The bridge they now crossed arched gracefully across the tranquil lake. It was a structure of polished stone, etched with the crest of Kalinga at its balustrades. Beneath them, the water shimmered like liquid glass, rippling softly beneath the golden sunlight of autumn. The air carried the crisp scent of kadamba blossoms and damp earth, mixed faintly with the fragrance of lotus pollen. White and pink blooms floated lazily upon the water, their petals trembling whenever a swan glided past. The swans themselves were majestic, their long necks bent like carved ivory, while slender fish darted below, flashes of silver weaving between the stems.

It was a kind of beauty that resisted permanence; radiant, transient, like a memory one could only hold for a moment. Even Adeettiya, born within these palace walls, felt the strange tenderness of the scene pressing at the edges of his heart. The sunlight glinted off his armlet as he rested one hand along the bridge's rail, his other clasped behind him in a gesture of composed ease. His voice dropped lower, as if mingling with the wind itself.

"They say," he continued, his tone a mix of curiosity and restrained admiration, "the Mauryan Emperor sits upon a throne carved of black stone, surrounded by counselors from every province. His empire stretches from the Himalayas to the sea, with fortresses, markets, and armies flowing like veins of the same living creature. He is said to know the name of every commander under his banner. Even his elephants bear markings of royal discipline."

He paused to watch a pair of fish leap briefly from the water before vanishing again beneath the surface. "It is... impressive," he admitted quietly. The wind shifted, carrying the rustle of distant palm leaves. Adeettiya's gaze flickered to Urvashi. She walked beside him in silence, her expression placid yet not truly calm. There was something in her eyes...something unreadable.

 For all his confidence, Adeettiya was not blind to subtleties; the tilt of her chin, the quick flicker of her lashes, the way her lips parted slightly as though to ask a question but didn't—these were small things, but they told stories words could not.

She was listening, but not wholly. Her eyes reflected more than his words. They seemed to reflect the lake itself: serene on the surface, restless beneath. There was awe, yes, but also disbelief. He recognized it; he'd seen that same look on courtiers who heard tales too grand to accept, and yet could not bring themselves to doubt entirely.

A soft smile curved his lips. "You seem troubled, Devi," he said lightly, his tone carrying both curiosity and warmth. "My words, perhaps, are dull to one unacquainted with politics and war?"

Urvashi blinked, startled, as if pulled suddenly from the depths of her thoughts. Her gaze darted toward him, then back to the lake. She shook her head faintly but said nothing.

Adeettiya tilted his head slightly, studying her. The sunlight caught in her hair, glinting like threads of copper and gold, and for a brief, unguarded moment, he found himself wondering what she truly thought of him, of Kalinga, and of all this. There was something haunting about her quiet...something that made even silence feel important with meaning.

He turned his gaze forward again, the playful curve of his lips fading into something more contemplative. "Strange, isn't it," he murmured after a pause, "how stories of empires reach us long before their soldiers do? Perhaps that is their truest strength—not in armies or swords, but in the fear they plant through words alone."

A white lotus drifted near the bridge's edge, caught in a slow swirl of current. Adeettiya reached out absently, his fingertips brushing the air just above it. "But Kalinga is not one to fear shadows," he added, more to himself than to her. "We've been forged by storms too old for another man's pride to shake us."

The breeze carried his words away over the lake, leaving only the faint lapping of water and the sound of distant temple bells.

Urvashi remained silent beside him, her thoughts a storm of realization and awe. Adeettiya sensed it still: that strange, unspoken unease in her eyes, and though he couldn't yet name it, he knew instinctively that whatever haunted her was not born of his world. And that made her all the more mysterious to him.

"The Mauryan Empire may have its reach," he said softly, his voice laced with quiet certainty, "but Kalinga has its soul. And no empire, no matter how vast, can conquer that."

Once again Adeettiya slowed his steps, his expression softening as he continued, his voice weaving through the quiet afternoon like a silken thread.

“Magadha,” he began, “is unlike any land you will ever see. I remember it well, though I was but a boy then, no more than seventeen. My father sent me with the royal delegation during their Sharad Purnima celebrations. It was said the Emperor himself would appear before the people that day.”

