The harsh rhythm of the drum beats had long faded behind them as Urvashi and Adeettiya crossed into the shaded corridors leading towards the Paschima Mandapa. The rhythmic clang of soldiers' training in the Southern Wing still echoed faintly in her ears, a constant reminder of Senadhipati Achyut's cutting words. Each step she took seemed to carry the burden of that conversation, with the echo of his accusations threading through her thoughts like a stubborn melody she could not silence. There were hundreds of questions she wanted to ask, but she had no-one to bravely ask. By now she was aware that Kalinga and Magadha were not at good terms with each other. The air grew cooler beneath the stone arches, carrying with it the faint scent of shiuli and salt. Yet, even the tranquil hush of the Mandapa's approach could not quiet the disquiet stirring within her.

Her footsteps matched the prince's, but her mind wandered elsewhere.

"And who are you, lady, 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." 

Achyut’s voice still rang in her head, sharp and heavy with skepticism. There had been mockery in his tone, yes, but beneath it, something else too: a faint trace of unease, as though even he, the empire’s most seasoned general, feared what he couldn’t quite understand. The memory of his gaze—cold, assessing, and faintly accusatory—lingered like a burn. The soldiers stationed around them had bowed to her afterward, their eyes flickering with curiosity, suspicion, and something that looked dangerously close to reverence. It unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

But what truly rooted itself in her thoughts was something else he had said:

“A spy, perhaps, planted by Magadha itself. Sent to seduce our eyes away from vigilance.”

Magadha. Mauryan Empire.

The name struck her like lightning. It wasn’t foreign; no, it was painfully familiar.  A relic from a world she had been forced to leave behind and move on. She could almost see it, the memory of that old textbook from her school days. The faintly yellowed pages, the smell of dust and cheap ink, the tiny black print beneath the heading: “Chapter 7: The Rise of the Mauryan Empire.” She could still picture the grainy map of ancient India, where Magadha stood marked in faded brown, a small kingdom that grew into an empire under Chandragupta Maurya.

Her mind reeled as fragments surfaced: Chanakya, the cunning minister with his Arthashastra; Chandragupta, who forged an empire from chaos; Pataliputra, the capital that pulsed like the heart of the subcontinent. And then came the name that followed, like the closing note of a tragic song, Ashoka. The Emperor who turned from blood to Dharma.

Her breath caught. So this is that Magadha? The same empire she had once tried to memorize for her exams, yawning at the long paragraphs about administration and trade routes? The same realm that, centuries later, would expand and clash with Kalinga. The war that changed everything?

A chill crawled down her spine as realisation dawned upon her. She wasn’t just walking through some forgotten kingdom’s corridors. She was walking through the living pages of the history she had once studied, the very world she thought belonged only to books, black-and-white illustrations and one's imagination.

Her stomach twisted with disbelief and an odd thrill. Then what am I doing here, in the Kalinga that existed before... that war?

Adeettiya glanced over his shoulder, his expression light with the kind of effortless charm that often masked his sharp awareness. “You’ve seen the Dakshina Wing in its chaos,” he said with a half-smile, “but the Paschima Mandapa—now that is where Kalinga truly breathes.”

The prince’s voice cut smoothly through her thoughts. His barotine voice was melodic and measured, each word carrying the easy grace of someone born to command attention. He was speaking—something about the Paschima Mandapa, the western wing of the palace, where Kalinga’s finest minds gather to discuss and preserve the kingdom’s glory. His tone was tinged with youthful pride, as though every corner of this palace were his to boast of, every corridor a piece of his inheritance. Urvashi barely caught the words; they floated past her, muffled by the pounding rhythm of her racing thoughts.

The air grew noticeably cooler, with light afternoon breeze, as they entered the passageway. It carried the aroma of lotuses and camphor. The same scent that lingered in temple courtyards after morning prayers. The walls along the corridor were alive with art: stone panels depicting ministers, musicians, philosophers, and dancers, their bodies fluid and lifelike despite the centuries that must have passed since they were carved. Between them, verses of ancient Kalingan poetry were etched in calligraphic precision, celebrating the triumphs of kings and the wisdom of sages. The floor beneath her feet shimmered with traces of crushed seashells embedded in the polished stone, catching the light that filtered in through intricately latticed windows. Urvashi decided to forcibly stop her speculations and take some time to praise this artistry.

The Paschima Mandapa was more than a sanctuary for art, philosophy, and memory. It was truly the heart of Kalinga’s governance. It was here that the Royal Council convened, a gathering of generals, ministers, and learned advisors, presided over by the crown prince himself when the king was away at war. Decisions that shaped the kingdom’s fate were made here—treaties signed, judgments delivered, and legacies sealed in the presence of gods whose names were chanted through these corridors.

But now, the council had yet to assemble for the evening. The stillness of the late hour hung like a veil over the grand hallways. Courtiers and ministers had not yet taken their places, and the long rows of oil lamps lining the passage burned low and steady, their flames swaying with the breeze. The sound of her anklets, faint and rhythmic, seemed unnaturally loud in the emptiness.

Adeettiya slowed his pace, turning his head away her as they reached the final archway. “You’ll want to see this,” he said softly, a hint of pride warming his words. His gaze flicked ahead, towards the open expanse that awaited them.

They stepped into sunlight.

Urvashi stopped short. Before them stretched a vast inner courtyard that opened into a lake—broad and still, its surface smooth as molten glass. At its center rose the Sabha, the most renowned space in the entire Paschima Mandapa. It was not merely a hall, it was a marvel suspended between earth and water.

