Giggling playfully, Ashwin leaned into him, pale fingers clutching at the fabric of Ruban’s dress shirt. A few strands of satiny silver hair tickled Ruban’s nostrils, for once free of the aristocratic braid that’d always been part of his highborn Zainian persona.

Ruban stiffened, trying to step away. Ashwin’s grip tightened, creasing Ruban’s newly-ironed shirt and holding him in place.

Ruban frowned.

The telltale click of a camera’s shutter – followed by a flash – made him groan.

One of the damn reporters had managed to sneak upstairs. And Ashwin, being himself, couldn’t resist the urge to perform for the camera.

“Out!” Ruban growled.

The scrawny young man didn’t need to be told twice. Clutching his oversized camera with both hands, he spun around and bolted down the corridor.

“Poor thing. You scared him.” Ashwin let go of the shirt and pressed his palm against Ruban’s chest, smoothing out the wrinkles in the fabric.

Ruban glared. “What are you doing?”

“Do I really need to spell it out for you? After all this time?” Ashwin clicked his tongue. “You’re breaking my heart, Ruban.”

With a grunt of irritation, Ruban strode forward, Ashwin trotting after him. The hell of it was, the Aeriel was right. Ruban knew exactly what he was doing, and why.

It’d taken several more meetings with the heads of different committees and ministries, but Ashwin had finally managed to convince the powers that be to declare a temporary alliance with Vaan. To last only until the lynchings could be stemmed and the cults brought under government control.

Ashwin was now the official ambassador of Vaan in Vandram. And in this role, he’d missed not a single opportunity to act like the bubbleheaded twit Ruban knew him to be, especially when faced with a camera.

Insofar as it made him appear unthreatening and pliable to the public, Ruban could understand the purpose of this act. Underneath all the public outrage and fury was a deep-seated fear of Vaan and its inhabitants. If watching the prince of Vaan on their TV screens – giggling and hanging on to Ruban’s every word – made the people of Vandram feel marginally more secure, it was worth the trouble to play along.

After much verbal scuffling, the Cabinet had agreed to Ashwin’s plan. According to the official press release that announced the alliance between Vaan and Vandram, the IAW had always been aware of Ashwin Kwan’s true identity. They had, in fact, assigned Ruban to help the prince of Vaan on his quest to thwart his own mother.

Considering Tauheen was dead within a few months of Ashwin’s arrival on earth, they’d apparently chosen the right man for the job.

The corridor came to an end, and Ruban led Ashwin down the wide marble staircase. Downstairs, reporters and photographers of all stripes had gathered in the front hall, where the press conference was to be held. Their excited murmurs mixed with the mechanical sounds of their equipment being set up. The usually stuffy air inside the IAW headquarters buzzed with anticipation.

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The polished blackwood podium stood at the front, adorned with microphones. Behind it was a long, narrow table with six chairs and the corresponding nameplates. Ruban noticed that he and Ashwin were to be seated side by side, near the center of the table.

The gathered journalists milled about, sipping tea and comparing notes with one another. The photographers busied themselves setting up their gear on the sidelines.

The hum of conversation subsided as soon as Ruban stepped into the hall with Ashwin. Without breaking stride, he headed straight for the table behind the podium. The throng of reporters parted to let them through, uncharacteristically well-behaved.

As the cameras clicked and flashed, Ruban claimed his seat at the table, followed a moment later by Ashwin.

Lohit Raizada, the IAW director, sat on his other side. Beside him, at one end of the table, sat Unnati Jha, the Chief Hunter.

The defence minister was conspicuous by his absence. In his stead, Dhriti Pathak, the senior secretary of defence, occupied the seat beside Ashwin. At the other end sat Jheel Sen, the minister of external affairs, dressed all in white and exuding an ice-cold elegance that seemed to appeal to the photographers.

Eventually, Raizada cleared his throat, leaning forward to speak into his microphone. The room fell silent. The reporters settled into their own seats, a few pulling out their phones to start recording.

After briefly introducing everyone at the table, Raizada got straight to the point. “I know each one of you has come here, this beautiful evening, prepared with a list of questions. And we have with us the one man who can give you all the answers you seek.” He shot a glance at Ashwin. “Our new ambassador.” He paused momentarily for the smattering of applause that followed. “Well, I’m sure he’ll be happy to answer all your questions and set your minds at ease. But please, do maintain order and wait for your turn, so everyone can get a chance to participate.”

Taking his cue, Ashwin rose from his seat and glided unhurriedly to the podium. His silver feather cloak rippled as he walked, captivating his audience with the interplay of light and colors on its glittering surface.

Someone in the front row inhaled sharply. A few gasps and murmurs of astonishment rippled through the crowd of journalists. An intense flurry of flashes lit up the room as the photographers sprang into action.

Having spent more than two years in close quarters with Ashwin, Ruban often forgot the effect he had on others. Particularly the first time they witnessed his true form – wide eyes gleaming silver as argent hair cascaded down his back, unfettered by the braid that usually held it in check.

His wings remained invisible, and Ruban was grateful for that small mercy.

Ashwin reached the podium and adjusted a few of the microphones, ensuring they carried his low, mellifluous voice out to the waiting crowd. “To begin with, I’d like to thank each of you for taking out time from your busy schedules to gather here this evening. I’m honored to be here,” his lips quirked into a demure half-smile. “And here’s hoping this press conference will help lay a positive foundation for the nascent alliance between our peoples.”

Several hands shot up into the air. Ashwin gestured to a slender, middle-aged man in the front row, sporting an ample (if graying) moustache. The press card attached to his shirt told Ruban he was employed by The Ragah Times.

“There have been two riots in Ragah, three more in various other parts of the country, since this alliance was announced.” The reporter glanced down at his phone. “Aside from that, multiple lynchings have been reported in various southern provinces, including Ibanta. Just this afternoon, we received news of an X-class that was lynched as far north as Kitenga Town.

“And it’s not just the cults inciting these clashes, either. Aeriel attacks had been on the rise across the country for a couple of months already, but those numbers have skyrocketed since news of the alliance came out.” He paused momentarily, letting his words sink in. “As ambassador, would you say that this alliance is serving the purpose of peace between Vaan and Vandram? Because many commentators have suggested, over the last few days, that it might be doing quite the opposite.”