By the time the second full moon of the harvest season rose, Svarṇapatha was cloaked in preparation. Lanterns were being painted with symbols of union and diplomacy. Scribes hurried with scrolls; emissaries were briefed. Yet beneath the rituals of celebration, the court moved like pieces on a grand game board—calculated, quiet, watching.
Rudra Pratap, the crown prince, was both soldier and statesman. His armour shone not just from polish but from use. At twenty-two, he had led campaigns into the tribal north and the disputed southern passes near the old eastern Chalukya border. He had won with both blade and bread—winning hearts where battles were not needed.
He held reservations about the marriage.
"We are not pawns to flatter foreign courts," he had told the emperor in private.
"And yet," replied the emperor calmly, "Revati is no pawn. She is the queen who ends the game before war begins."
Subhakaran, second in age but the empire's chief envoy, viewed things differently. He had been to Bengal, to Kosala, even to Anuradhapura by sea. He had seen foreign courts, their customs, their masks.
"If she is to rule beside a prince, better she do so with understanding than with resistance. She must learn their court, their history. We must not send a daughter—we must send a scholar."
Subhakaran, ever silent in council, stood outside politics. At only sixteen, he was more fire than form. He climbed the palace terraces at night and watched the stars, spoke to horses like they were kin, and composed songs in Odia and Telugu that sometimes reached the streets before they reached the court.
He brought Revati a note written on leaf paper that morning:
"If you must go, go with your own name. Not as theirs, but as ours."`
"And if they forget who you are, I will remind them—by fire, or verse."
Revati smiled.
Elsewhere in the court, power moved through more than just the throne. The temple council—headed by the Mahapatra of Jagannath—spoke often in riddles. They were guardians of culture, yet they held secrets older than the throne itself. Their nod was needed for anything sacred—including a marriage that symbolized a cultural bridge.
Land was also being redrawn, subtly. The nobility loyal to the emperor were offered expanded privileges in exchange for peace. The soldiers of the border forts were rotated—some sent north, some east. The treasury was refilled with tributes from the delta merchants and the salt-lords of Chilika.
And through it all, Revati prepared.
She read of Chinese dynasties—Tang, Han, and now Song. She learned their customs, court etiquette, and even how to brew their teas.
"If I am to be their queen," she said one evening to her reflection, "then I must walk among them not as a guest, but as a storm."