At the end of the walkway stood guards in silver chainmail. Their eyes nervously darted around the man Nala followed. Truth be told, Acharya Parshuram was nothing to look at. Somewhat unusual, considering he was a Namin carrying a weapon, but Nala had often seen travelling mendicants and ascetics carrying a blade or two while crossing treacherous routes through the forests. Some of the godless goons who lived there did not share the same reverence for their sanctity as cityfolk did. But Parshuram might have had three serpent heads for the way the armed guards shrank back from him.

‘Acharya Parshuram,’ the leader of the guards murmured.

Spears rattled to the ground as they all bent the knee. Acharya Parshuram… the name travelled through the ranks of guards in waves. Nala saw terror in their eyes. Parshuram, in a drunken haze, seemed not to see or hear. He continued walking. The guards scattered before him as if he might kill them all on a whim.

Nala saw her Master anew from the perspective of others. Dangerous, confident, fearless and powerful. A God. Or better, a Demon. But if the guards had run helter-skelter in face of Parshuram, the soldiers by the door stood unfazed.

Standing motionless on either side of the main door was the Iron Order, the Seven Guards of the Saptarishi, visored and in full glittering armour. Parshuram had told her of them last night. They were said to be the finest swords in all the realm. They took no spouses, had no children, and lived only to serve the Saptarishis.

‘Acharya Balthazar,’ Parshuram said in muted acknowledgement, removing his battle axe, twin daggers, the darts strapped to his rosaries, and a number of vials from his gunny sack.

Acharya Balthazar said nothing but began patting down Parshuram rather vigorously. A female guard of the Iron Order did the same to Nala.

‘Is this really necessary? You know that if I wanted to kill anyone in there, I could do it with or without weapons.’

Balthazar flushed. ‘Why don’t you shove…’

‘What Acharya Balthazar means is…’ another soldier, presumably the Chief of the Iron Order, hastily pitched in, ‘that why don’t you pretend not to be a danger to us, and we’ll pretend that we were the reason.’

‘What about the whelp?’ Balthazar asked. ‘An ugly little thing. What are these white streaks on your face?’

‘It is Kilas!’ Nala said, incensed. She had been teased all her life because of the vitiligo that spread on her face like streets on a map, but the way Balthazar said it made her feel like a filthy thing.

‘She is my apprentice,’ said Parshuram.

Everyone’s attention swung sharply to Nala. Balthazar approached and raised her chin.

‘You haven’t taken one since…’

‘Failknot, yes.’

‘Quite an end for that one,’ Balthazar said with a sneer. ‘Really tragic what you did to him. But then, he knew what he was getting into.’