The first sun in Tiānjīng rose late, veiled in mist.
Revati stood beneath a crimson canopy stretched across the stone courtyard of the inner palace. The silence was absolute—no drums, no conches, no flowers tossed to the air. Only the slow, deliberate footsteps of court officials echoed against the tiles.
Her breath misted in the morning chill. Her saree had been replaced with a Tiānguó ceremonial robe—woven silk, pale lavender with gold thread stitched in lotus motifs. She felt as though she had been swaddled in clouds, not clothes.
This was not a wedding as she knew it. It was a coronation of union.
Across from her stood Liwei, clothed in robes of slate grey and obsidian, the embroidery of his family crest—a silver dragon clutching a mountain—stitched along the hem. He bowed before the dragon throne, then stepped aside. His eyes never sought hers.
On the throne sat Emperor Shen Long, his face expressionless as jade. His attendants stood still as statues; their robes swept back behind their heels.
The grand historian stepped forward, unfurling a long scroll. His voice rang clear.
"By decree of the celestial court, witnessed by sun and ancestors, let Shen Liwei, prince of Long Zhi, take bride from the Svarṇapatha realm, in union of empire and virtue."
Revati stepped forward and bowed. Her heart beat faster. Not from nervousness—but from the absence of everything she had once imagined a marriage would be. There was no warmth. No presence of family. Not even a glance from Liwei.
She felt entirely alone.
The court priestesses brought forward an incense bowl. Revati was handed a slender golden stick, perfumed with cedar and rose.
"Offer your vow to the heavens," the priestess whispered.
Revati held the incense between her palms, closed her eyes, and murmured in Odia.
"If my heart must be torn from its roots, let it bloom wherever it lands.
If my name must be changed, let it carry the fragrance of where I came from."
She placed the incense in the bowl. Smoke coiled skyward.
The second vow belonged to Liwei. His words were spoken in a low, composed voice in his native tongue. Even the wind could not disturb his tone.
Then came the exchange of scrolls—contracts inked with ceremonial ink, signed by both with brushes dipped in cinnabar.
The final moment came when the emperor himself stood.
"Princess of Svarṇapatha," Shen long intoned, "today you are born anew under the celestial sky.
Rise not as a stranger, but as a flower rooted in dual soil."
He gestured to a scribe, who approached with a parchment scroll and read:
"Let her be known henceforth as Lianhua, the lotus of harmony—
Third Consort of the house of Shen, and rightful lady of Long Zhi."
Revati lifted her chin, not blinking as the name was pronounced. Lianhua. Lotus flower.
"I have not lost my name," she whispered inside. "I have gained another. Let it be the blade that grows in water."
The court bowed. The ritual was complete.
But as Revati stood beside Liwei, whose posture remained a portrait of quiet detachment, she knew what the name could not give her.
Connection. Trust. Voice.
She turned slightly, catching the faint movement of Rajendra among the Odia guards in the rear court. His eyes met hers, steady and reassuring.
I am not alone, she reminded herself. Even in silence, I carry Svarṇapatha within me.
As the ceremony ended, the imperial bell rang out thrice, and the couple was escorted not to a feast, but to separate quarters for reflection.
Liwei did not speak a word.
She walked beneath a sky so different from her own, and wondered whether the stars here whispered as kindly as those back home.