"Viswa, If you dare to touch my son I swear in the name of Spirit, I will break my Oath and behead you. " The angry voice of Oman thundered in the symposium, startling the apprentices and smiths so much that several of them fell from their chairs. Ashen-faced, they all turned to look towards the gate.
The lord of Minaak stood there, his eyes reddish-gold. The spirit was dancing around him, forming small vortexes.
An invisible pressure was guessing out of him, making it hard to breathe. They knew it was just a subconscious reaction of the maharathi. It was still too much for them to bear. They hadn't had sturdy bodies like him.
Oman's eyes swept past the scared crowd and stopped at the 13-year old boy, sitting on his butt, eyes widened in awe, mouth agape as if he had swallowed a whole laddu ( a spherical sweet).
Apart from his pale face and tired look, he seemed fine.
