The sun's first rays pierced the sky over the grand kingdom of Svarṇapatha, like molten gold dripping into the vastness of the world below. A kingdom resplendent with grandeur,
Svarṇapatha stretched from the golden beaches of the western shore to the rolling green hills in the east, its borders etched by the deep rivers and the towering mountains in the distance. There, amid the riches of its soil and the talents of its people, stood the capital city, a marvel of human ambition—a city where faith, art, politics, and power converged.
At the heart of this capital was the towering edifice of the Jagannath temple, a colossal structure of sandstone and marble that seemed to pierce the very heavens. Its imposing presence was more than just a place of worship—it was the pulse of the empire itself. The bell at its peak rang every dawn, calling both the commoners and the nobles to bow their heads and offer their prayers. The city around it hummed with activity, every street and alleyway alive with vendors, scholars, soldiers, and priests.
As the sun rose higher in the sky, princess Revati stood at the balcony of the royal palace, a delicate veil fluttering in the morning breeze. She gazed out over the vast expanse, her eyes tracing the winding rivers and the lush fields where her people toiled. Though born into the glittering world of royalty, her heart often sought solace in the simplicity of nature. From this balcony, the view was both overwhelming and intimate, as if the land itself whispered secrets to her.
"Such a sight," she thought, though the weight of her royal duties often left her little room for such musings. Her gaze drifted towards the Jagannath temple again, watching as the priests gathered in the early light, preparing for the day's rituals. Her father, the emperor Balaramdev, always said that the kingdom was a living entity—its soul tied to the gods. The temple, he often reminded her, was not just a structure of stone but a bridge between the divine and the mortal.
In the royal court below, her brothers—prince Rudra Pratap and prince Subhakaran—discussed matters of governance, each taking their place in the complex web of politics that wove the empire together. Rudra Pratap, the eldest, was a man of few words but great presence, respected and feared in equal measure. Subhakaran, the second son, was the scholar, the diplomat—always poised, always composed, forever mediating between opposing factions. Both were skilled warriors, but their true strength lay in their minds.
And then there was Revati—the youngest of the royal children. Though born of the same blood as her brothers, her role in the court was unique. She was both a political symbol and a living bridge to the people, carrying with her the expectations of the royal house. Where Rudra Pratap and Subhakaran excelled in the art of statecraft, Revati wielded the power of wisdom and compassion. The empire knew her not just as the princess but as a scholar, a patron of the arts, and a voice for the common folk.
Her father often teased her that if she were to marry a prince from a distant land, he would be no match for her intellect and heart. It was a jest, but there was a layer of truth to it. For Revati had been trained in diplomacy, literature, and even languages—her voice a melodic blend of Odia, Sanskrit, and the languages of distant kingdoms, including the celestial kingdom in the north.
She had read about the kingdoms beyond the mountains—the great empires to the north, the mysterious lands of China, where silk flowed like rivers and dragons danced through the clouds. And yet, for all her education, Revati had never left the kingdom of Svarṇapatha. She had never seen the towering peaks of the Himalayas or tasted the strange spices of foreign lands.
Svarṇapatha, with its jagged cliffs and lush forests, was the only world she knew. But her mind often wondered what lay beyond its borders.
"Revati?" the voice of her eldest brother, prince Rudra Pratap, called out from the door,
interrupting her thoughts.
She turned to face him, her hand still resting on the cool stone of the balcony. "Yes, First Brother?"
"There is word from the northern border," he said, his tone serious. "The envoy from the
celestial kingdom is arriving soon. Your father will be addressing the court on this matter. We
may have to make a decision soon—one that will affect all of us."
Revati's heart paused for a breath. The Celestial Kingdom
She had heard of it all her life—not as a mystery, but as a shadow that loomed over the northern borders. For years, Tiānguó and Svarṇapatha had clashed—skirmishes in the high
valleys, spies crossing mountain passes, trade routes disrupted by steel and silence. It was not a land she feared, but one she had learned to watch with caution.
Ruled by the Dragon Emperor, Tiānguó was known for its discipline, its wealth, its veiled
diplomacy. But in Svarṇapatha, its name was spoken with both wariness and defiance. There was blood on both sides of the mountains—and neither empire had forgotten.
Now, their gaze had turned again. Not with swords this time—but something else entirely.
"Thank you, Bhai," Revati replied, though her voice barely touched the air. Her thoughts had
begun to spiral—quiet, fast, unstoppable.
She turned toward the open jharokha(window), her gaze drawn toward the golden spire of Jagannath Temple beyond the palace gates. The same gates that now stood open to those who had once sent arrows through the mountain passes and smoke through her homeland's winter
skies.
What were they doing here?
Not even her tutors, with all their historical records and courtly predictions, had considered
this.
Tiānguó had bled the northern front for years. Their name was not spoken in her childhood as a foreign curiosity, but as a warning. And now they walked through the capital in silken red, their banners fluttering in Svarṇapatha's holy air.
As the door shut behind her brother, she remained standing alone in the silence of the
chamber, the murmurs of the palace muffled behind thick stone. Her eyes fixed on the
horizon—not for beauty, but for answers.
Something had shifted. The walls that guarded empires had let in a stranger's breath.
The air felt thick, charged with something unspoken. Like the moment before a monsoon breaks. She didn't know why they had come—but she knew nothing would remain the same.