He tried again. A different dialect.

"Thīrā āgāmī haseṁ pāṭhā?" (What is your name?)

Still, she understood nothing.

His brows furrowed, the slightest hint of impatience tightening his jaw. But his patience did not snap like a brittle twig in the wind. It merely shifted, molding itself into something more precise.

And then he spoke again.

“किं स्वस्ति भवति?" (Are you well?)

In Sanskrit.

The syllables, ancient and precise, fell upon her ears like the opening notes of a long-forgotten song.

Urvashi's breath hitched.

She understood him.

The tight coil of fear in her chest loosened ever so slightly, unraveling like the first break of dawn after a sleepless night. The words, though formal and refined, resonated with a part of her that had been buried beneath the weight of the modern world.

Her mother had taught her Sanskrit as a child, weaving its poetry into bedtime stories, etching its structure into her bones with every lesson she had so adamantly refused.

Now, in this strange world, it was the only bridge she had to understanding.

A small, unbidden smile ghosted across her lips, the first sign of a spark returning to her eyes.

For the first time since she had awoken, she was no longer utterly lost.

With a steadiness she didn’t know she possessed, she looked up at the regal figure before her, speaking softly but clearly.

“I am well, thank you.”

And with those words, the world seemed to tilt back into place—just a little.

The prince’s dark eyes flickered with intrigue, the hard lines of his face softening ever so slightly. She had spoken in his tongue, though her accent was different, refined, practiced, yet undeniably foreign.

But it was enough.

A spark of curiosity ignited in his gaze.

"अस्माकं भाषा जानासि?"

"Asmākaṁ bhāṣā jānāsi?"

(You know our language?)

Urvashi hesitated before nodding.

"मम माता संस्कृतशिक्षिका आसीत्।"

"Mama mātā saṁskṛtaśikṣikā āsīt."

(My mother was a Sanskrit teacher.)

A glimmer of understanding crossed his face, though he remained guarded, measuring her with his gaze.

"नाम किं?"

"Nāma kiṁ?"

(What is your name?)

Urvashi hesitated again before whispering:

"उर्वशी।"

"Urvashī."

The name rolled off her tongue like a forgotten prayer, delicate yet unfamiliar in this foreign time.

He repeated it once, slowly. "उर्वशी।"

His voice coated her name in a regal weight, as if binding it to the very air of this era.

Then, a faint smirk tugged at his lips...something amused, yet unreadable.

"मनोरमं नाम।"

"Manoramaṁ nāma."

(A beautiful name.)

Urvashi’s breath hitched. The substance of his words, spoken in the classical tongue, sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.

She forced herself to meet his gaze, searching for any sign of malice or deceit. But there was none. Only the quiet charisma of a man who was used to being obeyed.

"कुतः आगतासि?"

"Kutaḥ āgatāsi?"

(Where have you come from?)

The question—Where have you come from?—hung between them like a blade suspended by a single thread.

Urvashi hesitated, her fingers curling against the silken folds of her unfamiliar attire. She could still feel the ghost of her white coat, the mass of her textbooks pressing against her arms, the scent of ink and antiseptic clinging to her skin.

But none of those things belonged here.

Here, where the air was thick with the aroma of sandalwood and burning oil. Where the walls were not painted but carved; each stone a witness to hands that had shaped an empire.

She exhaled, slowly, carefully.

"न... न जानामि।"

"Na... na jānāmi."

(I... I do not know.)

The prince’s brows lifted, the golden tilaka on his forehead glinting under the torchlight.

"असत्यं न वद।"

"Asatyaṁ na vada."

(Do not lie.)

His voice was a quiet command, woven with the prestige of someone accustomed to truth being a luxury he could afford to extract.

Urvashi shook her head, not in denial, but in frustration. How could she even begin to explain? She had spent years poring over anatomy books, not maps. She barely remembered the borders of her own state, let alone the ones carved into history. Even if she were to resort to petty lies, this prince infront of her could easily discern them and might finish off her lifeline.

She licked her lips, searching for words. Urvashi say something. Anything.

"ऋषिकेशे वसामि—वसामि आसीम्।"

"Ṛṣikeśe vasāmi—vasāmi āsīm."

(I live—lived—in Rishikesh.)

Rishikesh. A name as distant to this world as the stars above.

The prince frowned, the unfamiliar name stirring no recognition.

And yet, something in his gaze sharpened. A calculation. A weighing of possibilities.

"कलिङ्गस्य कः प्रान्तः?"

"Kaliṅgasya kaḥ prāntaḥ?"

(Which province of Kalinga?)

She faltered.

He leaned back slightly, tilting his head. "त्वं अशोकवनं न जाने?"

"Tvaṁ Aśokavanaṁ na jāne?"

(Do you not know Ashokavana?)

She shook her head.

"किं तर्हि तोशाली?"

"Kiṁ tarhi Tośālī?"

(Then, Toshali?)

Another shake.

"धौली?"

