"राजन्, अस्मिन भाग्ये स्वयं देवाः हस्तक्षेपं कर्तुम् इच्छन्ति।

(Maharaja, in this fate, even the gods seem to intervene.)"

As Archarya Sidhanta stepped back, the air thick with unspoken forewarning, Maharaja Anantha's gaze turned toward the doors of the court, where shadows flickered. He knew one thing for certain: this girl, who had arrived like a comet, streaking across the heavens, held in her hands the power to either elevate the kingdom to unimaginable glory or cast it into the abyss of its undoing.

Her true destiny lay beyond mortal comprehension, veiled in the threads of the gods themselves.

This unsaid pronouncement sent murmurs rippling through the assembly.

But then came the voice of opposition.

Achyut, a man whose name had been written in the blood of the battlefield, frowned. His armor, though polished, bore the faintest of scars, remnants of wars past. He was not one to be swayed by superstition or the whispers of fate. His world was one of steel and certainty.

"यत्र आगमने अस्याः रहस्यं अस्ति, तत्र संकटम् अपि।"

(Where there is mystery in her arrival, there is also danger.)

His words struck the court like the clang of a sword against stone.

A younger minister, eager to prove his devotion, seized the moment, his voice sharp with conviction.

"सर्वथा! अस्याः यज्ञे आहुति दत्तव्या।"

(Indeed! She must be offered in a sacred yajña.)

There was a pause; one of those moments where time seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see whether wisdom or folly would prevail.

Achyut's gaze, steely as a predator eyeing its prey, snapped toward Adeettiya.

Adeettiya, the Crown Prince, did not waver. His gaze moved across the court, his expression unreadable. He saw the nods of approval, the flickering glances exchanged between men who weighed their loyalties with the precision of merchants measuring gold.

Achyut spoke, his voice measured yet firm.

"राजकुमार, किं तु अवश्यं अस्माकं प्रजा संरक्षितव्या। यदि अस्या आगमनं शत्रुजनितं भवति, कः उत्तरं दास्यति?"

(Crown Prince, we must ensure the safety of our people. If her arrival is orchestrated by an enemy, who shall bear the consequences?)

A fair question. A dangerous one.

Adeettiya did not flinch.

"सर्वथा सत्यं। परंतु, सत्यं अधुना अज्ञातम्।"

(That is true. But the truth is yet unknown.)

The air grew heavier with muffled words. The tension thickened, coiling around the chamber like a serpent waiting to strike.

Then, slicing through the murmurs, came another voice.

"मूढाः वदन्ति!"

(Fools speak!)

Silence fell.

It was Vasubhā, the minister of political affairs; a man whose voice was silk and whose mind was a blade honed to perfection.

He leaned forward, the ghost of a knowing smile curving his lips.

"यदि सा विशिष्टा अस्ति, तर्हि, सा साधनं भविष्यति।"

(If she is extraordinary, then she is a tool.)

His words slithered through the court like an unseen current, wrapping around the minds of those who listened, shifting perspectives like pieces on a chessboard.

There was no outrage, no rejection-only contemplation.

Power was not about morality. It was about utility.

"यदि सा दिव्य-प्रेरिता अस्ति, तर्हि सा कलिंगस्य सर्वथा हिताय भविष्यति।"

(If she is divinely sent, then she shall serve the interests of Kalinga.)

His gaze flickered towards the Kalingaraj, lingering like a whisper in the wind before he delivered his final stroke.

"अस्याः विवाहं विचारणीयं अस्ति।"

(A political marriage must be considered.)

A pulse of silence followed, rippling through the chamber like the first drop of rain before a storm.

Marriage. A move as old as war itself.

It was neither kindness nor punishment. It was a strategy. A binding of blood, of lineage, of power. A shift in the game of thrones where pieces moved not by will, but by the unseen hands of those who knew how to play.

