The palace had transformed in the daylight. Last night it had loomed, dark and incomprehensible. But now, it was alive and full of hope, it seemed to exhale around her; a place full of breath and whispers.

Urvashi stepped out with the maids, barely concealing her awe and excitement. The corridor opened into a vast courtyard bathed in soft, golden sunlight. The air was warm but not heavy, carrying the faint scent of sandalwood, jasmine, and incense from a distant shrine. This was no ordinary courtyard—it was the Suvarna Angana, the palace's golden heart, where the sky was allowed to touch the earth.

White stone tiles stretched beneath her feet, interspersed with intricate inlays of deep blue lapis and red agate, forming mandalas and mythical patterns that told stories with every step. A narrow channel of water, bordered by imported marble, ran through the center like a quiet river, reflecting the fluttering shadows of royal flags and carved archways. Tiny lotuses and lilies floated within it, petals just opening to the morning sun.

Tall sal and ashoka trees lined the perimeter, their trunks wrapped in saffron and vermilion threads, leaves dancing with the breeze. Delicate bells hung from the stone eaves above, chiming with every breath of wind, their soft notes mingling with the calls of peacocks and the distant chirps of the koels.

The hallways leading from the courtyard narrowed, transforming into dimly lit corridors carved from black granite and sandstone, every inch adorned with murals and bas-reliefs. Some depicted scenes of gods feasting, celestial apsaras dancing, kings at war, and lovers lost in embrace—each image etched with such precision, they almost seemed alive in the flickering torchlight.

When they approached the eastern part of the palace, the air subtly changed: spiced, aromatic, and tinged with the reverberations of voices and soft melodies played on a veena.

पूर्वस्यां दिशा ज्वलति मणिमण्डपः स्वर्णतेजसा।

सूर्योदयेन संप्राप्तं दिव्यं सौंदर्यमक्षयम्॥

Pūrvasyāṁ diśā jvalati maṇimaṇḍapaḥ svarṇatejasā

sūryodayena saṁprāptaṁ divyaṁ saundaryamakṣayam

(In the eastern direction glows the gem-studded pavilion, radiant with golden brilliance.

With the arrival of sunrise, it is adorned in an eternal, divine beauty.)

The Purva Mandapa, the Eastern Pavilion, loomed ahead, grand and serene. 

Above them, a golden frieze gleamed faintly in the light, inscribed with the words: "Yatra bhojanaṁ tatra satyam, yatra satyam tatra ānandaḥ"

(Where there is food, there is truth; where there is truth, there is bliss.)

The moment her feet crossed the stone threshold, Urvashi paused, utterly still.

The Purva Mandapa rose before her like a vision stitched from fire and gold. Morning light poured in from the high eastern archways, cascading in long, liquid beams that struck the floor like divine arrows. Every column glowed, etched with the tender flames of dawn. Tiny motes of dust shimmered in the air, suspended in the golden hush like blessings unspoken. The melodious, intimate, and velvety notes of the Veena and the Sitar danced with the sunlight and the wind, echoing in this vast expanse.

Her breath caught.

The pillars, tall and slender, stood in perfect symmetry, carved with gods and dancers mid-spin, their expressions ageless. The ceiling above stretched into a dome painted in deep indigo, now tinged with molten light that spilled through stone latticework, forming golden filigree across her arms and face.

She lifted her hand, fingers trembling slightly, as if trying to catch the sunlight pooling through the ornate jharokhas. It kissed her skin, warm and reverent.

Her lips parted, but no words formed.

In that silence, a breeze swept through the open arches, lifting the edge of her pallu. The soft serenade of the veena descended into something far otherwordly, echoing behind the closed doors, and for a heartbeat, the world felt sacred.

Not modern. Not ancient. Simply eternal.

Urvashi stepped forward slowly, each footfall echoing softly on the polished stone. Her reflection moved with her: barefoot, draped in indigo, haloed in morning light. A stranger in time. A child of yesterday. And yet, something in her chest stirred.

She didn't know if it was awe, reverence, or the aching weight of beauty itself.

But she knew—this was not a dream.

This was the kind of reality that even dreams bowed before.

Urvashi's eyes lingered on the soft glow of the Purva Mandapa behind her as they turned into another dimly lit stone corridor. The air here was cooler, touched with the musk of wood and metal. Bronze torches lined the walls, flickering as soldiers in muted armor led the way, their spears upright, sandals silent against the granite floor.

Dipti, walking a half-step beside Urvashi, clutched the edge of her ardha-uttarīya shyly.

"Devi," she whispered, her voice almost swallowed by the stillness, "have you seen a Mandapa so beautiful before? My grandmother used to say this wing glows like Surya-loka itself when the sun rises."

Urvashi glanced sideways, the corner of her mouth twitching in a faint smile. "I've seen many buildings," she said slowly, choosing her words with care, "but never one that feels like it's... breathing."

Dipti's eyes sparkled. "It's because the king had it built on a nakshatra-yukta day. They say the stones were blessed before they were even carved."

Urvashi hummed softly, her gaze drifting to the faint mural lining the wall-celestial elephants dancing above blooming lotuses. She felt Dipti watching her, curious, cautious.

