The summons came at noon.
Not a request.
A command.
Bharat found the card slipped under his door—heavy stock, embossed with the family crest, script so formal it looked like it had been written by someone who'd never smiled in their life.
YOU ARE REQUIRED TO ATTEND THE FAMILY COUNCIL. 2 PM. FORMAL ATTIRE MANDATORY.
Bharat stared at the card.
"Formal attire."
He owned one suit. Borrowed. Ill-fitting.
The kind that screamed "I don't belong here."
Perfect.
The council room was designed to intimidate.
Dark wood paneling. Portraits of dead ancestors whose eyes followed you like they were still keeping score. A table shaped like a guillotine blade—narrow at one end, wide at the other.
Bharat was placed at the narrow end.
Of course.
Rajan sat at the head.
Flanked by uncles, cousins, distant relatives who'd crawled out of the family tree like termites sensing fresh wood.
Mira sat to the side.
Silent. Watching.
Her face gave nothing away.
Rajan stood. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was savoring the moment.
"Bharat Rao."
He said the name like it was evidence.
"You've caused quite a disturbance."
"Have I?"
"You accused me—publicly—of financial impropriety."
"I asked a question."
"You implied corruption."
"You inferred it."
One of the uncles—fat, sweating, smelling of cologne and entitlement—leaned forward.
"You need to apologize."
"For what?"
"For disrespecting the family. For bringing shame to this house."
Bharat looked around the table. At the faces. The barely concealed contempt. The certainty that he was already broken.
"You want me to kneel."
Rajan smiled.
"I want you to understand your place."
"And what is my place?"
"Grateful. Obedient. Silent."
The uncle gestured to the floor.
"Kneel before the family shrine. Apologize to the ancestors. Beg forgiveness."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you leave. Tonight. And we dissolve the marriage contract as a fraudulent arrangement."
Bharat's pulse kicked.
"You can't do that."
"We can. And we will."
Rajan's voice was smooth. Certain.
"You have no legal standing. No proof of legitimacy. You're a beggar who signed a paper."
"I signed a Temple Contract."
"Which we can argue was signed under duress."
The room went quiet.
Bharat felt the System stirring.
Not speaking. Not intervening.
Just… watching.
Waiting to see what he'd do.
He looked at Mira.
She still hadn't moved.
Hadn't spoken.
Hadn't defended him.
But her eyes—
There was something there. Buried deep. Hidden beneath layers of ice and indifference.
A test.
Or a trap.
Bharat stood slowly.
"No."
"No?"
Rajan's smile thinned.
"You refuse to kneel?"
"I refuse to beg."
"Then you're a fool."
"Maybe."
Bharat walked toward the shrine at the far end of the room—a carved stone altar, candles burning, incense curling into the air like small prayers.
But he didn't kneel.
He turned.
Faced the table.
"I'll make you a deal."
Rajan laughed.
"You're in no position to make deals."
"I am if you value your reputation."
"My reputation is beyond question."
"Is it?"
Bharat pulled out his phone.
"Because I have recordings. Transactions. Names. Dates. Enough to make some very uncomfortable questions start circulating."
The uncles shifted. Nervous.
Rajan's face went blank.
"You're bluffing."
"Try me."
The silence stretched.
Long.
Fragile.
Like glass about to shatter.
Then Bharat played his hand.
"I want control of Mira's security."
The room erupted.
"Absurd!"
"Who do you think you are?"
"You're a nobody—"
Rajan held up a hand.
Silence fell.
"Why?"
"Because she's my wife. And I don't trust any of you to keep her safe."
"Safe from what?"
"From whoever put her name on a harvest list."
The room went cold.
Rajan's eyes narrowed.
"Where did you hear that term?"
"Does it matter?"
Bharat stepped closer to the table.
"You want me to kneel? Fine. I'll kneel. But not to you."
He turned to Mira.
"I kneel to my wife. And I protect what's mine."
For the first time—
Mira moved.
She stood. Slow. Deliberate.
Walked to Bharat.
Stopped inches away.
Her eyes met his.
Cold.
Calculating.
Searching for something.
Then—
She pulled off her family ring.
Heavy. Gold. Engraved with the crest that had crushed men for generations.
And pressed it into Bharat's palm.
"You want security control?"
Her voice was quiet. Deadly.
"You have it."
The room exploded.
"Mira—"
"You can't—"
"This is insane—"
Rajan stood.
"Mira. Think about what you're doing."
She didn't look at him.
"I have."
"This is a declaration of war."
"No."
Mira's hand closed over Bharat's, the ring burning between their palms.
"This is me choosing my husband over my executioners."
She turned to the table.
"Anyone who wants to challenge that—"
Her voice dropped.
"Can take it up with the Temple Contract."
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Because they all knew—
Temple Contracts didn't break.
They killed.
Mira walked out.
Bharat followed.
The ring burning in his hand like a brand.
In the hallway, Mira stopped.
Turned.
"You just made yourself a target."
"I was already a target."
"Now you're a priority target."
Bharat looked at the ring. At the weight of it. The history. The blood.
"What does this actually give me?"
"Access. Authority. Enemies."
"Can I protect you?"
For the first time—
She smiled.
Small.
Bitter.
"That depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you can protect yourself."
She walked away.
Bharat stood there.
Ring in hand.
Heart hammering.
The System's voice whispered—faint, amused:
AUTHORITY GRANTED. CONSEQUENCES ACTIVATED.
NEW TASK: SURVIVE THE NEXT 72 HOURS.
FAILURE: TOTAL ELIMINATION.
REWARD: UNLOCK TEMPLE GUARDIAN PROTOCOL.
Bharat looked at the ring.
At the crest.
At the weight of a war he'd just declared with a handshake and a refusal to kneel.
Behind him, he heard footsteps.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Rajan's voice drifted down the hall.
"You should have knelt, boy."
"You'll wish you had."
Bharat didn't turn around.
Just kept walking.
The ring burning in his palm.
Like a countdown.
Like a vow.
Like a death sentence he'd just signed with his own hand.