The hall of seven mandalas was rarely used unless the matters at hand required the weight of centuries. It was there, beneath seven ceiling domes painted with epics and astral maps, that emperor Balaramdev met prince Shen Liwei in private council.
The court had been dismissed. No heralds announced this meeting. No guards lingered near the carved doors. Only the emperor, the foreign prince, and the old chancellor stood beneath the painted heavens.
Shen Liwei had changed into a simpler tunic, still regal, but stripped of grandeur. His eyes, sharp as obsidian, studied every symbol on the hall's great circular floor—images of the lion, lotus, and flame entwined with serpentine rivers and celestial wheels.
"Tell me, prince of the east," the emperor began after a pause, "what does your empire seek in this bond?"
Liwei did not smile. He did not flatter. He bowed his head with dignity and replied:
"Harmony that benefits both. Knowledge that flows freely. A bridge that time will not burn."
Balaramdev's fingers traced the lion-carved armrest. He remembered too many words from too many mouths. Most were baited, gilded with lies. But this boy—this young prince—spoke like a man who had seen battlefields where no arrows flew. He saw clarity.
"And my daughter?" The emperor asked.
Liwei's voice slowed.
"I seek not to conquer her. Nor tame her. I would walk beside her—as one who understands the burden of crowns and the silence of duty."
A long silence. The emperor stood, walked a slow circle around the prince, eyes measuring, remembering the years of wars fought for less than a river's width.
"You speak as if you know her already."
"Not yet," Liwei answered, "but I listen."
The emperor paused, then called to the chancellor.
"Draw up the scrolls. Let the scribes write in three tongues—Odia, Chinese, and the tongue of the heavens."
So, it was sealed.
And yet, it was not with fanfare but quiet dignity that the pact was born.