Krishna stood hidden in the shadows of the passageway on the other side of the room. The passageway that led to the Syamantaka at one end, and alternate exit on the other. He could see the men’s eyes shimmer with greed in the dim light of the reflected lantern as they took in the ornate hieroglyphs meticulously carved on the box. Their glee, however, turned to shock and horror when they realised it is a tomb.

‘Archon, we must leave at once!’

‘Afraid of a corpse?’ the Matarchis scoffed from behind. ‘Must be some ancestor of Kans who was buried in this crypt.’

‘The Vedans don’t bury their dead, they burn them,’ Kalyavan observed.

‘Archon...’ the man closest to the sarcophagus stuttered, ‘he…seems alive. And the grains on the sarcophagus are swirling like magic.’

Kalyavan scoffed. ‘To Mathurans, blazebane is magic. There is nothing called magic. Only mysteries to be unravelled. Open the tomb and get done with it. The Syamantaka might be inside it.’

‘But…’ the man said, ‘it is ill to disturb the dead.’

‘I thought you said he was not dead,’ Kalyavan snapped. ‘Now open it!’

The men nodded. The two carrying the woman put her down against the wall. Gabbling prayers, they used their swords and crowbars, grunting and wheezing in their effort. Finally, they pried open the lid. An angry hiss split the air. Krishna’s eyes widened as he saw tendrils of crackling icy blue smoke curl from the sarcophagus. It coiled around the Greeks, harmless but hateful.

And then something stirred in the open box. Finally! Krishna thought triumphantly. He could now only hope the Daevas had imprisoned the creature for a good reason, or he would be forced to turn to a measure of last resort. He stared impassively at the bellower in his hand.

CHASTHANA was a Matarchis, and a runt like Kalyavan. Half-breed, the Vedans called them. Fear was something unknown to runts. Yet, in that moment, he did not feel like the brave man he used to be, if it was indeed bravery and not stupidity. For the man who rose from the coffin sent ripples of fear through him. It was not as if the man, if he could be called that, had done something to earn his shivers. It was instinctive, as if the very air around him was somehow tainted.