The man on the other side of the door was smaller than his voice had suggested, stooped with age, wrapped in a plain undyed robe that marked him as neither soldier nor courtier, carrying a walking staff he clearly didn't need for balance so much as for the deliberate, unhurried rhythm it let him keep. His eyes, when Rama opened the door fully, were sharp in a way age hadn't dulled at all, moving once over Rama's face, once over Sekar's, and lingering, just slightly too long, on the doorway behind them where their daughter still slept.
"Empu Wirasena," he said, offering the name the way a man offers a key rather than an introduction. "I imagine you've already heard mine. Soldiers gossip worse than washerwomen, and I've made a habit of being gossiped about for some months now."