The rāj-purohits sat with their hands folded in the posture of contemplation, but Adeettiya knew better. Every flicker of their eyelids, every shift in their posture, was a careful calculation. These men, who held dominion over sacred rites and celestial interpretations, wielded power in subtler ways than the ministers of war. They had the ability to shape destiny, not with swords, but with whispers that turned into decrees.

And then there was Mahāpatra Someshvara, his silence carrying more weight than the words of all others combined.

The great spiritual guardian of Kalinga did not speak often, but when he did, his words conveyed the echoes of the ancient Vedas themselves. He watched Adeettiya with sharp, unfaltering eyes, as if trying to discern whether his crown prince could bear the weight of the unknown that had been placed upon him.

Adeettiya had spent his entire life in this court. He knew its rhythms, its dances of diplomacy and hidden motives. 

This was the moment Vasubhā had been waiting for: to weave fate's fraying threads into an unbreakable tapestry, to forge a bond of gold where once loomed the shadow of a funeral pyre. The court, a sea of wisdom and ambition, stirred like a river touched by the wind. Some ministers nodded, their expressions sharpening as the gravity of the proposition settled upon them.

Yet, the king did not speak at once.

Instead, he lifted his gaze to Mahāpatra Someshvara, the temple's ancient sentinel, the keeper of rites and reason. His presence was like the sacred banyan under which kings sought omens and emperors lost sleep. His silence had been a mountain's hush before the storm, and now, at last, he exhaled-a sound like the whisper of temple bells at dawn.

"किं वदति देवगृहस्य ज्येष्ठः?"

(What does the temple's greatest guardian say?)

A pause.

Someshvara's gaze, deep as the night sky before a monsoon, did not waver. When he spoke, his voice was steady, carved from the same stone as the temple walls.

"यस्य मार्गः रहस्यमयः अस्ति, तस्य निर्णयं शीघ्रं न कर्तव्यम्।"

(That which arrives in mystery should not be judged in haste.)

A murmur rippled through the court, the sound of a hundred minds unraveling meaning.

Adeettiya, standing vigilant like a lion at the temple gates, met the Mahāpatra's gaze. He did not miss the deeper truth that lingered beneath those words. Was not the moon, too, veiled in darkness before it revealed its full splendor? Was not a river's depth tested only in the patience of its flow?

Someshvara inclined his head, his wisdom a torch against uncertainty.

"कालः एव सत्यं प्रकाशयिष्यति।"

(Time itself shall unveil the truth.)

Anantha Padmanabhan, leaned back upon his throne-the very seat of his ancestors, adorned with carvings of gods and wars past. His fingers tapped lightly against its golden armrest, eyes hooded in contemplation. Then, like the first rays of dawn dispelling mist, he spoke.

"सर्वे धैर्यं धारयन्तु। यथा सा जागृता, तथैव सा स्वयम् निर्णयं करोतु।"

(Let all hold patience. Now that she has awakened, let her choose her own path.)

His decree was clear, the weight of dharma in every syllable.

"आदित्य, त्वं तस्याः संरक्षः करिष्यसि।"

(Adeettiya, you shall be her shield and sentinel.)

Adeettiya bent forward in a deep bow, a warrior pledging fealty not merely to a command, but to the unseen tide of fate.

With that, the court dissolved into quiet purpose, the echo of divine will settling upon the palace like a prophecy yet to unfold.

The heavy curtains of the royal court parted like the veil between realms, and Kalingaraj Anantha stepped forth, his silhouette imposing against the dim torchlight that lined the grand corridors of Mahendra Bhavan. His presence was a decree of time itself, a living echo of his ancestors who had ruled before him. Adeettiya, his son, followed-his steps measured, deliberate, swallowed by the very earth that had borne the weight of centuries, as if destiny itself wove the path beneath his feet.

