The river wore a ribbon of smoke where oars had cut the air; the morning sun did not yet dare fully to claim the water. On the Ghazi vessel the hold was a hollow that smelled of tar and ink and the quiet of decisions. Men spoke in low voices, counting the cost of proofs and promises; on Rathore decks, hearts beat against breastplates like small, anxious drums. Between the two floats a third presence—the flag on the ridge, unknown and serrated—was a question with teeth.