"Dhaulī?"

Nothing.

His lips pressed into a thin line. His patience was not yet worn, but it was bending.

"श्रीखेट्रः? ताम्रलिप्तिः? पुष्पगिरिः?"

"Śrīkheṭraḥ? Tāmraliptiḥ? Puṣpagiriḥ?"

(Shrikhetra? Tamralipti? Pushpagiri?)

She swallowed.

His words were rivers she had never crossed, mountains she had never seen, cities that had turned to dust long before she had taken her first breath.

Still, she tried to grasp at familiarity. 

"तक्षशिला?"

"Takṣaśilā?"

The great seat of learning, Taxila, where scholars and sages gathered, their minds burning with knowledge.

She shook her head.

"उज्जयिनी?"

"Ujjayinī?"

The sacred city, Ujjain, where time itself seemed to pause.

She shook her head again.

His voice was quieter now, but edged with something unreadable. "सुवर्णगिरिः?"

"Suvarṇagiriḥ?" (Suvarnagiri?)

She hesitated. The name rang like a distant bell, but no, she had never stood upon its soil.

"न..."

"Na..."

A pause.

The prince exhaled, his fingers drumming lightly against the armrest of his seat. His gaze did not waver, though a shadow of something unspoken passed through it.

Then, suddenly, his attention shifted.

"सर्वे निर्गच्छन्तु।"

"Sarve nirgacchantu."

(Everyone, leave.)

The attendants hesitated only for a moment before bowing their heads and stepping away. The susurrate of their silk garments, brushing against the floor, filled the silence as they vanished beyond the carved wooden doors.

And then it was just them.

A prince of Kalinga and a girl who did not belong.

He studied her with an unreadable expression. "किं वदितुम् इच्छसि?"

"Kiṁ vaditum icchasi?"

(What is it that you wish to say?)

Urvashi’s heart pounded. Say it.

The words curled on her tongue like an unspoken prayer, desperate yet forbidden.

"I am not..." she exhaled shakily, "I am not from here."

His gaze did not waver even when she replied in a language he did not knew.

She swallowed. "न अहं एतस्मात् स्थलात् जातास्मि।"

"Na ahaṁ etasmāt sthalāt jātāsmi."

(I was not born in this land.)

A flicker of understanding crossed his face.

"गान्धारात् आगता?"

"Gāndhārāt āgatā?"

(You have come from Gandhara?)

She shook her head violently. "न... न केवलम् स्थलात्।"

"Na... na kevalam sthalāt."

(Not just from another place.)

Her hands trembled in her lap. The words felt impossible, blasphemous, mad.

And yet, they had to be said.

"कालात् अपि।"

"Kālāt api."

(From another time, too.)

Silence.

A silence so vast it felt as though the very walls of the chamber had drawn a breath and held it.

The prince's gaze remained impassive, but she could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight tightening of his jaw. His mind was sharp. Sharper than she had anticipated.

And yet, there was no outburst. No scoff of disbelief. No call for guards to take her away as a madwoman.

Instead, he simply watched her. Measured her.

Then, in a voice as steady as stone, he said:

"कथय।"

"Kathaya."

(Speak.)

The flickering oil lamps cast long shadows upon the chamber walls, their golden glow dancing like spirits caught between this world and the next. Urvashi perceived the value of their solitude, an unbearable vastness stretching between herself and the man seated across from her—a prince clad in gold and fire, his gaze dark and unreadable.

A thousand thoughts swirled within her, tangled like vines in an ancient ruin. Where could she begin? How did one explain the impossible without sounding like a fool? Her throat was dry, her hands cold.

Adeettiya sat unmoving, regal yet eerily still, like a statue carved by gods themselves. The only sign of his mortality was the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, slow and patient, as if he had all the time in the world to unearth her secrets.

Urvashi exhaled shakily, her fingers curling against the fabric of her garments—garments that did not belong to her, just as this time, this place, did not.

She wet her lips.

"सत्यं ब्रूयाम्, न ब्रूयामि?"

"Satyaṁ brūyām, na brūyāmi?"

(Should I speak the truth or hold my tongue?)

His brows lifted, his expression unchanging.

"सत्यं एव दुर्लभम्।"

"Satyaṁ eva durlabham."

(Truth is a rare gem.)

A test. He was weighing her. Measuring not only her words but the very soul behind them.

She inhaled sharply, then spoke.

"I really do not belong here." Her voice quivered but did not break. "Not to this land, not to this time period."

His fingers, adorned with rings of sapphire and emerald, tapped lightly against the carved wooden throne he occupied.

He did not flinch, did not scoff or sneer.

Instead, he observed her with the patience of a scholar deciphering an ancient script, his eyes reflecting the flickering flames.

"Tell me," he commanded softly. And so, she did.

“There were towers,” she began. “Taller than the highest minaret of this world. Made not of stone or wood, but iron and glass. They rose into the sky, shimmering in the sunlight. Some called them offices, others homes... but to me, they always looked like ambitions turned solid.”

