The last aahuti had turned the courtyard into a storm of chanting and flames - and when the sacred fire died down, the people parted like an ocean, their heads bowed, their voices trembling with chants of his name.

Abhimaan stepped forward - blood on his palm from Eisha's cut, the scent of smoke still clinging to his skin. He mounted the marble steps of the throne - each step a promise carved into stone. Behind him, Eisha stood - her hand still wrapped in white cloth, her eyes fixed on him, unblinking, unyielding.