There was nothing. No sound. No light. No sense of time or space.

She wanted to move, but her body felt weightless, suspended in the abyss, as if she were floating in an endless void. A distant pressure built in her chest, a tightening that urged her to breathe, but the air felt thick, suffocating. 

Was she drowning? Falling? Or simply...gone?

Time lost all meaning.

A whisper of breath escaped her lips, though she wasn't sure if it was real.

Was she dead?

No.

The answer drifted through her mind, unmoored, aimless. She wanted to open her eyes, to see and to know, but there were no eyes to open, no hands to reach out with, no breath to draw. She existed in silence, untethered.

Suddenly, pain bloomed in her head: dull at first, then sharper, radiating through her skull like the echo of a distant scream. Then came the warmth: gentle at first, but growing, chasing away the pain. Slowly, a faint golden glow flickered at the edges of the darkness. The cold receded, replaced by a strange, unfamiliar warmth pressing against her back.

A whisper of something...faint, distant.

Like the first rays of sunlight touching frozen skin, the pain receded ever so slightly. The pressure of something soft beneath her back became very apparent.

Slowly, the darkness wavered, fractured by the unfamiliar glow.

Then light.

A flickering, golden light.

Urvashi’s breath hitched as her eyes fluttered open, the brightness stinging her vision. Her head pounded with a strange heaviness, her limbs stiff, as though she had been asleep for far too long.

At first, everything was blurred, colors bleeding into each other, shapes too indistinct to recognize. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as her body slowly registered its surroundings.

The first thing she noticed was the ceiling above her. Not the dull, white paint of her college hostel room, nor the sterile fluorescence of a hospital ward. This was different—high, carved from dark wood, with intricate patterns woven into its surface. Shadows danced along the edges, cast by the gentle flicker of oil lamps placed around the room.

A strange, unfamiliar scent filled the air; sandalwood, jasmine, and something rich and earthy, like aged wood and spices.

The second thing she noticed was the fabric beneath her fingers—soft, cool, almost creamy. Silk. Not the cheap, synthetic kind, but something heavier, more opulent and more original. A texture far too fine to belong to the rough hostel bed sheets she was accustomed to.  She stiffened.

Something was wrong.

Her vision sharpened, and the world around her came into focus.

Her breath came faster, shallower, as her mind tried to process the details.

She was lying on an unfamiliar bed.

Not a metal-framed hostel cot. Not a stiff hospital bed.

This was something else entirely.

It was large, the wooden frame carved with ornate designs. The mattress beneath her was plush, the sheets were deep crimson, embroidered with gold threads that shimmered in the dim lighting. The bedposts were carved wood—deep brown with intricate floral engravings. Heavy curtains surrounded the space, their edges swaying slightly with an unseen breeze.

The walls—no, pillars—loomed high, sculpted with delicate motifs of vines and celestial beings: the devas, the ashuras, the beautiful maidens who danced in the heaven's court, their forms so detailed that they almost seemed to breathe. The ceiling was arched, dark wooden beams stretching across, adorned with golden embellishments.

This was not her room.

This was not the hospital.

This was nowhere she recognized.

Her breathing hitched. A heavy silence pressed against her ears, amplifying the faint crackling of the oil lamps and the distant rustling of fabric. A sharp gasp left her lips as pain shot through her head, forcing her to clutch her forehead. A slow, dreadful realization crept over her, suffocating in its intensity.

She wasn’t where she was supposed to be.

Her fingers trembled as she touched her nose, expecting to feel dried blood, the remnants of whatever had caused her to collapse. But her skin was smooth, unbroken. The sharp sting of a nosebleed, the sticky warmth of blood...gone. As if it had never happened.

The pounding in her chest grew louder and faster.

Was she dreaming?

That had to be it. An exhaustion-induced hallucination. It made sense. She had been overworked, deprived of sleep, buried under the weight of her studies. Perhaps she had collapsed in the cafeteria, and her mind had conjured all of this...this impossibly lavish, surreal world—as some strange fever dream.