His eyes grew distant, colored by memory. “The journey took weeks...through the forests of Koshala, across the Ganga plains, past rivers that gleamed like molten light. But when we reached Pataliputra… ah, that city could swallow the world whole. Walls of sandstone and marble, carved gates guarded by elephants adorned with bells, and streets so wide they could fit chariots side by side.”

He smiled faintly, remembering. “Everywhere there was sound: merchants shouting, dancers twirling, priests chanting in the temples of Chandrama. The Mauryans know grandeur, Devi Urvashi. They live and breathe it. Even their silence is deliberate.”

Urvashi listened, her curiosity now a flame burning brightly behind her eyes. “And did you meet the emperor himself?” she asked, leaning slightly forward, her tone brimming with genuine wonder.

Adeettiya chuckled softly, his gaze flickering toward her. “No. Emperor Bindusara does not often grace such gatherings. He rules from behind veils of protocol and secrecy. But his court—his court was alive with princes and ministers. Each one seemed as though born from fire and ambition.”

He paused, resting his hand lightly on the stone railing as they stopped midway through another small bridge overlooking a second lake, smaller and quieter, where the lotus leaves and lily pads spread wide like emerald plates. The reflection of the palace shimmered on the surface, bending with every ripple.

Urvashi tilted her head, eyes glinting with curiosity. “Princes? How many are there?”

Adeettiya exhaled through his nose, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “That, my lady, even the Mauryans themselves might struggle to answer. Emperor Bindusara has many sons, each born of different queens and concubines. Some whisper the number exceeds thirty. But among them, only a few are destined, or allowed, to seek the throne.”

She blinked, the little historian in her buzzing with fascination. Thirty sons… Bindusara… This is the same emperor who was Ashoka’s father… The thought rang loud in her mind, though her lips stayed sealed.

Adeettiya continued, unaware of the storm his words had stirred in her. “Of the princes, there was one I met. The eldest—Prince Susima Maurya.” His tone carried a faint note of wry amusement. “He was older than me, already a warrior in training. Tall, proud, draped in silks so fine they shimmered even under torchlight. I remember thinking his presence filled the entire courtyard...and perhaps he thought the same of himself.”

A soft laugh escaped him, laced with irony. “He had a habit of talking down to others, even foreign princes. He asked if Kalinga still traded in ‘salt and pearls’ instead of wisdom. I was young, and my father had told me to hold my tongue, but…” His eyes glinted mischievously. “I may have suggested that wisdom does not sell in Magadha’s markets because no one there could afford it.”

Urvashi couldn’t help it, she laughed, the sound light and genuine. The way Adeettiya spoke, half teasing and half nostalgic, painted a vivid image of the moment. “And how did he take that?”

“He glared, of course,” Adeettiya said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And then declared that one day, Magadha’s shadow would stretch over the seas. I still remember how his courtiers clapped as though the very sun had spoken. Rude, overconfident, too full of himself… but perhaps he was merely raised that way. I suppose he has changed since then.”

Her laughter faded into curiosity. “Why do you think that?”

Adeettiya’s expression grew more thoughtful. The teasing glimmer left his eyes, replaced by the calm intensity that often appeared when he spoke of matters of state. “Because we’ve heard nothing since,” he said quietly. “No messenger, no diplomat, not even a whisper of news from Pataliputra in the past two years. My spies and informers have returned empty-handed, their tongues tied by either doubt or silence.”

The sound of a distant waterwheel filled the pause that followed, rhythmic and low. Urvashi glanced toward him, studying the slight furrow in his brow. For the first time, his confidence seemed touched by uncertainty.

“Magadha hides behind its grandeur,” Adeettiya said at last, his voice softer now, the words almost carried away by the breeze. “That is what makes them dangerous. You never know if the quiet means peace… or preparation.”

The two of them continued walking as the bridge curved toward the far end of the Paschima gardens. The sun hung low, scattering golden ripples across the water. Swans glided past, their reflections glimmering like pale ghosts. Urvashi, lost in thought, felt an ache rise in her chest—an ache born of knowing what history would soon write of these two kingdoms.

Adeettiya, unaware of the truth she carried, turned his head slightly toward her. “But tell me, Devi,” he said with a faint, knowing smile. “You speak of Magadha as if it stirs something within you. Have you heard tales of it before?”

Urvashi hesitated, her pulse quickening. “Only… what I’ve read,” she murmured before catching herself. “What I’ve heard, I mean.”

