The great reception was held at dusk, beneath the golden canopy of the lotus pavilion. Stone pillars carved with flying apsaras held up the sky, and incense coils spiralled from copper bowls at every corner. Musicians played ragas suited for twilight—melancholic, dignified.
Revati stood at the top of the stairway beside her father, dressed in an ivory saree embroidered with golden and silver threads. Her hair, braided and jewelled, flowed down her back like the Kalindi River.
She kept her chin high, though her heart beat like festival drums.
"Daughter of the empire," the emperor whispered to her as the procession neared, "hold your gaze. The eyes of two nations meet through yours."
Prince Shen Liwei ascended the stairs with calm steps. He bowed—not too low, but enough to honor her station. When his eyes finally met hers, they did not flinch. They were not the eyes of a boy blinded by her beauty, nor of a prince seeking approval.
They were the eyes of a reader who had found the first page of an important book.
"Princess Revati of Svarṇapatha," he said in fluent Odia, "Daughter of the Red Lion and the Ocean Crown. It is an honor."
Revati raised her hand slightly, as was the custom, and replied in Mandarin—clear, graceful, deliberate.
"Prince Shen Liwei of Long Zhi, son of jade wisdom and iron sky. Svarṇapatha welcomes you."
A breath passed between them, one only scholars and warriors might understand. This was no ordinary alliance. This was the weaving of silk across stone, thunder across the lotus.
Later, during the feast, Revati noticed how he observed everything. He watched the priests speak in Sanskrit, the dancers bend through Odissi poses, the ministers signal with wine cups.
He spoke little, but when he did, it was precise. He praised the temple city. He named the rivers correctly. He asked about the state of the border forts—not in suspicion, but with familiarity.
"He studies us," Revati thought, "not like prey, but like a guest who hopes to one day call this place home."
And yet, beneath all the formalities, she sensed restraint in him. A guard behind the eyes. A loneliness, perhaps?
The night wore on. The final dance ended. Offerings were exchanged—sculptures of bronze, scrolls of Chinese poetry, Odia palm-leaf scriptures, and silken robes bearing both royal seals.
But before the prince retired to his quarters, he turned once more toward Revati.
"I have heard," he said quietly, "that in your land, the moon is worshipped as a mother."
Revati blinked, curious.
"It is," she answered softly. "She watches over all who are far from home."
He bowed slightly.
"Then I hope she watches over me, tonight."
And just like that, he was gone.
Revati stood in silence long after. Her brothers had vanished into war-talk. Her father was deep in counsel with his ministers. The musicians were packing up. But she remained on the stairs of the pavilion, staring at the sky.
And somewhere beyond the horizon, the moon rose slowly.
Silver. Gentle. Constant.