Beyond the palace walls, the night sky of Kalinga stretched vast and endless, a celestial canvas where the stars gleamed like Indra's jeweled crown, adorning the heavens in divine splendor. The wind, scented with salt from the distant shores, whispered through the temple spires, carrying with it the solemn hum of ancient hymns. The river Daya murmured as it had for centuries, an eternal witness to both triumph and tragedy. It was as if the land itself remembered: the soil soaked in the blood of warriors, the air still carrying the forgotten cries of conquests past.

The father and son stepped into the royal gardens, the fragrance of frangipani and sandalwood weaving into the air, mingling like the past and present, inseparable yet distinct. Moonlight bathed the garden paths in silver, casting long, sinuous shadows upon the marble sculptures of heroes long lost to time. The lotus ponds, still and reflective, held within their depths the mirrored image of the cosmos, as though the universe itself had found a resting place in the heart of Kalinga.

"Urvashi," the Raja murmured at last, his voice deep and steady as the tide, yet carrying the weight of an unspoken prophecy. The name drifted through the air like a forgotten mantra, resonating with the sacred energy that lingered in the night's breath.

Urvashi. A name that was both a whisper of the divine and an enigma of fate. It carried the grandeur of an apsara, a celestial nymph whose beauty had once shaken the heavens. But this Urvashi was no mere figment of Indra's court. She was neither a goddess nor an illusion, but a paradox; a riddle the gods themselves had carved into the fabric of existence.

Raja Anantha's gaze settled upon the distant Jagannath Temple, its towering spire piercing the heavens, where the eternal glow of the deva deepas flickered defiantly against the abyss of the night. Did the gods watch over Kalinga, or had they turned their gaze away, leaving mortals to their own designs?

He closed his eyes, and within the depths of his heart, the voice of the sages whispered:

"असतो मा सद्गमय। तमसो मा ज्योतिर्गमय। मृत्योर्मा अमृतं गमय।"

(Lead me from untruth to truth, from darkness to light, from death to immortality.)

"The learned say," the Raja murmured at last, his voice thoughtful, his words heavy as stone, "that the gods do not intervene in mortal affairs unless the very balance of the world is at stake. And yet..." He paused, his gaze unfaltering. "She arrived like a comet burning through the sky: too sudden, too divine, too dangerous to be a mere chance."

Adeettiya, who had remained silent until now, turned his eyes toward the horizon, where the flickering temple lamps swayed like restless spirits caught between realms. "Father," he said slowly, "we have seen travelers from distant lands; men who have crossed the cruel peaks of Aryavarta, traders who have bartered with the waves of the eastern seas. But her..." He exhaled, his breath merging with the wind. "She is different. She does not belong to this world."

The leaves rustled in agreement, stirred by an unseen hand, and in the distance, a peacock cried; a sound sharp and unyielding, like the clarion call of destiny itself.

The Raja exhaled, his breath steady as the ocean before a storm. "Kalinga has always been the land of the free, the unconquered, the indomitable. But tell me, my son..." His voice dipped lower, like the undertow of a mighty tide. "Is this a blessing... or a curse?"

Adeettiya did not answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed upon the farthest edge of the night, where the temple lamps flickered like dying stars.

कालः सर्वं भवति। (Time decides all things.)

He turned to his father at last, his voice carrying the resolve of generations. "Time will tell. But whatever it is, I will ensure that she is protected."

And somewhere in the distance, where the sky met the sea, the gods remained silent, their presence felt yet unseen-like the tide that shapes the shore without a whisper, like the wind that stirs the flame yet leaves no trace of its touch. Were they mere witnesses, or had they already cast their dice upon the board of fate?

The midnight folded over Kalinga like a velvet shroud, the sky an endless ocean of constellations. Beneath its celestial gaze, Raja Anantha's footsteps slowed, his expression darkening as his thoughts drifted toward a matter far heavier than prophecy or fate.

"Adeettiya..." His voice, though softer now, carried the weight of sorrow, like the hush before a storm. "Your mother... her fever has not subsided. The royal physicians have tried every sacred herb, every mantra whispered in the tongues of sages. Yet still, she fades, like a lamp running out of oil."