his expression—just for a moment. Then the calm returned, deeper.

"Do you know," he said, "why I brought you here instead of having you turned away?"

"Because you want to show off?"

"Because you intrigue me."

"I'm not here to play muse in your twisted morality play."

"No," he said, "you're here because I want to see what happens when someone like you sees the truth up close. Not from files. Not from headlines. But from inside."

She stared at him. "You think this is all an experiment?"

"Of course," he said. "My entire life is an experiment. Agriculture, architecture, education, power, loyalty. I observe. I test. I refine."

"And the people around you are just subjects."

"No. They're participants. Willing or not, they live better under my rule than under Delhi's chaos."

"You've created a cult of dependency."

"I've created order," he said. "A model. One that works."

"Because no one dares to disobey."

He smiled again. "Loyalty is not fear. It's gratitude. Ask the businessmen I backed. They now control industries across India. Tech, agri, logistics. I knew where to invest before the market even realized the sector existed. And I placed my men—my sons of the soil—in the right positions. They remember who gave them wings."

"And if one of them forgets?"

He shrugged. "They don't."

A boy ran past the square, barefoot, holding a clay tablet with Sanskrit verses etched into it. A cow wandered lazily by, chewing on sugarcane. Life, on the surface, looked calm. Peaceful, even. But Amrita could feel it—the tension under the silence. The unnatural stillness of people who knew how quickly calm could become command.

"Tell me something," she said. "Do you ever doubt yourself? Even for a moment?"

He looked up at the sunlit sky, then back at her.

"No," he said. "Because every time I've trusted the system, it has failed. But when I've trusted myself, things have grown. People have risen. Land has borne fruit. Villages have prospered."

"And what happens," she asked, "when you're gone?"

He smiled, wide and slow. "I'm not planning on dying anytime soon."

She said nothing. He stepped closer, his voice now low enough that only she could hear.

"I know you're not afraid of me. That's rare. But you should be careful not to mistake your conviction for immunity. This place doesn't bend to ideas. It bends to will. And mine is stronger than yours."

"And yet you brought me here."

He nodded. "Because part of me wants you to see what I've built. And part of me wants to see if you break."

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