He studied her for a long, unreadable moment, as if weighing something unseen. Then, without a word, he resumed walking, his tone lighter again. “Then perhaps,” he said, glancing at the sky where the first hues of dusk began to bloom, “you will have to see it one day yourself. Magadha may have its gold and glory—but Kalinga… Kalinga has its heart.”

Urvashi did not say anything. For quite a long time, she gazed at the little swan-babies with such serenity in her eyes that Adeettiya found it hard to break her peace.

After a while, Adeettiya’s voice broke the silence between them, gentle yet carrying a quiet sharpness that made Urvashi’s heart skip. “You’ve been quiet since our conversation with the Senadhipati,” he said, tilting his head slightly, studying her face beneath the bright afternoon glow. “Something troubles you, does it not?”

Urvashi blinked, startled for a moment. “No, not really,” she replied, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I was just… thinking about the conversation earlier. About Magadha. About your childhood.”

He did not seem convinced. His gaze lingered on her face, patient but searching. “You are a poor liar, Lady Urvashi,” he said softly, the faintest trace of amusement curling his words. “I may not know what weighs on your mind, but I can tell when someone hides a burden.”

Her pulse quickened. She lowered her eyes, her fingers curling around the edge of her angvastram. “It’s nothing worth speaking of,” she said quickly, her tone almost pleading. “Just stray thoughts.”

Adeettiya let the silence breathe between them for a while. The air felt heavy, filled with things unsaid. Then, unexpectedly, he asked in a quieter voice, “Tell me something, Urvashi… what do you think the future holds?”

She glanced up, confused by the sudden shift. “The future?”

“Yes.” He leaned back slightly, eyes unfocused, as though peering into something far away. “For Kalinga. For me. For all of us. I sometimes wonder—does destiny already know how our stories end, or are we merely carving them out in the dark?”

His tone was calm, but there was something probing in it...something that made her uneasy. He wasn’t simply musing; he was searching for something in her words.

Urvashi hesitated. She felt her throat tighten as if unseen hands were silencing her. She could tell him so much—what she had read in her textbooks, what history would record in blood and ashes. But how could she? To tell him the truth would be crueler than silence.

“I don’t think anyone can truly know the future,” she said at last, her voice steady but faintly trembling. “Even if we think we do, it changes with every breath we take, every choice we make. Sometimes… even the smallest act can alter the course of kingdoms.”

Adeettiya’s eyes flickered toward her again, his gaze thoughtful, almost wistful. “You speak as though you have seen it happen,” he murmured.

Her heart skipped. “Perhaps I’ve only read too many stories,” she deflected with a faint, uneasy laugh.

But Adeettiya didn’t smile. He continued watching her in silence, his expression difficult to read. “Stories,” he repeated softly. “Yes… sometimes, stories carry more truth than history itself.”

His words lingered between them like smoke, twisting and fading into the air. Urvashi turned her gaze away, her mind a whirl of conflict and dread. He suspected something—perhaps not what she truly was, but enough to make her cautious.

Adeettiya’s gaze lingered on Urvashi, the golden light of the open space glinting across the metalwork of his armlet. The playful warmth that usually marked his words had ebbed into something quieter, something that searched her face for answers she didn’t want to give.

“You speak of what lies ahead,” he said after a moment, his tone low, almost reverent. “As though the future is a land you’ve already walked through.”

Urvashi’s steps slowed. The soft rustle of her garments filled the pause before her voice followed. “I only speak as an observer, Your Highness. Anyone who listens carefully can sense which way the wind will turn.”

Adeettiya stopped walking. “No,” he said, his eyes steady, glimmering with restrained disbelief. “You don’t just sense it, you know it.”

The air between them tightened. He turned slightly toward her, his expression unreadable but edged with unease. “Tell me, Urvashi… aren't you from the distant future?”

The question pierced her composure. For a fleeting moment, her breath caught. His words were too close to a truth she could not defend nor deny.

He stepped closer, the faint scent of sandalwood clinging to his attire. His voice softened, barely above a whisper. “What becomes of Kalinga? Of us, of the Mauryans, and of me?”

Her throat constricted. A thousand memories—no, lessons—rushed through her mind. The neat black print of her history textbook flash in the back of her mind: One hundred thousand dead. Two hundred and fifty thousand displaced. She could almost see the river turning red, the cries of the fallen fading into the cold silence of history.