The first frost was a silver whisper on the grass when Ishin received word. A dispute over grazing rights in the neighboring valley of Sundargarh had flared, threatening to spill into their own pastures. As headman, his presence was required for talks—a week of negotiation, feasting, and diplomacy.

On the morning of his departure, he did not lead Urvashi back to their home after seeing him off at the gate. Instead, his hand firm on her elbow, he guided her down a winding path to a cottage nestled among tall deodar trees. The air smelled of fresh-cut wood and pine resin. This was the home of Nishant, the master woodcarver.