The english translations are written within brackets (), and the Roman-urdu dialogues within inverted commas. Sometimes the dialogues might be in english as well...

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A group of men bowed in unison as a man with an imposing presence entered, his aura demanding both reverence and silence. He walked with unhurried grace and settled onto the throne-like chair at the center of the pedestal. His very stance exuded authority. The crowd erupted into chants—some bowing low to show their loyalty.

With a single raise of his hand, Zaviyar brought the roaring crowd to complete silence, signaling for the panchayat to commence the proceedings.

“Hukum kya kiya jaaye iss gaddar ke saath jisne aapki hee factory par aag lagane ki koshish ki.”(What should be done with this traitor who dared to set fire to the very factory he works in, sir?) The guilt-ridden man trembled beneath the weight of Zaviyar’s fiery gaze.

“Bta kisne bheja tha tujhe, bta...”
(Speak—who sent you? Tell me...)
The demand came sharp, as the guard struck the traitor with the muzzle of his rifle, forcing him onto his knees. His sobs echoed, body quaking with each cry.

“Hukum mujhe maaf karde... Mujhe majboor kiya gaya tha. Agah sahab neh kaha tha ki agar maine aapke karkhane mein aag na lagayi touh woh hamare ek laute bete ko maar dalenge.” (Please forgive me, sir... I was forced into this. Agah Sahib said if I didn’t set your warehouse on fire, he’d kill our only son.) His wails continued, but the name that fell from his lips only ignited something dangerous in Zaviyar—a man already burning with restrained fury.

“Ab hamein kya karna chahiye hukum?” (What must we do now, sir?) Zaviyar rose from his seat, each step deliberate as he approached the man groveling before him.

“Hamare khilaaf koi gaddari karta hai touh uske saath kya hota hai, Waqas?” (What happens to someone who rebels against our family, Waqas?)

Waqas swallowed hard at the deceptively calm tone. He knew too well what followed such silence. Saying anything could be the end of him. His wife’s parting kiss lingered on his cheek— Waqas was not ready to trade it for a bullet to the skull.

“Waqas, hamare khilaaf baghawat sirf ek baar hoti hai…”(Waqas, rebellion against me happens only once…)
Each word came slowly, like a measured sentence. Every syllable held the power to shake even the strongest of men.

“Uske baad na baghi bachta hai…” (After that, neither the traitor survives…) He calmly raised his gun, steady and precise.

“Na uski kahani.”
(…nor his tale.)

Without a flicker of hesitation, he pulled the trigger. The shot rang through the courtyard, and one of the men seated in the panchayat crumpled, clutching his chest in disbelief.

"Aapne kya socha? Aap mera peeth ke peeche dushmano ki madad karte rahenge aur mujhe pata bhi nahi chalega?" (What did you think? That you’d keep aiding my enemies behind my back, and I’d never even notice?)

The crowd froze, paralyzed by fear. Zaviyar stepped forward, grabbed the wounded man by the collar and whispered coldly, "Jahannum mein intezaar karna, bhej raha hu tumhare sathiyo ko." (Wait in hell—I'm sending your comrades ahead.)

“Tum bhul rahe ho Zaviyar Khan... Tumhare khandaan ke saath jisne bewafai ki thi woh abhi bhi zinda hai.” (You're forgetting... the one who betrayed your family is still alive.) Agah’s dying breath held defiance, but it only sealed his fate.

“Thikane laga dou, isse.” (Dispose of him.) Zaviyar ordered without a trace of emotion and turned to the shaken gathering.

“Jouh loug iss haadse mein ghayal hue hain unhe ham sahara denge. Jouh loug ghayal hue hain unki pariwar ki zimmedari Taha sahab lenge.” (We will support those injured in this tragedy. Their families will be the responsibility of Mr. Taha.)

Servants approached, carrying baskets overflowing with essentials. Zaviyar placed his hand on each one, giving a silent nod for their distribution.

