The thirteenth day brought snow in the air—fine and dry, like powdered glass. The wind cut low through the stone passes, and even the silk canopy of the chariot quivered beneath its breath.
The first glimpse of Tiānjīng, the imperial capital of Tiānguó, rose beyond the mountains like something carved from frost and flame. Its gates were bronze and arched like dragon's spines,
flanked by spires with tiled roofs that curled like petals in mid-wilt. Guard towers watched from above, faceless and still. Between the flags and stone were no welcoming garlands, no songs, no festive drums—only cold banners snapping in the wind.
Revati sat wrapped in her bridal shawl, her gaze heavy beneath her veil.
"So, this is the kingdom I must call home," she thought. "A city built from discipline and distance."
The convoy came to a halt just beyond the capital's outer gate. A procession had been arranged by Tiānguó customs—not to greet her with celebration, but with ritual order. Rows of officials, dressed in dark robes with gold-threaded sashes, bowed in perfect unison. Their faces were unreadable. Behind them, large incense braziers billowed smoke into the pale sky. The air smelled of sandalwood and iron.
At the front stood Emperor Shen Long, the dragon emperor of Tiānguó.
He was tall, with silver-threaded hair tied back beneath a headdress of red jade. His gaze, sharp and unmoving, bore the weight of storms long survived. Unlike her father, who wore the warmth of a leader beloved by his people, Shen long stood as a sovereign carved from thunder—imposing, cold, and unyielding.
Revati dismounted with help from her attendants. Her steps across the stone courtyard felt louder than they should have.
She bowed deeply, as practiced, and did not lift her eyes until spoken to.
"You stand now as daughter of Svarṇapatha, and bride of Tiānguó," The emperor declared, his voice echoing through the courtyard like distant thunder. "A lotus crossing two suns. May your presence bring balance to the mountain and the sea."
The line had been prepared in advance. It was beautiful, poetic—and entirely impersonal.
Beside her, Lewei knelt and offered his formal salute.
The emperor nodded once. "Your union will be blessed again, under our sky. The rites begin at dawn."
He turned to go, his robe trailing like smoke behind him.
Revati was left standing before a palace she had never seen, with a husband who had not once turned to meet her gaze since the river.
Rajendra, walking behind her, leaned in as the attendants stepped back.
"This place feels like the inside of a closed fist," he muttered.
Revati didn't reply. But she felt it too.
The cold here was not just in the wind. It was in the marble beneath her feet, in the bowed heads of the soldiers, in the way Lewei disappeared into the palace without a word to her.
She followed.
The gates closed behind them, sealing the world of oceans and warmth behind her.
Svarṇapatha had sung her to sleep with rivers and bells. Tiānguó watched her like a god testing fire in winter.
She did not shiver. She simply kept walking.