The scent of roasting meat, cumin, and cardamom filled Ishin’s great hall. Long wooden tables groaned under the weight of platters—spiced lamb shanks falling from the bone, mountains of saffron rice studded with nuts and dried fruits, bowls of creamy dal, stacks of warm, ghee-laden roti, and clay pots of sweet, sticky jalebi. The men of the village sat on cushions along the tables, their voices a low, contented rumble of celebration. Torches flickered in iron sconces, casting dancing light over the feast and the faces of the gathered.

Beneath the longest table, in the warm, shadowed space between the benches, Urvashi knelt.