Goddess Dimuka did not rise from her throne immediately. Instead, she waited and continued to regard the young asura. He looked very much like the agni asura she had loved and served long ago, and yet, he was only a shadow of Yaman. His midnight black eyes did not have the same fire, neither did his dark skin have the same aura of spiritual essence. When he spoke, it did not make her ears burn, and when he looked at her, he did not peer into her soul. This was an imposter, a pawn sent by the devious little wretch who dared to call himself the king of heaven. Tears of anguish threatened to moisten her eyes, but Dimuka expertly held them back after years of practice.