The Sabha stood on a platform of white marble that seemed to float upon the lake. A narrow causeway of carved stone connected it to the field, in front of the main corridor's threshold, bordered by rows of blooming lotuses whose petals brushed the water with every dance of the wind. The structure itself was open, its wide roof supported by elegant pillars spaced just far enough to let the light pass through. Each pillar was adorned with golden chains that swayed softly, chiming when they touched. The roof’s edges were inlaid with gemstones—sapphires, rubies, and moonstones—that caught the sunlight and scattered it across the water in a thousand hues.

Translucent drapes hung from the beams, their silken folds moving like breath. When the breeze passed through, they glowed faintly, diffusing light in soft shades of ivory and gold. The reflection of the Sabha rippled in the lake, making it appear as though the structure extended into an unseen, inverted world beneath the surface. The faint sound of veena strings drifted from a distance. It were the musicians rehearsing in one of the adjoining courtyards; their notes carried by the wind like fragments of an old hymn.

Adeettiya walked ahead, his figure mirrored in the water as he stepped onto the causeway. “This,” he said, his voice low but proud, “is where the Royal Council meets—the Sabha Mandira of the Lake. Every decree, every alliance, every song of victory begins here. Even foreign envoys fall silent when they see it.” His eyes gleamed with pride.

Urvashi followed, her gaze drawn to the patterns of light that danced across the marble floor. The beauty of it was almost overwhelming, but beneath that splendor, a strange awareness coiled in her chest. This was not just a court. This was the living embodiment of a civilization, a kingdom that thrived on wisdom, art, and war alike. And somewhere in its history, in the story of this empire that she had once only read about, she was now walking: a misplaced piece of another time, standing amidst the grandeur of the past.

She had to ask.

"Your Highness," she began suddenly, her voice cutting softly through the ambient hum of the corridor. Adeettiya slowed, turning toward her with mild curiosity.

"Yes, Lady Urvashi?"

She hesitated, measuring her words, but curiosity won over caution. "The Mauryan Empire that Achyut mentioned... and Magadha—are they real kingdoms? To the north, perhaps?"

Her question seemed to amuse him. The corners of his lips curved faintly, though his gaze held an unexpected sharpness. "Ah. So Achyut's sharp tongue lingers even now. No wonder you have been off for some time now." He chuckled, though not entirely in jest. "Yes, Magadha is real. It is the heart of the Mauryan domain. A vast land ruled by the Lion Throne, or so their emissaries claim. It stretches far beyond our northern borders, with cities grander than any in the east."

Urvashi’s breath caught, her steps faltering as if the air itself had grown heavier around her. She could almost see it: the bustling city of Pataliputra, its wooden palisades looming like guardians along the riverbank. Soldiers pacing with disciplined precision, merchants shouting over the clamor of ox-drawn carts. The Ganga River gleamed in her mind’s eye like molten silver, reflecting the flickering glow of countless oil diyas as twilight descended. The faint scent of ink and dust from her old schoolbooks seemed to return to her, conjuring a world she had only ever studied from a distance. Those dull, yellowed pages had suddenly awakened, alive with motion, sound, and color.

Adeettiya’s voice sliced softly through her reverie, melodic and effortless, yet she heard only fragments. “They say their emperor commands an army larger than any in Bharatavarsha,” he said, pride threading through each word. “And their spies travel unseen—even among our court, perhaps.” The teasing lilt in his tone, meant to amuse, barely reached her.

Her mind whirred and her heart thudded painfully in her chest. If this was Kalinga—the Kalinga of her textbooks—then she was no longer just a visitor. She was intruding on a living history, a fragment of the past she had long relegated to margins and memory. Magadha. Mauryan Empire. Ashoka. Kalinga. Names she had memorized without thought now gnawed at her mind, each syllable heavy with meaning she had never expected to feel.

Her gaze fell on Adeettiya, laughing softly, alive in a way that felt unbearably ephemeral. The crown prince of this radiant kingdom moved with effortless grace. The sunlight caught the threads of gold in his garments, highlighting the curves of his shoulders and the strength in his stride. His laughter, his smile and his conviviality, soft and unguarded, reached her, warm and alive. And yet, beneath that ease, a pang of sorrow struck her chest: he was the living embodiment of a future she knew would crumble. She knew, with a strange, surreal certainty, that the world around him numbered in its longevity. Her textbooks had already told her: Kalinga would fall. The people, the gardens, the music...all destined to become nothing but faded words in her history book.

A sharp, inexplicable ache rose in her chest, the tension of wonder and grief mingling into a strange, hollow longing. How could she feel grief for something she had never truly known? For someone she had never met? Her lips parted, but no words formed. What could she possibly say? How could she warn him, or herself, or even acknowledge that the world he lived in so freely was already a memory in her own time?

She wanted to speak, to ask a question, to warn or to beg the world to hold still. But her voice betrayed her, failing entirely for it was swallowed by awe and dread alike. Urvashi felt the strange, almost painful thrill of being both witness and intruder, heart thrumming in tandem with a world she had only ever imagined.

And in that moment, following Adeettiya towards the heart of the Mandapa, she felt the strange weight of knowing too much: the beauty, the laughter, the life around her; all doomed to one day become memory, one day be reduced to mere words in a book she had already read. She swallowed hard, trying to hold the grief, the awe, and the impossibility all at once, and let herself step forward into history.