Adeettiya frowned slightly. “Glass? How does a tower of glass not collapse in the wind? Or shatter from the heat of the sun?”

She smiled at his innocence. “Because they have steel skeletons. Bones stronger than anything you’ve ever seen. And the men and women who build them—they rely not on divine blessings but on numbers, measurements, and something called physics.”

He tilted his head. “Is that another word for Vastu?”

“No,” she said. “It’s... more exact. Less spiritual. It is the way of modern science. And then we had very efficient means of travel through air, water and earth.” He pondered that quietly, his fingers brushing over the hilt of his dagger. “Air travel?” he asked.

Urvashi nodded slowly. “Yes. We call them airplanes. Metal birds, in a sense. They carry hundreds of people across oceans and continents in hours. And those who ride them are not sages or kings. Just ordinary folk, sipping tea while flying over clouds.”

His eyes widened. “Like the Vimanas in our scriptures,” he whispered. “I thought those were just legends.”

“They were once. In your world. But in mine... men made their legends real. We have made them these fantasies so real that we can now land on the soil of Chandra.”

His breath caught in his throat. “The Chandra? Mortals touched her soil?”

Urvashi's eyes softened. “Yes. They studied her, mapped her. Even left flags and machines behind. It’s no longer a place of myth. Just... another step in human ambition.”

He was silent for a long time, trying to imagine men walking on silver dust, leaving footprints where gods were once believed to dwell. “Then surely your people are the wisest of all,” he murmured.

Her smile faltered. “They are clever,” she said. “But wisdom is something else entirely.”

He turned to her again. “What of knowledge? Where do your scholars preserve it? In temples? Grand libraries?”

Urvashi shook her head. “On paper, yes. But also on screens—glass rectangles that glow. A person could carry the wisdom of entire civilizations in their pocket. Words, music, images... all inside something no larger than your palm.”

He stared at his own hand in disbelief. “That... that sounds like a god’s trick.”

“Not gods,” she said softly. “Just human persistence. Curiosity. And sometimes, arrogance.”

Adeettiya fell into thoughtful silence again, the firelight casting a golden sheen across his face. “And your healers?” he asked finally. “Do they still call upon the divine when mending the sick?”

“No. Healing there is a science too,” she said. “No incense or prayers. Only scalpels, medicines, scans, and long years of study. Surgeons cut through flesh with such precision it would seem like a divine act. But it isn’t. It’s skill. And knowledge.”

Adeettiya studied her in silence, the flickering firelight dancing in his eyes. There was something unreadable in her face...something between pride and grief.

Then, in a voice gentler than before, he asked, “And you, Urvashi... were you one of those healers?”

Her gaze dropped for a moment, and when she looked up again, there was a flicker of something...loss, perhaps, just beneath the surface.

“I was training to be one,” she said quietly. “A medical student. Years of books, sleepless nights, and the smell of antiseptic on my clothes. I was meant to be a surgeon. A great one, they said.”

“A surgeon,” he repeated, testing the foreign word on his tongue. “One who heals with blades?”

She gave a soft chuckle, but it held no real joy. “Yes. The kind who holds life between two fingers and a scalpel. I wanted to mend hearts... not metaphorically, but literally. Stitching arteries, replacing valves, coaxing the body back from the brink.”

There was a long pause before she added, “I was close. So close.”

Urvashi let out a breath. “One midnight, I was in the college cafeteria. I hadn’t slept in two days. I remember the clatter of trays, the buzz of students, the smell of reheated food. I was chatting with my friends...bickering with Aniket regarding an old problem. And then...”

Urvashi remembered the feeling: The darkness. The void that had swallowed her whole.

She looked down at her hands as if expecting them to hold the answer. “I passed out. Just like that. No warning. One moment I was there, the next... I was waking up on a soft, plush bed...your place.”

Silence followed her words.

The weight of them hung heavy in the air, like an unfinished verse waiting for a poet to finish it.

She expected disbelief.

She expected the usual outrage, scorn, perhaps even fear.

Instead Adeettiya only watched her, his expression unreadable.

His features were carved with the discipline of a prince, yet in the golden light, she could see something deeply human within him. He was not just a man of duty and power.

There was curiosity in his gaze. A flicker of something older than himself.

"सत्यं वा असत्यं वा, न अहं निर्णयं करिष्यामि।"

"Satyaṁ vā asatyaṁ vā, na ahaṁ nirṇayaṁ kariṣyāmi."

(Truth or falsehood, I will not judge.)

Urvashi’s breath caught itself again.

He leaned forward slightly, his golden armbands catching the light.

"मर्त्यः सत्यं न वेत्ति।"

"Martyaḥ satyaṁ na vetti."

(No mortal knows the full truth.)

There was no mockery in his tone. No amusement.

Just the sure wisdom of a man who had been raised in the shadows of kings, where truth was but another tool to be wielded.