Yes. That had to be it.

Her eyes darted around, searching for something—anything—that would ground her, that would make sense. The flickering lamps, the heavy wooden furniture, the faint murmur of voices outside the door…None of it fit.

This wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be real.

Slowly, she sat up, the shift in posture making her dizzy. Her body felt fine: no soreness, no fatigue, nothing to indicate she had just blacked out in the middle of her college cafeteria.

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to think. What was the last thing she remembered?

The scent of samosas. The tired laughter of her friends. The sharp tang of metal as warm liquid dripped down her lips: Blood.

Yes. She had been studying, exhausted beyond reason. She had pushed herself too hard. There had been laughter, light-hearted teasing—then Aniket’s voice, startled. She had reached for her nose. And then...Nothing.

No ambulance ride. No hospital.

Only darkness.

Only this.

Her breath turned shallow. This had to be a dream.

Yes. That was the only logical explanation. She was hallucinating, her mind crafting an elaborate, vivid delusion.

Perhaps she had collapsed from exhaustion, and right now, she was unconscious, hooked to an IV in some sterile hospital room.

She gripped her messy hair, "Yes this has to be it...I am merely in a dream..."

Before she could spiral further, a soft creak echoed through the air.

Her body tensed as the heavy wooden door slowly swung open.

A group of women stepped inside, moving with an elegance that made them seem almost unreal. Their presence was quiet yet commanding, their expressions serene. But it was their clothing that struck Urvashi the most.

Long, pleated antariyas draped around their waists, cotton uttariyas veiling their shoulders. Their jewelry glinted in the dim light—golden bangles, earrings shaped like lotus petals, delicate nose rings connected by thin chains. Their hair was braided in elaborate patterns, adorned with fragrant flowers. Urvashi's breath caught.

She had seen attire like this before.

Not in reality, but in the faded pages of her old history textbooks. Sketches of women from an era long past...an era that no longer existed.

A lump formed in her throat. The lump wedged itself harshly.

One of the women stepped forward, bowing slightly. "Devi, are you well?"

The words were gentle, formal, yet unfamiliar in their cadence. The language they spoke wasn't the same language that was used for daily conversations. It was…in a language that felt more like Sanskrit. But Urvashi knew the art and eloquence of Dev Bhasha Sanskrit.

Urvashi couldn’t answer them in their language. She stared at them, at their faces, at the way they moved—so composed, so certain in a world that felt utterly alien to her.

They took her silence as acceptance.

Soft hands reached for her, guiding her out of the bed. Urvashi didn’t resist, couldn’t resist. Her body moved on its own, her mind too tangled in disbelief to fight back.

They led her through a doorway, into a chamber where steam curled in ghostly tendrils from a stone bath filled with water infused with floating petals. The scent of exotic oils lingered in the air.

Before she could protest, she was undressed with practiced efficiency, the warmth of the water enveloping her body as they lowered her into the bath.

The shock of it barely registered.

She sat there, unmoving, as gentle hands massaged fragrant pastes into her skin, as her hair was rinsed with water infused with flowers. It was a surreal, detached sensation, like watching someone else’s life unfold from behind a veil.

Her mind remained locked in a daze, each moment slipping past like water through her fingers.

They dressed her in soft, flowing fabrics, the antariya wrapping around her waist, the uttariya draped lightly over her shoulders. She barely noticed.

Then came the food; an array of delicacies arranged with care. Juicy fruits, rich desserts, golden goblets filled with something sweet and fragrant.

Urvashi simply stared.

The leverage of everything crashed down on her all at once.

She was supposed to be in her college cafeteria, drowning in conversations about pathology and community medicine. She was supposed to be studying, not—Not this.

Her throat went dry.

She could ignore the fabrics, the bath, the perfumes. She could tell herself it was all part of some elaborate hallucination.

But their touch when they bathed her was real. Too real.

And that terrified her more than anything else.

