I woke to the stench of rot in the cage.
My back burned where the brand had seared me. A copper sigil, shaped like a twisted wheel, was now part of my flesh. The fever made it throb like it was alive, breathing through my skin.
My tongue was cracked. My limbs trembled.
I tried to sit up but collapsed again into damp straw. Around me—flies, broken baskets, the sour leftovers of spoiled jackfruit and tea dust. I lay near Thekkady's spice market, dumped like trash, just behind the stone wall where merchants tossed what didn't sell.
"Water…" I croaked.
My voice barely reached my own ears. I tried again, louder this time.
"Water… please…"
A pair of sandaled feet stopped beside me. Robes fluttered. I turned my head.
Three men stood above me—faces shaded by turbans, lean and alert. One of them wore a sash embroidered with palm leaves: a slave scout. His eyes were hard, like polished stone.
Another man, broader in the shoulders, bent down. He held a small wooden rod, carved with yantras. It glowed faintly as he pressed it to my chest.
"Prāṇa-darśana yantra," he muttered the magic word.
The rune flickered, pale and weak. His lip curled.
"Low vitality. No chakra flow."
"Malnourished," said the third, flicking a tea stem off his robe. "Likely disease-prone. Not worth the branding cost."
They looked at each other. Shrugged.
"Dump him with the chaff. Or sell him to the corpse-cleaners at Aluva. Maybe he'll fetch something as a sweeper."
"No one buys walking fever," the scout replied. "Even pigs avoid rot."
They turned to go.
"Please…" I whispered. "I'm not sick. I'm… strong. I can…"
I reached for one of their robes.
He kicked my hand away without looking. The motion was clean. Like brushing away a leaf. I heard the crunch of my knuckles against stone.
They walked off.
I lay still. I don't know how long.
A few paces away, two women—market sweepers—stood behind a spice stall.
"Poor thing," one whispered. "Just a boy."
Her companion scoffed. "He's marked. Property now. No use feeling sorry for cattle."
"He still bleeds like us."
The other shook her head. "Not for long."
I forced myself upright. My body screamed. My vision pulsed.
I crawled to the shade of an old pepper tree, where no one would trip over me by accident. A monkey stared at me from the branches, eyes full of judgment.
I pressed my palm to the burn on my back. Still hot. Still raw.
Narayan's face came to mind. That easy smile. The stale rice in his hand. The lies.
"You ate my rice. That was your price."
I bit my lip until it bled.
I looked around. The world moved on. Merchants shouted. Children ran. Traders haggled. No one saw me.
I was invisible.
But I remembered what Amma had said before the flames took her:
"You're fast. You're clever. And you are not Mannan by blood—but live as one."
I wasn't sure what I was anymore.
But I wasn't done.
I clenched my fist around the metal talisman still hanging from my neck. Cool. Solid. Real.
If no one would see me, I would become the shadow they feared in their sleep.
From the dirt heap, I stood. Unsteady. Starving.
But alive.
And still remembering.