But before Dimvak could move, there was a flutter of cloaks and the sound of feet moving quickly.

‘Your Worship!’

From the corner of a bloodshot eye, Karna saw three blurry figures in the doorway, dressed in identical grey robes, a black patch over their left eyes.

‘I trust you have good reason to disturb me thus.’

His acolytes shrank under his searing gaze. ‘Your Worship, we have just received news from our spies in the North. It appears the Greek Kalyavan has marched on Mathura, alone. Hastina has sent soldiers to aid Mathura. There are rumours of airavats from the East…’

‘Fuck!’ Dimvak remarked eloquently.

‘Does the Emperor know?’

‘Not yet, Your Worship.’

‘Dimvak, with me.’ Jhestal sprang out of the cell without a word, leaving Karna bleeding and burnt.

His men left after dousing the torches. Karna noticed they had forgotten to shut the door tight, leaving a faint trickle of light to mar the cell’s gloom. The crack in the door funnelled in cold air and Karna soon grew cold as ice. Every painful breath sent a fresh stab of pain through him.

He heard a soft scuffling of feet on stone. His head jerked up, fearing Jhestal had returned. But the sound did not come from outside. He glimpsed movement from the corner of his eye and tried to look behind him, but all he could see was a spray of ice particles glittering in the door-light. And then a girl emerged from the pool of darkness, dressed in a ragged robe. She was no more than eleven or twelve, but her face was a web of scars. Another figure rose behind her. A dark skinned boy…or a girl, he could not tell. The scarred girl quickly walked up to him and removed the rag from his mouth.

It was then that Karna saw him.

The towering figure walked towards him, still shrouded in shadow, clutching a battle axe in his wrinkled hands. Karna would have known him anywhere. He closed his eyes. Opened them again. ‘Acharya Parshuram.’ The words were a white mist.

The Namin set his axe down.

‘There are thousands of Magadhans outside.’

‘But none in this cell. And…does it matter?’

The scarred girl approached with a jug. He would have liked to warn her to run away, leave the monster she was apprenticed to, but this was no time for selfless advice. He was thirsty. He opened his mouth. She stood on her toes, struggling to get the spout to his mouth. He swallowed greedily, coughed, and drank more, most of the water trickling down his neck onto his chest, where they had attempted to slice the breastplate off.

‘I’ve read so much about you,’ she said, gazing at him like a long lost friend. ‘You are even more handsome than the Matron said.’

‘Masha!’ Parshuram’s voice was a whiplash. In silence, the girl retraced her steps to his side.