The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and burning oil, curling like invisible threads that wove into the silence of the chamber. The soft glow of the flickering lamps cast shifting shadows against the silk-draped walls, their golden hues flickering like dying embers in the vast, unknowable dark.

Urvashi sat stiffly on the cushioned seat, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the carved wooden table before her, though she barely registered the sensation beneath her fingertips. The scrumptious meal before her lay untouched: steaming rice, jewel-toned fruits, delicate sweets that glistened under the dim light. Each dish was a work of art, yet her appetite lay buried beneath the weight of her own disbelief.

She had always prided herself on being logical, a woman of science, bound by the laws of reality. But at that moment, even reality itself felt like sand slipping through her fingers.

She was certain: this world was not her own.

The women who had bathed her stood at the edges of the room, their postures demure, their expressions unreadable. They spoke in hushed voices, their language fluid and unfamiliar, a melody that her ears could not yet decipher.

Urvashi wet her lips, her throat dry as if she had swallowed a desert.

She needed to understand them. She needed to be understood.

Summoning what little courage remained in her trembling frame, she spoke.

“Excuse me…”

Hindi.

The words barely made a ripple in the air. The women halted their whispers, their gazes flickering toward her with polite curiosity.

She swallowed, gripping the edge of the table.

“Where…am I?”

Nothing.

Not a flicker of recognition crossed their faces. The eldest among them, a woman with kohl-rimmed eyes and silver bangles stacked along her wrists, stepped forward and murmured something in that same fluid language.

Urvashi caught nothing but the rise and fall of foreign syllables.

Her stomach curled inward.

She tried again. “I—I don’t understand…”

Still, silence met her words like an impenetrable wall.

The lump in her throat swelled. Fear, sharp and bitter, clawed at the edges of her composure. What if she never understood them? What if no one here understood her? What if—!

A sudden commotion outside the chamber cut through her spiraling thoughts like the crack of a whip. The air shifted.

Deep voices rang beyond the heavy wooden doors, authoritative and sharp, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of heavy boots against stone. A chorus of murmurs followed, like the distant rustling of trees before a coming storm.

The women in the chamber straightened, their postures stiffening, their heads bowing ever so slightly. The tension in the air thickened, pressing against Urvashi’s skin like the weight of an oncoming monsoon.

And then the doors swung open.

A man stepped through, his presence consuming the space as though he had carved it into existence.

He did not walk—he strode; shoulders squared, movements fluid and unhurried, like a lion descending upon a quiet glade. His very breath seemed to command the air itself, bending it to his will.

He was tall, far taller than her diminutive frame, his form broad and unyielding. Beneath the intricate folds of his antariya, the powerful contours of his physique were evident—sculpted not by leisure, but by discipline.

Golden chains coiled around his throat like serpents of molten metal, their glint reflecting the firelight. Bracelets adorned his wrists, the cool gleam of pearls juxtaposed against the raw strength of his calloused hands.

But it was his face that held her captive.

Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, an aquiline nose; features chiseled as if by the gods themselves, marred only by a faint scar that cut through the edge of his brow. His skin, sun-kissed and rich with the hues of a land untouched by winter, bore the silent tales of battles fought and won.

His eyes, dark and assessing, held the weight of centuries, as if he had already seen all that the world had to offer and had long grown weary of it.

For a moment, he did nothing but look at her.

Urvashi shrank into her seat, the gap between them yawning like an abyss.

Then, as if deciding she was worth his attention, he spoke.

The words that left his mouth were like liquid gold, smooth, commanding, yet utterly indecipherable.

“I am Prince Soorudasaruna Adeettiya of Kalinga,” he said, the syllables rolling effortlessly off his tongue. “You may call me Adeettiya.”

Urvashi did not respond.

Not because she did not want to, but because she could not.

His voice was deep, rich with authority, but the meaning of his words was lost on her. Each syllable melted into the next, blending into a language she had never encountered before. It was, in her dictionary, a perfect display of spewing gibberish elegantly.