The courtyard fell silent as the conches blew thrice, their sound echoing like a call to the gods. At the center, the sacred fire had already been kindled in a copper havan kund, its flames crackling softly under the weight of hundreds of eyes.
The marriage had begun.
Revati stepped beneath the ceremonial archway, her saree of red and gold catching the light, pleats falling in perfect order. Anklets chimed with each breath she took. She was no longer only herself—she was the jewel of Svarṇapatha, the promise of alliance, the crown of burden.
Liwei stood opposite her, storm‑grey robes edged in imperial red, the emblem of Long Zhi province gleaming on his sash. His face was carved in stillness, with no joy, no malice, and no warmth. He was present only as duty, a statue set before the fire.
The priests began their chants, invoking Agni Dev, the God of Fire, to witness. A garland was placed in each of their hands.
So perfect, she thought, so practiced.
Was this all she would ever be to him—a ritual fulfilled?
The priest motioned them forward to take their seats beside the fire. They sat on opposite sides of the flame, palms extended as sacred ghee was poured into their hands. Liwei's touch was steady when their fingers brushed, but impersonal—like a diplomat receiving a scroll.
The priests' voices rose in unison, weaving Sanskrit syllables into the crackle of the fire:
"Om Agnaye svāhā, Agniḥ sakṣī bhavatu…
Om Vishnave svāhā, Vishnuḥ pālayatu…
Om Lakṣmyai svāhā, Lakṣmīḥ sampadaṁ dātu…"
("We offer to Agni—may the fire be witness.
We offer to Vishnu—may he protect this union.
We offer to Lakshmi—may she grant prosperity."
The priest's voice rang out above the fire, commanding, "Bring forth the sindoor and the sankha."
A maid hurried forward, carrying a golden box, while Revati's aunt followed with the conch bangles wrapped in silk. Liwei lifted the vermilion powder from the box and applied it to the parting of Revati's hair, the red line glowing against her dark strands.
The moment should have felt final. Holy. Transformative.
But as his hand withdrew, and she looked up to meet his gaze, he was already turning away.
Revati's throat tightened. It wasn't the coldness that stung—it was the absence of anything at all.
No curiosity. No fear. No tenderness.
Is this my future? She wondered. A marriage of silence? Of duty?
Even a cruel man leaves wounds. Liwei left only air.
Is this my future? She wondered. A marriage of silence? Of duty?
Then his hand moved to the sankha. They were not plain ornaments but sculpted marvels—white conch shells polished to a moonlit sheen, their rims plated in gold. Along the edges, lotus petals unfurled in miniature relief, each vein traced in filigree so fine it seemed spun from sunlight. Between the petals, peacocks arched their necks, feathers fanned in delicate carvings, the gold catching firelight with every tilt.
Liwei slid the bangles onto Revati's wrists—the cool weight pressed against her skin, heavy with meaning. To the watching crowd, they gleamed as symbols of purity and prosperity. To her, they clinked like chains wrought in beauty.
But her thoughts drifted to the silence that hung between their joined hands. She remembered his voice from the day before—soft, formal, devoid of soul. Was that conversation in the garden real? Or had it been another well-rehearsed script from a man who had no desire for companionship?
The priest's voice rose above the fire, solemn and commanding: "Bring forth the lāja."
Shubhakaran stepped forward, his expression firm, carrying a silver bowl brimming with puffed rice. He placed it into Revati's palms, and Liwei's hands came over hers, steady and formal, guiding her toward the flames.
The rice was light, but the moment was heavy. Together they tilted the grains into the fire. The flames leapt, swallowing the offering, sparks rising like scattered stars.
The priest chanted, his voice weaving into the crackle of the fire:
"Lājā homaṁ kurvantu dampatīḥ samṛddhim āpnuyāt, svāhā."
("Let the couple make this sacred offering of rice. May they attain abundance together. Svāhā.")
Again, Shubhakaran refilled her hands, and again Liwei supported them. Three times the offering was made, each act echoing the vows of nourishment, strength, and prosperity.
Revati's wrists trembled beneath the weight of his touch—not from weakness, but from silence. She remembered his voice from the garden, soft and hollow, and wondered if this too was only a script. The fire roared, the priest's chant filled the air, but between their joined hands there was nothing—no warmth, no tenderness, only duty.
From the rows behind them, Rajendra shifted, his jaw clenched. Dressed in the dark green of a military commander, he sat with his father, General Upendra Nath, whose expression was unreadable. Rajendra's eyes didn't leave Liwei, even as the final prayers were offered.
The priest raised his hands in blessing, chanting in Sanskrit and Odia. "Let this union bind Svarṇapatha and Tiānguó in peace. Let husband and wife walk in dharma together."
The audience applauded politely. Ministers smiled. Foreign envoys exchanged glances. But the applause felt to Revati like the closing of a door.
Liwei stepped back and gave a short bow to the emperor. "The rites are complete," he said.
Balramdev nodded in return. "You have honored our traditions."
The emperor turned to Revati next. His voice softened, only for her. "This is no farewell. Only a beginning. What you choose next will shape not just your life—but the shape of peace itself."
Revati bowed.
But her mind remained behind the flame, behind the garlands and verses. She looked at Liwei one last time—still silent, still a stranger, still far colder than she had feared.
If he is winter, she thought, then I must learn to bloom through snow.