Adeettiya tilted his head, almost amused. Then he spoke directly: "You think superstition sits before us now?" His tone was calm, but there was a spark beneath, the kind that tested where lines were drawn.

Achyut's jaw tightened. He bowed slightly, but the edge in his voice remained. "I think only of your protection, my prince."

Urvashi met his stare, steady as a still pond. Her voice was quiet, but it carried. "Discipline is the body of a kingdom, yes. But even bodies fall without a spirit. Call it faith, call it vision, call it fate: it is what lifts men beyond mere survival."

Achyut's thoughts burned. Vision? Spirits? Empty words. Did spirit stop Magadha's swords? Did fate stop the fire that gutted my home? His hand curled into a fist, nails pressing his palm. She is so full of herself!

Adeettiya could tell by his subordinate's expression his inner rage, his unsaid feelings and his determination to defy heaven's seemingly pathetic will. 

She cut in, his voice colder. "Men need no spirit to thrust a spear. They need will. They need command. That is the truth." Urvashi's gaze softened, though her words pressed where his wounds lay. "And yet, truth wears many faces, Achyut. You speak of will, but who forged yours? Was it only steel?"

The words cut deep. Achyut's chest tightened as if the past had seized him by the throat. He heard again the screams, the clash of foreign blades, the smell of burning wood. His father falling, his mother's cry lost to the flames. And the priests, their mouths spilling prayers that never saved anyone. The gods silent.

Adeettiya's gaze flicked between them, sharp as a hawk's. His thoughts curled. Good. Let it burn. Its known everywhere that he will not yield—he never does. But if she can withstand his suspicion, if she can speak where others only fall silent before his temper, then she is not as fragile as some might think. I think this is a good quality which should be displayed before others who still question her legitimacy.

The minister's jaw tightened. He turned to Adeettiya instead, as though her words were not worth direct acknowledgment. "My lord, forgive me, but this woman's speech reeks of riddles. Such words, if carried to weak hearts, can infect discipline with doubt."

Adeettiya's gaze flickered, sharp but curious. He did not speak, inviting the tension to unfold further. Urvashi's eyes lingered on the scarred commander-in-chief, her calm and unbroken. "Discipline may bend beneath doubt, but true strength grows when men ask why they fight, not merely how."

At this, Achyut finally faced her squarely. His voice was clipped, each syllable a blade.
"And who are you, devi, to speak of the strength of men? You, who appeared out of thin air, without past, without lineage, without the dust of Kalinga on your skin. Whispers call you a spirit, some say a goddess. But I know better. Such things do not exist. You are flesh and bone, nothing more. A spy, perhaps, planted by Magadha itself. Sent to seduce our eyes away from vigilance."

Adeettiya's brow twitched, but still he did not intervene. His silence was deliberate: a test for Urvashi to strengthen her position. A silent invitation for Achyut to let out his doubts infront of the powerless Urvashi.

Urvashi neither flinched nor frowned. "Magadha," she repeated softly, as though tasting the word. She knew about this place only from her grade seven history book "And why would their emperor's throne require a woman such as me, when he already commands thousands with sword and coin?"

Achyut's voice sharpened. "Because it is not the sword one sees that kills. It is the whisper in the ear. The soft hand in the dark. You arrive here, cloaked in rumors of bending time and defying logic—what better mask for a spy? Miracles are nothing but tools of deception."

The tension thickened. Adeettiya's eyes flicked between them, his lips curling faintly in thought.

He broke the silence, his tone low but probing. "Tell me, Achyut: why does the word fate rattle you so? Is it fear that men may grow soft if they believe in something beyond your order?"

Achyut turned to him at once, instinctively deferential yet unflinching. "My lord, I mistrust because I have seen what faith breeds: complacency. Men waiting for gods while enemies carve them apart. Hope blinds, and superstition—" his eyes cut toward Urvashi again "—makes fools of even the wise."

Urvashi lifted her chin slightly, her voice calm, like a river that could not be damned. "Then think of me not as fate, not as miracle, not as omen. Think of me only as one who walks with eyes open. I do not wish to blind men with faith, only to keep them from being blinded by certainty."

Before Achyut could retort, his eyes caught the silent order of his superior; almost as if telling him to stop embarrassing himself. Achyut gave a short, scornful sound. Yet he bowed his head slightly, a gesture more for Adeettiya than her. "As you command, my liege. But remember this, though I dare to utter this as a lowly servant of yours, discipline wins wars, not riddles."

Adeettiya stood suddenly, tall against the sunlight. His shadow cut across them both, the pressure of his presence unmistakable. His voice was measured, princely. "Then we shall have both. Discipline to win the wars of today. Riddles to prepare for the wars unseen."

Achyut bowed low at once. His mind seethed. Always his word is law. Even when it drifts toward folly. I am his sword, not his tongue. I may scorn, but I cannot break away from my vows.

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the clash of training soldiers. Adeettiya let it linger, savoring how tension settled, how their thoughts worked against one another. He did not fear silence; it was a blade sharper than words.

Achyut broke it at last, his tone lower, quieter, tinged with memory. "I was fifteen when Magadha came. They killed without pause. Priests cried of omens, of gods that would shield us. None came. That was the night I buried faith. Since then, only steel answers me."

His eyes, dark and steady, fixed on Urvashi. "So forgive me, lady, if I do not bow to whispers of time-defying arrivals. If Magadha sent you as a spy, no riddle will save us."

Urvashi absorbed his words, her own thoughts steady.

Aloud, she spoke softly. "And if Magadha did not send me? If I am what I say, neither spy, nor goddess, nor phantom, only one who has seen threads of time others have not? Then what will you do, Senapati?"

Achyut's jaw set. He glanced toward Adeettiya, as if seeking tether. "Then I will serve as I always have...through steel, through vigilance. But mark me: trust must be earned, not granted by tales."

And above them, the sun slid westward, gilding the courtyard in molten light, as if the gods themselves have seated to watch this game of mortals.