By the fourteenth day of the month, the city of Svarṇapatha had taken on the glow of a land preparing to meet history.
Carpenters strung banners of peacock blue and marigold across the city gates. Minstrels rehearsed songs in Odia, some newly penned to honor the foreign prince who came not as conqueror, but as guest. Streets were swept thrice a day; even the stone elephants near the eastern fort walls were painted anew.
But within the palace, anticipation carried an edge sharper than any blade.
Revati watched the courtyard from the carved lattice window of the eastern tower. She saw the guards drilling in formation—an honor guard dressed in silver-plated armor with the Ugra-Vira emblem of the empire's lion-and-trident. Musicians tuned their veenas. Maids arranged trays of jaggery sweets, sandalwood garlands, and white rosewater.
"They say he rides under a dragon banner," murmured one maid, carefully placing scented oil on Revati's wrists.
"And that his eyes are like winter lakes—silent, unmoving," said another.
Revati remained quiet. Her thoughts had drifted far from speculation. She had spent the past weeks immersed in Chinese poetry, trying to decipher not just their symbols, but their soul. She had studied the works of Du Fu and Li Bai, listened to her tutors speak of Confucian laws and Daoist dreams. And yet she felt as though she was grasping at clouds—beautiful, but intangible.
"You may dress like them," her mother had said gently, "but wear your truth like armour underneath."
The city gates thundered open by midmorning. Horns sounded from the watchtowers as the foreign delegation rode in with practiced grace. Their banners, deep crimson with black silk dragons, shimmered in the heat. Soldiers marched in silence, their discipline unlike anything the people of Svarṇapatha had seen. Behind them came carriages—some lacquered in jade green, others starkly white. Horses adorned in red silk clattered down the stone path. The people watched, hushed.
But it was the final rider who drew every eye.
Prince Shen Liwei.
He wore a deep indigo robe threaded with silver waves. His hair, long and bound in a high knot, shimmered with the ornament of a crescent moon. His face was unreadable—calm as still water—but his gaze was not cold. It was calculating, assessing… alive.
Revati watched him approach from the palace tower. Their eyes did not meet. Not yet.
But a flicker passed through her chest.
Not fear.
Not admiration.
Recognition.
Like two stars aligned across lifetimes.