Chandni was seated at the center, her veil drawn low but her form glowing beneath silks that clung to every curve. Around her, the circle of elders and family had tightened — not as spectators now, but as participants in something older than words.

The eldest matriarch rose first, sprinkling drops of rosewater across Chandni’s forehead and chest to her pussy hole, whispering blessings of fertility and surrender. The women hummed a low chant — a sound that seemed to vibrate through the bones, into the skin.