Garuda stooped and took Vinata’s much smaller hands in his talon-tipped ones. Over his shoulder, he roared, “None of you are equal even to the ground this magnificent lady treads upon. Because of you, she cannot forget the horrors inflicted upon her during her years of unwarranted servitude.”

Venkat staggered backward from the might of Garuda’s voice. It was formidable enough to rend the skies themselves, as befit the creature who had once served as Lord Vishnu’s mount. Vinata smirked.

“Now, Venkat,” Garuda boomed, his words like a series of thunderclaps, “let us invoke our revisioning. Open your heart to justice.”

“No.” Venkat stared at the stranger who had left him completely scale-stripped. Garuda had even swindled him out of the person he’d loved and trusted—Nayan. And Venkat had gladly helped him pull off his schemes. “No, I won’t.”

“Ah, but you will.” Garuda released his mother. “We are holding your runners captive, after all—but that is an incentive I am certain will prove unnecessary. I know that, deep in your heart, you still grieve. What if you could have those you loved and lost returned to you?”

“Jai’s gone,” Venkat said, not caring how sullen it sounded. “Or do you mean Tanvi?”

He glared at Garuda through a film of shock and tears. All their conversations, all their years of collaboration, all the riverfront dinners and strolls and gifts of home and position—even Nayan’s praise and Venkat’s pride—had been a lie.

There had never been a Nayan.

Garuda only laughed. “Think in greater terms, Venkat. You are a dreamsmith!” He indicated the tapestry. “There is power enough in what you have forged to restore your family to life. Their deaths would be but a bad dream, swift to fade upon waking.”

Venkat opened his mouth, but nothing came out. “What?” he said at last, stupidly.

“When you first came into my care, you entreated me to help you. To revive your family.” Garuda patted Venkat’s shoulder, the touch surprisingly light. “I could not think of a greater gift to bestow upon you than providing you the tools to make that so. Death, too, need only be a story one revises in favor of a better outcome.”

“I—” Venkat scrambled for the nearest chair. He had to sit down. “I don’t understand.”

That wasn’t true, but it was as close as he could get to expressing the experience of having his grasp of reality blasted apart.

“What is it that you want from us, Garuda?” a baritone voice rumbled. “Call off your minions, so that we may parley.”