“Yeh kuch samaan hain, gaon mein baant diya jaayein.” (This is some relief material—distribute it in the village.)

“Aap ko Allah hamesha khush rakhe Nawab sahab.” (May Allah grant you all the happiness.) An old woman placed a trembling hand on his head, and Zaviyar bowed with quiet respect.

He watched, satisfied, as the villagers received aid, comforted by justice. Azamgarh was his kingdom, and his word—law. No one would be allowed to disrupt the harmony he ruled over.

No one!

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[Reader Discretion - Violent & graphic scenes of torture ahead.]

Several feet beneath the resplendent and ostentatious castle of Azamgarh, a far more sinister world existed. Deep in the bowels of the earth were grim, oppressive cells, steeped in decay. The narrow passageways reeked of mold and blood, with algae creeping up the cracked concrete walls. A single flickering tubelight sputtered above, casting intermittent glimmers across the claustrophobic space—On. Off. On. Off. The rhythmic buzz added to the eerie silence that swallowed the place whole. Every footstep echoed ominously, as if the walls themselves were alive, listening.

Stationed outside a heavy iron door stood two guards, their postures stiff and alert. The moment they sensed his arrival, they straightened further, bowing respectfully before swinging the door open with mechanical precision.

Inside, the air was thick with the stench of blood and burnt flesh. A man was tied tightly to a metal chair, his body convulsing with every jolt of pain. His screams reverberated through the room as a searing-hot rod scorched the flesh on his arm.

“Mujhe chhordo...” (Let me go...) he howled, his voice raw and broken, as another fingernail was yanked from his trembling hand.

The tin door at the back crashed open with a resounding bang. In stepped a procession of men, all clad in black, their faces partially masked, weapons slung across their shoulders. They parted like a tide, forming a disciplined path.

From the shadows emerged a commanding figure, tall and powerfully built. His presence alone caused the temperature in the room to plummet. The 'black army' remained still, guarding the newly formed path for their master—Zaviyar.

“Aa...aap?” (Y–you?)  the tortured man rasped through bloodied lips, his face smeared with sweat and grime. His blurry vision locked onto the face that had haunted him even in his most terrifying dreams.

Zaviyar didn’t bother responding to the recognition. He strode forward, each step deliberate and weighted. His eyes glinted with rage beneath a layer of composure. Leaning in close to the man, his voice emerged—calm, quiet, and terrifyingly low.

“I will ask you only once. Who. Was. It?”

The captive's breath hitched as Zaviyar reached out his hand. Without a word, one of the henchmen placed a gleaming nail clipper in his palm. The gesture alone was enough to send shivers down the man’s spine.

“I don't know... Please mujhe jaane dein. Mujhe aapke maal mein milawat karne ke orders mile the.” (I don’t know... please let me go. I was ordered to tamper with your goods.)

“Kisne diye yeh orders. Bol.” (Who gave those orders? Speak.) one of the men behind him demanded, yanking the man's hair back sharply.

“Main nahi jaanta... woh... woh call karta tha mujhe aur– aur kaam deta tha.” (I don’t know... he used to call me... and give the instructions.) Another scream tore through the air as the heated rod was pressed against his cheek, the smell of burning skin mixing with fear.

A table nearby was cluttered with maps, photographs, and red markers. Zaviyar approached it, his expression hardening. He made a distinct mark with a red cross, signaling yet another successful takedown of a rival faction’s spy base.

“What about the money transactions, Agastya?” Zaviyar asked, without taking his eyes off the map. His voice was sharper now, the anger beginning to rise.

Agastya, his oldest ally and his most trusted lieutenant, leaned over the table with an air of casual ruthlessness. “We couldn't trace it. He's too smart,” he said, circling their next target. “He wanted to distract us by setting fire to the factory...”

Agastya Qureshi was like a viper, the best strategist, he was aware of the enemy's slightest movement.

