The first light of dawn had barely kissed the golden mustard fields when Rajveer Pratap Singh stirred from his sleep. Dew clung to the leaves outside, glinting like scattered pearls in the soft, sleepy sunlight. A rooster crowed somewhere beyond the courtyard walls, announcing morning with a pride that echoed across the village. In the faint, cool air, smoke from early chulhas curled lazily upwards, carrying the scent of burnt wood, simmering tea, and parathas frying in ghee.

Rajveer lay sprawled on his old charpai, the thick rope creaking slightly under his considerable weight. His broad chest rose and fell with every breath, limbs draped like a lion relaxing, his face still half-tucked into the worn cotton pillow. Even asleep, he looked like a man sculpted out of the very soil he lived on looking rough, strong, and unmovable.