"You speak Sanskrit so well," Urvashi said quietly, still studying the art. "Were you trained for palace service?"

Dipti nodded, a proud little bob of her head. "Yes, Devi. In the temple school near Lake Ansupa. I was chosen for the palace when I turned sixteen."

Urvashi's brows lifted slightly. Sixteen? She turned to look more fully at the girl, noticing the gentle tilt of her chin, the woven bracelet around her wrist—a child trying to carry duty with grace.

"Hmm," Urvashi murmured. "You're different from the ones who helped me last night."

Dipti flushed and looked ahead, lowering her voice. "The Yuvarāja gave the order, Devi. He said you must be made comfortable, as a... samānya-atithi no longer."

Something softened in Urvashi's chest, an invisible thread pulling taut.

So he had noticed.

She inhaled deeply, letting the air settle her nerves as they passed another archway flanked by brass lion heads. The corridor began to widen again, light blooming ahead.

"Thank you, Dipti," she said gently, offering the girl a fleeting glance of real warmth. "For walking beside me."

Dipti beamed, cheeks pink. "It is I who must thank you, Devi. The palace feels livelier with you here—but in a nice way!"

And then, before Urvashi could respond, the soldiers halted, stepping aside with practiced grace.

They had arrived.

Two towering wooden doors, carved with scenes from the Samudra Manthan, loomed ahead-parting slowly to reveal the inner sanctum of the royal dining pavilion.

A soldier stepped forward, striking the polished marble floor with the butt of his spear. His voice rang clear through the fragrant air:

"Urvashī-devī, āgatā asti - mahāmantritaṁ vidhāya."

(Urvashi Devi has arrived, as summoned with due honour.)

The heavy doors groaned open on burnished hinges, revealing a vast chamber flooded with gentle amber light.

The room held its breath for a beat.

Inside, the Rāj-Bhojana Mandira unfurled like a scene from an epic. Sunlight filtered through latticed stone windows high above, dancing across the silken banners that hung from intricately carved sandalwood rafters—each bearing the sigil of Kalinga: a golden makara riding the waves, and the royal insignia of the Garuda.

The central dais bore three raised, cushioned seats, one adorned with the sheen of age—old ivory, the other simpler but no less regal—gold threaded cushions and dark rosewood thrones shaped like lotus blooms in half-rise.

A low table, set between the seats and surrounded by equally ornate yet humbler mats, overflowed with gold thālis and banana leaves. Upon them: delicate mounds of fragrant ghee-rice, crisp kadali bhaja, soft lentil-laced pakhala, chakuli pitha, bowls of thickened palm sugar and cardamom cream, and a jug of tamarind-spiced buttermilk beading with dew.

Urvashi stood a breath's length from the threshold.

She didn't falter.

Lifting her gaze, she found the King, Anantha Padmanabhan—a mountain of calm and wisdom, his eyes dark and unreadable under a crown woven with sapphires—and beside him, the Crown Prince Adeettiya, radiant and sharp-edged like a freshly honed blade wrapped in silk.

Without pause, Urvashi stepped forward, each footfall silent as her antariya's hem whispered against the polished floor. The sunlight brushed her shoulder as if in approval. When she reached the foot of the dais, she gracefully lowered herself into a traditional añjali-bandhana, the full-body salutation of the court, forehead bowing low, hands folded in a perfect Namaste.

She rose slowly, eyes meeting the King's with steady reverence, then shifting briefly to the Crown Prince, acknowledging him with a quiet grace that spoke of pride without arrogance.

Not a single piece of jewelry clinked out of place. Her spine held the curve of poise learned through another lifetime. Her lips wore a faint smile—not too bold, not too meek. Making mistakes here might cost her life.

"Pranam Mahārāja... Pranam Yuvarāja," she greeted, her voice steady, regal even in its humility.

The King gave a small nod, acknowledging her.

But it was Adeettiya who spoke first, his voice smooth like still water.

"We are honoured you've accepted our invitation, Devi Urvashi."

She finally raised her eyes, just enough to meet his.

So you really did send them, she thought, not daring to say it aloud. But a flicker in his gaze told her, he knew she knew.

Adeettiya's eyes held hers just a breath longer than formality allowed. The faintest ghost of a smile brushed his lips, neither arrogant nor mischievous, simply... knowing.

Urvashi lowered her gaze again, offering a soft tilt of her head in acknowledgment. "The honour is mine, Yuvarāja," she said, her voice calm, the syllables laced with the delicacy of restraint. "The hospitality of Kalinga has been most gracious."

A servant moved forward, guiding her to the cushioned mat laid across from the royal pair. She sank into it with practiced ease, folding her legs beneath her with the grace of a woman born into decorum, even if she had only worn jeans and kurtas two nights ago.

Adeettiya gestured lightly. "We hope the Purva Mandapa offered you a pleasing view this morning."

"The rising sun over the eastern wing," she said, lifting her eyes once more, "was something I shall not forget. It felt as though time itself paused to admire its own reflection."

The King chuckled softly at that, a low, approving sound, though his lips barely moved.

Adeettiya, however, leaned forward just a touch. "That is the very nature of Purva Mandapa. It captures moments in gold and gives them to memory."