"You have honored your ancestors. I see the discipline of the sect still lives within you."
The disciples exhaled in relief, their eyes sparkling with pride.
Sura, in embroidered robes, rushed forward and bowed deeply. "Elder, please… this way. Your throne has been prepared. The celebration is awaiting your blessing."
As Vikram Das walked, dancers twirled beside the golden-lit stage, their bodies clothed in silken veils. Sitar music filled the air. Aromatic smoke from incense floated like mist around them. Waiters carried trays of spirit wine and rare beast meat. Along one side of the hall, heads of prominent business families stood dressed in ceremonial wear, nervously eyeing the lion-masked figure.
No one—not even the sharp-eyed Prathap Rajput, the iron-fisted patriarch of the Rajput family—could discern Vikram's true identity.
The lion mask had become a myth the moment it appeared.
