Pride swelled in him. The sections had come together to form a three-dimensional tapestry, one forged of dream elements rather than textile and ready to be invoked, just like a real boon. It depicted sage Kashyapa and his wives outside their hut, surrounded by a thousand opalescent naga eggs and the much larger golden egg containing Garuda, marking the short-lived peace before the sisters’ rivalry would come to its destructive head.

The creek behind the hut burbled; the clouds overhead coasted lazily by. A butterfly, wings the pink-violet of a jewel-fig fresh from the palace orchards, soared through the scene.

Unlike his earlier trials, this tapestry would hold. Venkat had soldered in all the resolve he could, all his desire never to rely on dream runners again. The only thing left to do was to activate it once he and Nayan stood before the nagaraja and nagarani.

“Our wedding gift,” Nayan corrected, perusing it.

“Still think your faith in me is misplaced?” Venkat asked, unable to keep the bitterness at bay.

“I spoke in anger,” Nayan admitted, his words low and gruff, all the apology Venkat was going to get. “You have produced a masterwork. The absolute epitome of my vision; I could not ask for better.” He paused. “And yet it is not complete.”

“Not complete?” Venkat gestured at the tapestry. Even he couldn’t believe how lifelike it was. Power wafted from it in tangible waves. What could possibly be missing? “Don’t tell me; there’s a thread out of place.” He hated the snark, how it felt in his mouth and sounded in the air, but he refused to walk it back.

Nayan glanced up, and his closed-off expression yielded to affection. “We have spoken of family, yes?”

Venkat just stared at him. After everything, did Nayan really think that was appropriate?

“Though your behavior of late has tended toward the impulsive,” Nayan said, still smiling, “I have not forgotten the credit you are due. This is your day as well, Venkat. You will see.”

Venkat didn’t really need to be lauded in public by the nagaraja and nagarani, but there were worse things. Like betrayal. Looking at the tapestry he never could have created without Nayan’s guidance, he knew he had to try.

“Nayan,” he said, “I need to tell you something.”

“I am listening.”

“Madhu’s a spy. You can’t trust her.”

Nayan’s smile turned quizzical. “Forgive me, my son, but is this another of your clever stories? It must be—a suitable topic for a jest it is not. I have taught you better than that.”

“It’s not a joke,” Venkat said. “Tanvi saw her talking to a bunch of garudas in the archives.”

The second the name left his lips, he realized his mistake.

“Tanvi saw?” Nayan cocked an eyebrow. “Tanvi, who is unwell?”

“I trust her,” Venkat insisted.