The air in the study hung thick, spiced with cedar and the faint, metallic scent of anticipation. Mahogany panels absorbed the dim light filtering from the single, high window, casting long, severe shadows across the antique Persian rug. Arpita knelt precisely in the center of the room, spine straight, chin tucked low, her hands clasped loosely behind her back. She wore only the heavy silver collar Avyaan had fastened around her throat that morning, its cool weight a constant, comforting pressure against her carotid artery.
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