Revati found herself restless that night. The palace festival had long faded into memory. The dancers had retired. The flower garlands drooped. But she walked barefoot through the garden court, fingers brushing jasmine vines.
It was not love that stirred her heart—it was a storm without a name.
A sense of change so deep that even the banyan trees seemed to whisper it.
She turned a corner and stopped.
There he stood, beside the stone basin where lotuses bloomed—prince Shen Liwei, alone, staring at the water.
"You walk without guards," she said, more curious than surprised.
"I trust the moon," he replied, then added, "and you."
She stood at a distance, arms folded under the weight of embroidered silk.
"You said you listen. What have you heard of me?"
He didn't hesitate.
"That you sang to soldiers who returned without limbs. That you argued against land taxes in the drought. That you taught orphans how to write their names."
Revati's heart stilled. Not because of the praise, but the precision.
"And what do you see, now that I stand before you?"
Liwei took a breath. He looked at her—not as a prince appraising his bride, but as one soul recognizing another's burden.
"A girl born in a palace," he said softly, "but shaped by temples, scrolls, and silence. Not untouched by sorrow… yet unbroken."
The words hung between them like a temple bell's echo.
Revati stepped forward. "And what will your people see when I arrive in your land? A foreign flower? A political gift?"
"They will see what I see," he said. "If I walk beside you, not in front."
A breeze lifted her veil. She did not stop it.
"Then walk with me now," she whispered, offering her hand.
He took it, not in possession, but in promise.
The moon above them curved like a blade of fate, silver and silent. The lotus water rippled once, as if the heavens themselves had nodded.
And so ended the first Volume—not with war, nor victory—but with two hearts standing quietly at the edge of a world reborn.