The marriage fire had long since faded, and the palace corridors lay quiet beneath a blanket of moonlight. Outside, the capital slept. But within the walls of the princess's chambers, silence was alive—breathing, watching, waiting.
Revati sat cross-legged on the cool marble floor before the open jharokha. The breeze from the east brought the scent of night jasmine from the temple gardens. In the distance, the Jagannath temple's spire pierced the starlit sky, its flag still fluttering in steady rhythm—unchanged, as if defying the uncertainty of the world beyond.
She had removed her jewellery. Her wedding saree lay neatly folded on the carved sandalwood trunk. All the color had been drained from the day. All that remained was stillness—and the weight of what tomorrow would bring.
There was a knock. She didn't answer. The door opened softly, and Subhakaran entered, wrapped in his dusk-blue shawl.
"You haven't slept," he said gently.
Revati smiled without humor. "If I close my eyes, I'll dream of what I'm about to lose. I'd rather stay awake and remember it clearly."
He sat beside her in silence. For a long while, they said nothing.
"I spoke to Lord Shen today," she said suddenly. "Or at least… I tried."
Subhakaran turned to her.
"he listens. But it feels like speaking into a well. No echo returns."
Subhakaran didn't answer immediately. He looked out toward the temple. "There are wells,
Revati, that appear silent for years—until the monsoon wakes them."
Revati's brows drew together. "Do you truly believe he feels anything?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I've seen generals like him before. They bury their thoughts
under obedience. Not for deceit—but for survival."
Revati exhaled. "He spoke so little during the ceremony. And even when he looked at me, it
was like I wasn't there. As though I were… another item in a treaty."
Subhakaran nodded slowly. "That may be what his court taught him to see. But you are not a treaty. You're a fire. Even frost can't ignore fire forever."
Revati's gaze dropped to her lap. "And if he never melts?"
"Then you will remain yourself," he said. "Svarṇapatha's daughter. Your strength doesn't come from him. It never has."
A soft knock followed. This time, it was Rajendra who stepped inside with less formality than
usual. His tone was softer, too, though the sharpness hadn't left his eyes.
"I've ordered a hundred guards to escort the convoy," he said. "The roads north are
unpredictable."
Revati looked up at him. "You needn't worry so much, Rajendra."
"I do," he said shortly. "And I always will."
He placed a folded cloth beside her. "A parting gift. From my mother's chamber. It belonged to her when she was married."
Revati unfolded the silk—an old shawl, woven in coastal gold thread. It was faded but soft. She held it against her cheek for a moment, then whispered, "Thank you."
Rajendra didn't speak further. He only stood by the window for a moment, glaring into the
moonlight, then left without another word.
When they were gone, Revati remained seated.
Below, she could see the chariots being prepared. Torches flickered beside oxen. Supplies were stacked. Robes for the next morning's journey were laid out on lacquered trunks. Her attendants had polished everything, whispered over everything.
But in the stillness of the chamber, she felt none of that.
Instead, she whispered to herself.
"Jagannath, who watches from the heights, let me not forget who I am in the land of shadows. Let me carry my language even if no one answers. Let me walk alone, if I must, but not in fear."
She turned toward the open jharokha one last time. The golden spire stood tall; the same spire
she had seen every morning since she first knew the word for sky.
"If I am a bridge between two worlds," she whispered, "then let me stand without falling."
And with that, the last night in Utkalapur faded into darkness