“Pehle hamare aadmiyon par goli chalana, maal mein milawat aur abb factory mein aag lagana.” (First the open firing on our men, then tampering with our goods and now setting fire to the factory.)

Zaviyar turned suddenly, his stare pinning Waqas in place. His voice thundered with authority, sharp as a blade and cold as steel. One mistake—just one—and Waqas wouldn’t live to regret it. He will have to kiss his wife goodbye. Will he even get the chance to do that?

Waqas biwi paglu hain gaiz 😔  anyways star button click kardena please!

Waqas’s lips quivered. He knew the look in Zaviyar’s eyes all too well. He’d seen men disappear after receiving it.

“Mujhe chaubees ghante mein uss aadmi ka naam chahiye, Waqas. Varna main tumhe kisika naam lene ke laayak bhi nahi chhodunga.” (I want that man’s name in 24 hours, Waqas. Or I’ll make sure you’re not even fit to utter another.)

Agastya chuckled under his breath, amused by Zaviyar’s theatrics. He knew his friend too well. Zaviyar didn’t make empty threats. Either you got the job done, or you ended up six feet under. He cared enough to not kill Waqas but not enough to not actually shoot him to remind him of his duties. Maybe Waqas should start writing his will.

“Kal se elections hain. Aur tu yaha vakt barbaad kar raha hain?” ( The elections start tomorrow and you are wasting your time here? )

Agastya drawled, flashing a sadistic grin as he pushed back his hair. Blood still clung to his fingers—fresh, red proof of the violence he’d administered minutes ago.

“Suna hain teri shaadi ki date pakki hogayi hain? Aur tu idhar time waste karrha hain?” (Heard your wedding date’s been fixed? And here you are wasting time?) he added, teasing him further.

Zaviyar’s only response was the click of a gun. In the blink of an eye, the barrel was pressed to the back of Agastya’s head.

Agastya smirked, unfazed. “Soch le, teri behen ka hone wala shohar hoon. Uss bechari ko bewa kyun bana raha hai?” (Think about it—I'm your sister’s would-be husband. Why are you so eager to make her a widow?)

For a fleeting second, Agastya's smile softened at the thought of her. His butterfly! His Isha!

“Hone wala... bana nahi hai ab tak. Aur usse door rehna. Woh abhi chhoti hai.” (Would-be... not yet. And stay away from her. She's still young.)

Zaviyar’s jaw tightened. The very idea of his friend being with his sister turned his stomach. Agastya, however, wore his disappointment like a wounded child who'd just lost his favorite candy.

"Jaanta hoon... lekin hai toh meri hi na! Aur tu touh ese bol rha hain jese das saal ki bachchi hain." (I know... but she is mine, isn’t she? And you're speaking as if I'm marrying a ten year old.)

Zaviyar scoffed. “Tu kyu bhool jaata hain ki woh tujhe bilkul pasand nhi karti.” (Why do you always forget that she doesn't like you at all.)

Agastya merely shrugged, “Na karein... Shaadi touh mujhse hee karegi. Nafrat se ya pyaar se!” (She doesn't need to... she will marry me—whether out of hate or love!)

Zaviyar watched with veiled disgust as Agastya casually selected his next tool of torment from a rack of brutal instruments. He knew Agastya’s methods—cruel, unorthodox, and disturbingly effective. He’d never supported them, but blood ties and family honor kept them bound.

He recalled being just twenty when his grandfather expressed his dying wish—to see the Qureshis and Khans united by marriage. But his grandfather was dead now. And his sister was alive. She wasn’t a pawn, and Zaviyar refused to let her be treated like one.

His grandfather’s wishes were buried with him. His sister’s life, however, had just begun.

“Uska bhai abhi bhi zinda hai.” (Her brother is still alive.)

“Toh maine kab kaha chal basa?”
(Did I ever say he was dead?) Agastya replied, eyes glinting with madness as he admired his chosen weapon.

