“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.”