The evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over Svarṇapatha. The royal palace, standing tall against the backdrop of the setting sun, seemed to pulse with the quiet rhythm of the empire's heartbeat. Inside the palace, beneath its gilded roof, life moved at a different pace. Here, decisions were not just made with the turn of a page or the scribble of a quill; they were made with the weight of generations on one's shoulders.
Revati sat in her chamber, her fingers absently tracing the edges of an ancient manuscript. The light from the oil lamps flickered, casting long shadows across the room. The words on the page blurred as her thoughts wandered, her mind heavy with the gravity of the council's discussions earlier that day.
She glanced out the window, where the sounds of the city—shouts of vendors, the laughter of children—seemed distant, muffled by the towering walls of the palace.
The emperor, her father, had summoned the inner council at dawn. Among those present were Rudra Pratap and Subhakaran, her elder brothers, and several of the kingdom's most trusted ministers, landowners, and temple dignitaries. The topic had not been revealed beforehand, yet when the hall quieted and the emperor spoke, his words stirred the air like monsoon thunder:
"The prince of Long Zhi has agreed to the terms of alliance."
The room had tensed, like a bowstring pulled taut. Even Revati, seated behind a carved screen as custom demanded, had felt her breath catch. Her eyes met Subhakaran's from across the chamber—her youngest brother, always the mirror of her emotions. His brows had furrowed slightly, not with anger, but with unease.
There was no need to name the bride. everyone knew.
Revati, princess of Svarṇapatha, was no ordinary royal. she had been groomed by her mother not in arts of flattery, but of administration, faith, and debate. yet now, even she was being prepared for a life far beyond her home, language, and sky.
She had heard whispers from the court women.
"The Chinese are cold with affection."
"Their palaces are silent, but full of watchers."
"Their daughters-in-law live behind veils of silk and command."
"Their princes—mysterious, unreadable."
She wondered, as she listened to the wind swirl beyond her balcony, what sort of man this Shen Liwei was. His letters had been gracious, poetic even, and fluent in Odia—a small, unexpected gift that had impressed the emperor deeply. yet letters could be dictated, words could lie.
Revati closed the manuscript and stood. She moved to her mirror, where incense wafted lazily and her reflection met her with calm composure.
"You are not just a daughter," she reminded herself, voice steady. "You are the bridge of empires."
The next morning, she walked through the temple halls barefoot. She had done so since childhood, when her mother had taken her to the temple of the dawn star to pray before every turning season. She stopped before the idol of Maa Tarini —eyes closed; hands clasped.
"Let my steps be light, even where the ground is unfamiliar."
"Let my heart remain Svarṇapatha's, even if I dwell in another land."
When she rose, the high priest stood waiting.
"You are the daughter of this land," he said softly. "But you are its spirit too."
That night, her mother, the empress, summoned her to her private gardens. The empress rarely spoke on politics, but tonight her words were different.
"You were not born for silk and ornaments, my jewel," she said, wrapping a shawl around Revati's shoulders. "You were born to walk into fire and emerge with the world changed behind you."
Revati didn't reply. but something in her chest—part fear, part pride—stirred awake.