“I will not go against Khwaish's will. Until she gives her consent you are no one to her. Get that into your head and stop lusting over my sister. I have six bullets in my gun and I won't hesitate to empty them all into your body.”

"Pasand woh bhi karti hai, bas pagli sharmati bohot hai."
(She likes me too... the silly girl’s just too shy to admit it.)

Agastya could feel the burn of Zaviyar’s stare drilling into the back of his skull. He turned slowly, confirming the death glare aimed his way. Anyone else would be dead by now, but Agastya—well, he was the exception. He always had been.

“You never know what the future holds. As for the traditions, I don’t care much about any of them. Do you really think I care about nikah or any other fucking ritual? If I wanted, she would be with me right now—and you know that. I respect her wishes and her family. I'm tolerating you all for her...”

Every word that left his mouth was laced with an unsettling blend of possessiveness and veiled menace—like a velvet glove hiding the strike of an iron fist. His tone was calm, almost gentle, but beneath it simmered a warning that chilled the air around him.

“Ab rona band kar aur nikal, ghur kya rha hain beh. Achcha ruk...” (Stop whining and leave. Why are you still staring? Wait—) Agastya cleared his throat, and delivered the next few words with a sarcastic humour.

“Nawab sahab, aap apne naazuk shehzadi jaise paon ko zara bhi takleef na dein — yahan se tashreef le jaiye. Mujhe in haramiyon ko seedha jahannum ke VIP tour par bhejna hai, aur mujhe nihayat afsos ke saath arz karna pad raha hai ke aapki paakiza aankhein yeh khoon-kharaba bardasht nahi kar sakein gi.”
(Nawab sir, please don’t trouble your delicate, princess-like feet — kindly take your leave from here. I have to send these bastards on a direct VIP tour to hell, and with the deepest regret, I must inform you that your pure, sacred eyes won’t be able to bear the sight of this bloodshed.)

Zaviyar shot him a look of utter disgust. Agastya’s theatrics and mock-poetry never failed to get on his nerves, even more so when they were laced in sarcasm.

“Once you win this election, Zeharix is over. I want him and his existence wiped out. They have to pay for their deeds and meddling with our business. Atharv is handling the Bratva.”

Agastya nodded with a devilish smirk. The assignment was dangerous. Just the way he liked it. Zaviyar, for now, had to play clean and focus on village politics. He never liked getting his hands dirty. But he was a master at commanding others to.

As he turned to leave, Zaviyar took one last glance at the broken man in the chair.

“ Meri jaan ka khayal rakhna, usse kaaju kishmish khilana. Mujhe meri hone wali biwi tandurust dikhni chahiye." (Just take care of my darling... feed her cashews and raisins. I want my future wife to look healthy.) Agastya grinned, ready to resume his work.

In the far corner, Waqas was whispering frantic apologies over the phone, trying to calm his wife. Again. Agastya chuckled as he caught sight of Waqas’s miserable expression. The poor man looked ready to cry. His little butterfly, though visibly frightened, never failed to put up a brave front—always trying to challenge him, even if her voice trembled while doing so.

Zaviyar gave Agastya a curt wave, entrusting him with the responsibility at hand. Zaviyar didn’t look back again. He had more pressing matters to attend to. The latest one?

An impending engagement to the daughter of a wealthy oil magnate—an arrangement he had neither asked for nor approved of. With a heavy sigh, he glanced down at his phone. Her name flashed on the screen for the fifth time today.
He declined the call without a second thought.

His phone buzzed. Her name lit up the screen—again.

Correction! Sixth...

He sighed heavily. Relationships were never his thing, especially not arranged ones. The mere thought of being tied down to a stranger repulsed him. He didn’t even like phone conversations, let alone a lifetime commitment. Zaviyar was never one for phone conversations. Two minutes was his limit—anything beyond that felt like torture. The thought of holding a long-winded, sugary exchange made his skin crawl.

