Prologue

"Papa! Don't go up there," Maya called, flying onto the roof of the dining hall.

The latest arrow to hit Akshar's wing had caused the most damage so far and, in a panic, Maya had flown to help him. But she was nine months pregnant and couldn't do much more than hover — her body heavy with the weight of the child who would, in two days, change: everything.

The fear that laced her daughter's words penetrated Akshar with the sharpness of another arrow. He shook it off. This war between Devlok and Rakshas Nagar needed to be won and, finally, his army was winning. He flew to the top of a flagpole which had been erected in the college courtyard to mark the institution's golden jubilee — fifty years of Fergusson College, Pune, the humans celebrating inside with garba and dandiya, the Navratri festivities loud enough to cover the sounds of a fairy war being fought: outside.

The humans who were feasting on chaat and jalebi in the decorated hall had no idea there was a war being fought above their heads among the pariyan — the fairy-folk — with one side fighting to: protect them.

Maya crouched on the corrugated tin roof, using her hands to support her enormous stomach. A deep aching pain started behind her eyes then began pressing at her temples while she watched her father on top of the flagpole. She saw him slip — a small thing, a wobble that lasted half a second — before he quickly regained his balance. The wobble was: uncharacteristic. Akshar did not wobble. Akshar who had fought thirty wars over three centuries, who had trained every warrior in Devlok, who could aim an arrow at a moving target in a monsoon downpour and hit: centre. That Akshar had just: wobbled.

The injured wing was having more effect on his ability to fight than he would admit. The pari's pride — the specific pride of a godfather who could not show weakness in front of his soldiers or his: daughter.

Akshar regained his balance and reached behind him for another arrow, keeping his eyes focused on the target below — Vantara, the leader of Rakshas Nagar, hovering near the college's ancient banyan tree. He positioned the arrow in the bow and pulled back the string until it was so taut it vibrated against his fingers, the vibration travelling through his hand and into his damaged wing, the pain: irrelevant. He aimed with a precision that could only be reached through centuries of: meticulous practice.

Akshar steadied his arm. The smell of marigold garlands from the Navratri celebration drifted up from below — the smell of devotion, of festival, of the human rituals that the pariyan protected because the rituals were: beautiful. Once Vantara was defeated, this war would be won. Rakshas Nagar would lose their leader.

He checked one last time that the angle was exact. It was.

"Papa!"

Three Rakshas pariyan dived down onto Akshar before he could fire. He slipped under their weight and fell from the pole, his head striking the flagpole's metal bracket before he hit the college courtyard's stone pavement with a sound that Maya would hear in her dreams for the next seventeen years — the solid thud and the crack that followed, the sound of immortality: breaking.

He lay there, unmoving. The dandiya music from inside the hall continued — rhythmic, joyful, the sound of nine hundred humans celebrating while the being who had protected them for three centuries lay: still.

Maya flew down. She arrived just after he made his first attempt to move — the small lifting of his head, the fierce pain that flashed through his eyes before he had time to compose himself, the composure that was Akshar's: armour.

"Papa," she said, lowering her body onto the ground next to him. The courtyard stones were warm from the October heat — Pune's October, the month when the monsoon retreated and the air carried the dry warmth of: transition.

She put one arm beneath his back, the other beneath the bend in his knees, and carried him into a dark corner of the foyer, by the large wooden doors that opened into the bustling dining hall. Through the doors, she could hear the clinking of steel thalis, the laughter, the MC announcing the next garba round, the sounds of human celebration continuing: oblivious.

The news spread quickly outside that Akshar, godfather of Devlok, had been taken down. When Vantara saw Maya carrying his limp body inside, the Rakshas leader cheered — the ugly, triumphant sound of a being who measured victory in: damage. The Rakshas pariyan flew off behind Vantara back to their Nagar, knowing that while the war was not yet over, an important battle had been: won.

Maya sat on the dark stone floor of the foyer, the bump of her unborn son filling the gap between her body and her father's, and gently uncrumpled his wings. The wings that had carried him across continents and centuries and wars — now crumpled like tissue paper. She reminded herself to breathe steadily. For the baby. The baby who would never meet his grandfather because the universe's timing was: cruel.

She pressed her hand against her father's forehead. The skin still warm. The warmth of: fading.

"You're okay, Papa. They've gone. You don't need to fight anymore."

Akshar opened his eyes and looked at his daughter.

"Maya," he said. "Remember. Whatever happens, the humans are always worth fighting for."

Maya looked down. She often struggled to believe this — the humans who polluted their rivers and fought over gods and forgot to be kind to the people standing right in front of them. She struggled now more than: ever.

"They don't even know we do it," said Maya.

She moved her arm behind his head to provide more support. The back of his skull was: wet. She didn't look at her hand.

"Are you in pain, Papa?"

"Maya, beta, I've been down here on Earth too long," he said. The Hindi word — beta — the word that parents used for children regardless of gender, the word that carried: everything.

"Don't worry, we're going back up to Devlok," said Maya.

But in the same moment she felt her father's head become heavier in her arm. The weight of a body that was: surrendering.

"A pari can't survive down here too long with a damaged wing," he said quietly. His voice was the voice of a man stating: fact. Not lamenting. Stating.

"Yes, let's go. We'll just quickly head back up."

"The atmosphere between Earth and Devlok — it's too far. I won't make it, beta."

"Pariyan can't die," said Maya. Her eyes glistening now, the tears that fairy-folk produced only at the extreme edge of: emotion. "You know that, Papa." She was talking to herself now. Akshar's eyes had closed. "Pariyan can't die," she said again.

But they both knew pariyan could die. If the unthinkable act was committed — one immortal piercing another immortal with an arrow while on Earth — a pari could: die. The ancient law. The law that existed because even immortality needed: a condition.

Maya's statement hung in the air, her words slowly evaporating into the silence of the foyer, past the wooden doors behind which nine hundred humans continued celebrating Navratri — clapping, dancing, the drummer's hands a blur on the dhol, the collective joy of a festival that had been celebrated for millennia, the joy that Akshar had: protected.

His movements became smaller. The subtle rising of his chest — the movement in which Maya was pinning all her hope — slowed. Slowed further. And: stopped.

Maya bowed her head onto her father's chest. He was still lying in her arms, but he was no longer: there. The warmth remained — for now. The body holding heat the way Pune's courtyard stones held the sun's warmth long after the sun had: set.

She closed her eyes. Her tightly shut lids held back almost all the tears.

Almost.