The winter mist had settled over the pines of Manali, turning the outdoor wedding courtyard into something resembling an ancient mountain fortress wrapped in clouds. Above, the sky was a deep, velvet indigo; below, the garden was alive with the roaring, crackling warmth of fire braziers and the amber glow of a hundred fairy lights. At the center of it all stood the mandap—a magnificent canopy of dark, weathered wood entirely draped in local marigolds and white orchids, its sacred fire already spitting woodsmoke into the crisp, biting air.

Vedant Rana stood near the edge of the sacrificial hearth, the high collar of his deep ivory sherwani giving him the silhouette of an absolute ruler. He looked calm, but his fingers occasionally adjusted the heavy silk cuff of his sleeve—the only tell of his simmering impatience.