He needed to sever the strings of this so-called engagement before they tangled him into a commitment he couldn’t escape. The mere idea of being bound to someone out of duty—without emotion, without choice—felt suffocating.

This had to end. Fast.

But little did Zaviyar know...

While he was busy planning his escape—someone else had already penned the script of his destiny.

And this story... was far from over.

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The sharp wind of the night howled through the darkness, threading itself around the towering arches of the Haveli and carrying with it the curling tendrils of cigarette smoke. Each exhale from Zaviyar’s lips dissolved into the cold air, ephemeral yet defiant. The glowing ember at the tip of the cigarette flared like a dying star—its warmth dim, but determined, the only comfort against the unforgiving bite of the winter chill.

“Beta, itni raat ko yahan?” (Son, what are you doing here this late at night?) His mother’s voice broke through the quiet, soft yet weighed with concern. She walked toward him, shawl drawn tight around her shoulders, and gently rested her hand on his. The callouses on his palm told her more than his words ever could—he had been working long, late, and alone.

Zaviyar turned slightly, lifting her hand with a reverence born from habit and love, and placed a kiss on its back. A faint smile curved her lips as she lowered her gaze and softly whispered a protective prayer, brushing away any lingering evil that dared hover near her son.

“Jee ammi, bas zameeno par kuch zyada kaam tha.” (Yes, Ammi. Just had some extra work on the lands.)
Riffat shook her head, a sigh escaping her. Her eyes, tired yet tender, lingered on his face, which bore the strain of responsibility far too heavy for a man his age.

“Beta, mein maanti hu iss gaon ko tumhari zarurat hai. Lekin apna bhi toh khayal rakha karo.” (Son, Azamgarh needs you. But take care of yourself too.) She cupped his cheek, the warmth of her hand a stark contrast to the bitterness in the air. Her lips moved silently in prayer, asking God to shield him from the darkness that crept too close, too often.

“Abbu ki tabiyat kaisi hai?” (How’s Abbu’s health?) Zaviyar asked quietly, his gaze fixed ahead, though his ears hung onto her answer like a lifeline.

His mother’s face dropped in response, her shoulders dipping ever so slightly. She shook her head, the weight of worry evident in every gesture. Her fingers began to fidget—rubbing against each other as though trying to warm more than just skin. She was holding something back.

“Agar tumhari ijaazat ho toh main...” (If you allow, then I was thinking...) She hesitated, her voice trailing off like a whisper unsure of its place.

Zaviyar’s body tensed, the temperature around him seemingly dropping. He knew where this was going. She had hinted before—no, pleaded—on several occasions to bring him back. But Zaviyar had stood firm, unmoving.

He looked at his mother, who was now shrinking in front of his eyes, worn down by years of silence and sickness in the house. And though his pride throbbed like an old wound, he knew—somewhere in the void of his chest—that the time had come.

“Bula lijiye unhe. Lekin khayal rahe ki woh mujhse door rahein. Woh aadmi meri zindagi ka woh hissa hai jise main nikal kar phenk dena pasand karunga.” (Call him if you must. But make sure he stays away from me. That man is a part of my life I’d rather cut out and discard.)

His jaw clenched as he spoke, each word edged with ice. His muscles coiled with restrained fury. Even after all this time, the memories bled through—raw and vivid.

Flashback

A gunshot rang in his mind, shattering the grand hall. Screams followed. A woman—frantic, breathless, her arms wrapped around a life yet to be born—rushed down the stairs.

A single misstep. A cry.
“MAAA—”

The scream tore through the air as the boy dashed forward, helpless, just as his mother collapsed, her body meeting the cold floor with finality. Blood pooled beneath her, seeping into the cracks of the marble.

Zaviyar’s eyes flew open, his breathing ragged. He stared at his mother, now backlit by the warm yellow glow of the hallway lights, waiting patiently for his response.

