The polished marble of the Jaipur palace foyer felt cool beneath Mahira's bare feet, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from the two men flanking her. Ranvijay, regal even in his casual silk kurta, adjusted the heavy gold signet ring on his finger, his shadow stretching long across the inlaid pietra dura. Vidyut, ever the more restless of the two, paced a tight circuit, his boots clicking a sharp rhythm against the stone.
"Mahira," Ranvijay's voice was a low cello note, vibrating with restrained displeasure, "You spoke of this... this Rhys again."
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