The temple bells rang long before the first rays of the sun struck the spires of Utkalapur. Dawn had not yet broken, but the imperial capital stirred with an energy unlike any other morning.
Every corridor of the palace was awash in marigolds and vermilion. Women moved like streams of color, carrying pots of turmeric, rice, and sandalwood paste. Priests murmured Vedic verses beside blazing fires. Dancers rehearsed beneath the banyan pavilion, where the air was thick with camphor and incense.
The wedding of princess Revati—the jewel of Svarṇapatha—to a foreign prince from the far-off celestial empire had awakened something deeper than celebration. It felt like a hinge in time had turned. It felt like a farewell to something pure.
From the high terraces of the palace, the golden shikhara of the Jagannath temple stood visible, its shadow still and unmoving in the early mist. That sacred form had always watched over Revati since her childhood. But today, it watched as she prepared to walk away from the world it had blessed.
From the high terraces of the palace, the golden shikhara of the Jagannath temple stood visible, its shadow still and unmoving in the early mist. That sacred form had always watched over Revati since her childhood. But today, it watched as she prepared to walk away from the world it had blessed.
But Revati did not hear them.
Her mind was elsewhere—drawn not to the scent of jasmine or the whisper of silk, but to a face she had not yet seen, and the stories that had reached her ears like windborne ashes.
Her mind was elsewhere—drawn not to the scent of jasmine or the whisper of silk, but to a face she had not yet seen, and the stories that had reached her ears like windborne ashes.
Prince Shen Liwei. Fifth son of the dragon emperor. Lord of Long Zhi.
A man, they said, whose eyes were colder than winter rain. A prince who had not laughed in years. A general who had watched cities burn and never wept. The envoy had spoken of him with respect—but there had been a flicker of unease in the eyes of even those who served him.
Revati had listened to every account. One said he had ordered a battlefield execution with a single blink. Another said he refused to speak more than a few words a day, and even those were clipped and distant. A servant whispered that no one had ever seen him look at a woman twice.
And this was the man she was to wed.
"Am I to be a thread in his armour? A symbol etched onto his wall?"
"Or will I be a stranger in a land that names me empress but leaves me voiceless?"
Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft voice of her second brother, Subhakaran, stepping into the chamber without fanfare. He dismissed the maids with a wave and stood beside her.
"You are ready?" He asked.
She nodded slowly. "Does anyone truly know when they are?"
He gave a wry smile, but his eyes were tired. "Rajendra arrived this morning from the western frontier. He's downstairs—demanding to escort you to the banyan altar himself. Claims he won't let strangers lead 'his cousin' away like cattle."
Revati's lips lifted briefly. Rajendra. Boisterous, unpredictable, loyal to a fault. He had once stolen mangoes from the imperial orchard and blamed it on a wild parrot. He had also once sworn to challenge a prince in court for mocking her poetry—a welcome distraction.
She rose slowly. Subhakaran offered his arm, but she did not take it. Her fingers still trembled from fastening her anklets.
She rose slowly. Subhakaran offered his arm, but she did not take it. Her fingers still trembled from fastening her anklets.
In the hall of banyans, under the colossal canopy where ancestral queens had once been wed, the full assembly stood waiting. The air shimmered with smoke from ceremonial fires. Odissi dancers bowed in unison, and conches were blown from the palace gates to the four directions.
Rajendra was there—flushed with pride, dressed in peacock blue, a ceremonial sword at his waist.
"You look like the moon wrapped in dusk," he said as she entered. "But if that prince of yours makes you cry, I will cross a dozen mountains to remind him that Odia blood runs hotter than dragon fire."
Revati smiled faintly, but her heart clenched.
She had not yet met Shen Liwei. The wedding rites would be performed in Odia tradition here, with his name spoken in his absence. Only when she reached Tiānguó would they repeat the rituals under their own stars.
As the fire was lit and the chanting began, she stood still, her eyes fixed not on the sacred flame, but on the distant curve of the mountains beyond the palace walls.
Somewhere behind them, a man waited—silent, unreadable, and soon to be bound to her by name and duty.
She did not yet know his voice. She did not know the sound of her own name in his tongue.
But she would go to him.
Because her empire asked her to. Because she had chosen not just obedience—but resolve.
And because even in the silence of winter, a flower sometimes still blooms.