“Woh yahan zaroor aaye... lekin mehmaan bankar. Dadajaan iski ijaazat kabhi nhi dete lekin mujhe mera parivaar azeez hai.” (He may step into this house… but only as a guest. If grandpa was here, he would never allow this but my family is precious to me.)

Riffat offered him a sad smile, her heart heavy with decades of unshed sorrow.

“Beta, woh hamara parivaar hi toh hai.” (Son, he is still family.)

“Aapka.” (Yours.)

His reply came like a blade. He stepped away, a storm brewing behind his calm facade. She flinched—not at the words, but at the finality in his tone.

“Kyuki mera unse koi talluq nahi hai. Unka jeena ya marna mere liye koi ehmiyat nahi rakhta.” (Because I have no connection with him. His life or death means nothing to me.)

He closed his eyes again, but the darkness only brought back the vision. He had buried those wounds deep, stitched them with rage and discipline. But now, they pulsed open again—bleeding, burning.

“Pachis saal pehle jo bhi hua... woh ek haadsa tha.” (What happened twenty-five years ago... it was an accident.)

His mother’s whisper cracked, and she wiped a tear away with trembling fingers. She had hoped time would erode the past, but Zaviyar's hatred had only grown sharper, like a knife whetted daily on grief.

“Aisa haadsa jo meri haqeeqat ban gaya. Jismein main abhi bhi jee raha hoon.” (An accident that became my reality—one I’m still trapped in.) His voice was low, almost reverent, like a man reciting the prayer of his own undoing. He had become the Nawab of Azamgarh—not by legacy, but by surviving what would’ve broken another man.

He was feared. Respected. The whisper of his name could halt an enemy's breath or bring hope to the poor. He was both sword and shield.

“Woh iss khandaan ko bhool sakte hain, lekin yeh khandaan unka dhokha kabhi nahi bhool payega, Ammi.” (He may forget this family, Ammi. But this family will never forget his betrayal.)

Riffat looked at her son one final time, her heart breaking silently. She turned without another word but paused at the threshold to squeeze his shoulder—a silent plea to the little boy still hidden beneath the steel exterior.

“Khana kha lena beta...” (Eat something, my child...)

He didn’t reply. He only watched her silhouette fade into the long corridor’s darkness, the rustle of her dupatta the last whisper of comfort.

Turning his eyes back to the village, bathed in silver moonlight, he stood in silence. That’s when he noticed it—the dried smear of blood across his knuckle. He wiped it with a handkerchief, but even that gesture couldn’t cleanse what had already stained his soul.

And then, like poison seeping through his mind, the voice returned.

“Tum aur tumhara khandaan, dono dhool ban jaayenge, Zaviyar. Yeh kissa pachis saal pehle shuru hua tha... lekin anjaam bohot jald milega.” (You and your family will be reduced to dust, Zaviyar. This story began twenty-five years ago... but it will end soon.)

The fury inside him roared to life. His vision blurred with red as his hands curled into fists. He lunged forward and drove his knuckles into the nearest glass table, shattering it. Blood poured from his hand—warm, furious, alive.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing crimson across his jaw. A twisted, satisfied smile crept onto his face.

"Yahan sirf meri hukumat hai—main tay karta hoon kaun saans lega. Aur jo is baat par sawal uthaye, usse yahin zinda dafna diya jaayega… uski cheekhein meri takht ke neeche ki mitti mein sama jaayengi.”
( I don’t just rule here—I decide who breathes. And anyone who dares question that won’t just be buried here… they’ll be buried alive, with their screams feeding the soil beneath my throne.)

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Total words : 4200

So they finally meet in the next chapter. Yes the first two chapters were not really that exciting just character intro. 

Sorry if it was boring I'm trying my best. Also about the dialogues. Idk should I just write in english? 🧍

How did y'all like Agastya's character?

Silent readers atleast try to drop a heart in the comments and vote.

One fights for the law
&
One makes the law

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