A brief, half-hearted scuffle followed, more a shoving match fueled by adrenaline than a coordinated attack. A sharp gunshot pierced the air, triggering a fresh wave of panicked shouts and colorful curses.

Yet, despite everything, a strange lethargy had settled over the protestors. Even the HAVA activists, in their flowing white garments, appeared to have lost interest in antagonizing Shwaan. The initial hostility towards Hiya and Vikram had also evaporated, replaced by a wary disquiet.

Cautiously, Shwaan circled the scene. Having narrowly evaded the sifblade, he wasn’t about to turn his back on this mob again. Not without ensuring there was no remaining danger. Plus, if he could recover the sifblade without putting the children at risk, he wanted to do so.

Before a minute had passed, he cautiously dipped lower, eyes scanning the ground for the sifblade. A few of the protestors swiped at him with their placards, or with whatever makeshift weapons they happened to have on hand. But the attacks were perfunctory, almost half-hearted. Shwaan evaded their clumsy swings with practiced agility, making sure to keep Vikram and the children out of harm’s way.

It wasn’t long before he spotted the sifblade – a sliver of metal glinting amidst the mass of muddy footwear.

Shwaan descended further, intent on retrieving the weapon.

As the mob deciphered his intention, two white-clad HAVA cultists lunged for the sifblade simultaneously.

A brief struggle ensued. With his hands occupied, Shwaan unleashed a sequence of swift, graceful kicks to fend off his attackers. They fought back, trying in vain to reach the sifblade, which was their only hope of overpowering Shwaan.

Until a jarringly cheerful ringtone pierced the air, momentarily distracting everyone in the vicinity.

Shwaan seized the unexpected advantage, swiftly incapacitating both the cultists – as a popular girl band harmonized gleefully in the background about grinding your enemies into dust.

Well, if ever there was a fitting soundtrack…

As one of the defeated cultists crumpled to the ground, his phone tumbled out of his pocket, landing beside the sifblade. Chirpy music continued to blare from its speakers. But it was the glowing screen that drew Shwaan’s attention.

“The phone,” Vikram yelled in his ear, struggling in Shwaan’s hold to try and reach the device. “Grab the phone.”

Shwaan's brows knitted together as he focused on the caller ID. Displayed was the picture of a woman in her early thirties, along with a name.

He racked his brains, but came up empty. He recognized neither the photo nor the name. But Vikram clearly did.

Obligingly, he moved closer to the phone, which had finally stopped ringing. Allowing Vikram to grab it.

At that moment, another white-clad man lunged at them, having pushed his way through the crowd.

The last thing Shwaan needed was to involve himself in another fight. Every additional second he remained here amplified the risk to the children’s lives.

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Realizing he wouldn't have time to retrieve both the phone and the sifblade, he made a quick decision. With a few powerful beats of his wings, he ascended rapidly. Narrowly dodging the new attacker.

Once they were safely out of striking range, he spared the sifblade only a single wistful glance, before tearing through the air to make his escape.

It took them exactly seven minutes to fly halfway across the city to Ruban’s flat.

Shwaan knew this because Vikram told him so, his voice grave, as if relaying mission-critical information.

Shwaan blinked at him, unsure how to respond.

Vikram blinked back.

The situation wasn’t helped by the fact that they were practically nose to nose, Vikram’s arms encircling Shwaan’s waist to firmly grip both the children on his other side. Making doubly sure they wouldn’t fall off accidentally.

Entering the flat through the kitchen window, Shwaan set Vikram down. Then Sri.

And finally Hiya, who’d spent the flight with her legs wrapped securely around his hip, hopped off.

The noise of their arrival woke Ruban. Moments later, he staggered into the kitchen, his hair a mess and eyes barely open.

“You shouldn’t be moving around,” Shwaan admonished.

Always proactive, Hiya darted over to shove him into the nearest chair.

Ruban grunted, absently rubbing his bandaged torso. The gash at his waist, inflicted by Viman Rai, had apparently been more serious than they’d first imagined. Consequently, he’d spent the past week-and-a-half recuperating in his apartment, attended to by Hiya and Shwaan.

“What took you so long?” Ruban asked irritably, accepting the glass of water Shwaan offered. “And how many times do I have to tell you not to climb in through the windows like some feathery cat-burglar?” he glared. “Didn’t your sister teach you any manners before pawning you off on us?”

Shwaan rolled his eyes. But before he could respond, Vikram spoke up. “We got stranded at one of the HAVA rallies. It was my fault. I should’ve known better than to take them to the mall after school, given the current political climate. But Hiya’s been stuck at home worrying about you these last few days, so I thought it might help to—”

“There’s nothing ‘political’ about what HAVA’s doing,” Ruban scoffed, putting the glass down with a clang. “It’s good old populist thuggery. Using Viman Rai’s name to legitimize bullying and intimidation.”

Viman Rai’s death in Vaan had ignited a firestorm of protests across the country. Needless to say, HAVA had capitalized on the opportunity, orchestrating massive rallies to condemn Vaan, while all but deifying Viman.

It was at one of these rallies that Vikram found himself stranded earlier that afternoon, while accompanying Sri and Hiya back from school. He hadn’t been aware that a rally was about to take place at the time. Since, true to form, HAVA had neither informed anybody nor sought permission for the gathering, aiming primarily to wreak as much havoc as possible.

In truth, Viman’s death was a godsend for the Humans Against Vaan Alliance. Their popularity had been waning steadily, if slowly, over the last six months.

As Ashwin’s prominence grew, so did public acceptance of the alliance with Vaan. With every passing month, fewer people were willing to openly endorse a violent cult like HAVA, known for its brutal lynchings and other such unsavory tactics.

And then, Viman Rai had gotten himself killed.

Making excellent use of public sympathy for the renowned journalist, they’d successfully reversed this trajectory of slow decline. Viman was remade into a martyr – his death a glorious sacrifice on the altar of humanity’s independence. A rallying cry in HAVA’s reignited campaign against the Vaan alliance.

More recently, they’d begun vilifying Ruban. Holding him responsible for Viman’s death, since he’d shielded Safaa from the latter’s assassination attempt.

Conveniently overlooking the fact that Viman would’ve died even if he’d succeeded in killing Safaa. Hell, his fate would almost certainly have been worse, left to the tender mercies of Safaa’s vengeful court. The crew that accompanied him to Vaan, in all probability, would’ve perished alongside him.

For his part, Shwaan was accused of luring Viman to the Luminous Realms with the sole intention of killing him.

Did this mean he’d knowingly used Safaa as bait? What would be the purpose of this convoluted plot, putting the Aeriel queen’s life at risk to dispose of a single troublesome reporter?

Who knew?

Certainly not HAVA.

They displayed no interest in clarifying their allegations. Which was just as well, since their followers displayed no interest in seeking any clarification.