The chariot wheels turned slowly, steadily—carving faint lines through the roads that curled away from Utkalapur like memory slipping into myth.
Revati did not look back.
The palace spires were long out of sight, and the last temple flag of Jagannath had vanished behind the trees. In its place rose fields of ripening rice and groves of flowering neem, the veins of Svarṇapatha that had fed its people for centuries.
Children ran beside the convoy, laughing and scattering petals. Brahmins along the roadside raised their hands in blessing. Village women knelt at the path's edge, holding out trays of turmeric, vermilion, and sweets. Yet even as the bells of farewell rang behind her, a quiet weight pressed on Revati's chest.
"Every step forward is a step away," she murmured.
Seated beside her in the lead chariot, Rajendra heard her but said nothing. He rode with his usual alertness—eyes scanning the horizon, hand never far from the hilt of his sword. His presence, though comforting, did little to ease the silence that had settled between her and Lord Shen, who rode just ahead with the rest of his celestial entourage.
He hadn't spoken since they departed. Not a word during the morning rites. Not even a glance as she stepped into the chariot. His figure—upright, still, untouched by the sun or the sentiment—was more sculpture than man.
The convoy passed into the northern hill tracts by the third day. The fields gave way to dry red soil and thicker woods where tall Sal trees whispered among themselves. Tribal sentries—bare-chested and adorned in beads—watched from the cliffs, some offering wary gestures of welcome, others simply vanishing into the foliage.
At a high ridge where the path narrowed to a single bend between two cliffs, the group dismounted. It was dusk. The fireflies had already begun their glowing dance, and the air grew thick with a stillness that even the wind respected.
Revati stepped aside, her silk robes catching the light of the torches.
"Bhai said this path was sacred to the Vanashree tribes," she said aloud, more to herself than to
anyone else.
"Sacred or not," Rajendra muttered beside her, "it's an ideal place for an ambush."
"Still thinking like a commander," she said, smiling faintly.
"And you still think like a poet," he returned. But his eyes followed the forest edge with quiet tension.
The journey resumed by morning, and the verdant highlands faded into rocky foothills. The green thickened again with bamboo groves and towering teak, but something had changed. The birdsong grew quieter. The air cooler. And then, suddenly, the road opened to reveal the great dividing river.
It was broad and swift—its waters dark, its flow unbending. On the far side stood the first true outpost of the Tiānguó empire—a fortress built of dark stone, its curved roofs painted in faded red.
They crossed on foot.
Revati's slippers sank slightly into the river mud as she stepped across the ancient stone bridge, her veil fluttering behind her. The moment her foot touched the opposite bank, she paused.
The trees were different here—taller, silent, and unnaturally uniform. The wildness of
Svarṇapatha had been replaced by cold order. Shrines shaped like lotus petals clung to cliff edges. Distant bells chimed at precise intervals. Guards in dark armor saluted not with open palms, but with fists pressed to their chests.
"Svarṇapatha gave me color," she thought. "Tiānguó offers only stone."
Lewei said nothing.
He dismounted briefly to greet the border command. His voice was low, his dialect suddenly precise and native to this land. He moved through the formalities as if on script. Once finished, he returned to his mount without ever glancing back at the procession behind him.
Rajendra watched the interaction with a tight jaw.
"If he greets his own kin with so little warmth," he said under his breath, "what hope is there for strangers?"
"Maybe he saves his warmth for places we cannot see," Revati replied softly, though her voice carried more doubt than conviction.
By the seventh day, the convoy rode through steep mountain passes. The sky narrowed to a ribbon between jagged cliffs. Glacial streams trickled beside them, their waters colder than silence.
Here, the celestial banners fluttered in increasing number. Crimson and gold—dragons coiled around mountain peaks. Monks in ochre robes bowed as the chariots passed. Farmers turned their faces without speaking. The land itself seemed to hum in perfect discipline, as though even the wind had been taught to bow.
Revati looked once at the man she now called husband. Lewei rode three paces ahead, never slowing, never stumbling, untouched by fatigue.
"He does not falter," she thought. "He does not feel."
"If I must melt this winter with only my breath, then let me learn to breathe fire."
And so, they pressed on—through dust, forest, and silk-draped banners—toward a palace she had never seen, a language she had only studied, and a future that refused to reveal its face.