And Adeettiya—his name, his pride, this kingdom’s laughter—all of it destined to be a footnote.

She forced herself to breathe. “I cannot give you that,” she said finally, her voice trembling just slightly, though her gaze held firm. “To name the ending is to bind the play.”

Adeettiya studied her, his brows lowering. “So you do know,” he murmured. “And yet, you choose silence.”

Urvashi’s lips curved faintly, a fragile, sorrowful smile. “I know enough to fear the cost of answers,” she replied. “The Mauryas will rise—that much is certain. But whether Kalinga is remembered for ruin or for defiance, that...I cannot say."

Inside, she thought bitterly, History doesn’t remember Kalinga for its glory. It remembers its agony; the war that broke an emperor’s soul.

Adeettiya exhaled, a long, slow breath that seemed to carry centuries of weight. His lips quirked into a smile, one caught between defiance and melancholy. “If I knew the end,” he said, “perhaps I would rewrite it for everything to be better.”

Urvashi lowered her eyes to the floor of the bridge, the reflection of the ripples creating highlights on the upper half of her body. “Or perhaps you would chain yourself to it,” she whispered.

He looked at her for a long moment, the silence stretching between them. It was fragile, electric and real. Then, with a quiet nod, he turned his gaze forward once more. “Then I will walk the path blind,” he said softly and then swivelling his head just enough to look back at her, he added, “And let destiny flinch first.”

A low, rhythmic pulse rippled through the air. The resonant clang of bronze bells and the deep, rolling thrum of temple drums. Their echoes swept across the palace complex, rising from courtyards and shrines that marked the passage of time in Kalinga. It was madhyāhna, the sacred noon hour, when the sun stood high and the air shimmered faintly with heat.

Adeettiya paused mid-step, glancing towards the sound. The breeze carried the mingled aroma of incense and fresh clarified butter from somewhere within the Paschima Mandapa. Turning to Urvashi, he smiled, just a small, knowing curve at the corners of his lips.

“It is bhojana-kāla,” he said, the word rolling off his tongue with easy warmth. “We should eat before the cooks come scolding me for keeping a guest waiting.”

Urvashi blinked, momentarily drawn back from her thoughts. The gentle weariness on her face became more visible now that the conversation had softened. “I think I’d like that,” she admitted with a quiet laugh. “It’s been a while since I’ve walked this much. My body feels like it’s been through a battle of its own.”

His smile faded into something gentler—karuṇā, a deep, almost guilty empathy. Adeettiya slowed his steps, his tone tinged with self-reproach. “You should have said so earlier. I’ve dragged you across half the palace as if you were one of my soldiers.”

She waved her hand lightly, still smiling. “It’s nothing, really. Just tired feet.”

But he wasn’t convinced. His gaze shifted towards the stone corridor ahead that led further deep into the Paschim Mandapa: home to the royal kitchens, granaries, and the bustling hum of the afternoon court. The scent of roasted sesame and saffron drifted through the latticed vents, mingling with the sharper tang of mustard oil.

“We’re close,” he said softly, before adding with a teasing glint, “If you’re that weary, I could carry you the rest of the way.”

Urvashi’s eyes widened, a startled laugh escaping her lips. “That won’t be necessary, Your Highness,” she replied, her tone a mix of amusement and formality, though a faint flush rose to her cheeks. “I can manage perfectly fine.”

But as she took another step, a sharp sting raced through her foot. She winced. Adeettiya noticed instantly, his brow knitting.

“What is it?” he asked, voice tightening.

“It’s… nothing,” she murmured, though her hesitation betrayed her. “I think these sandals—” she glanced down with faint irritation “—they’re lovely, but the leather’s new. It’s rubbing against my skin.”

Adeettiya’s gaze followed hers. The delicate sandals, polished and finely stitched, looked fit for a goddess. But the edges had already left faint red marks on her heels.

“Blisters?” he asked quietly.

She hesitated, then nodded once. “Perhaps.”

His expression softened, a flicker of guilt shadowing his features. “Then it’s settled,” he said, tone firm but kind. “You’ll walk no further.”

Before she could protest, he added, voice gentle yet resolute, “The Paschima Mandapa lies just beyond this bridge. It would be a poor reflection on Kalinga’s hospitality to let our guest arrive in pain.”

Urvashi opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. The ache pulsed again, sharp and insistent.

“…I can walk yuvraj,” she said softly, her voice laced with reluctant defiance. She really did not want to cause inconvenience for people who have been sheltering her since the day her fate changed.

Adeettiya pursed his lips into a thin line. His mouth opened to say something, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to say it. He sighed, “You are our greatest guest,” he murmured. “I’d rather be scolded for breaking decorum than for breaking a guest’s trust.” They continued walking. But it was not eventful. Urvashi's pride was being a big obstacle for both of them.

Finally, Adeettiya slowed to a halt near the archway that opened into the kitchen grounds of the Paschima Mandapa. The faint sound of clinking brass and rhythmic chopping from the royal kitchens filtered through the air, mingling with the smell of simmering lentils, roasted sesame, and ghee becoming stronger. His gaze lingered on Urvashi for a moment—her hesitant posture, those reddened feet and the faint discomfort she tried so earnestly to conceal.

He took a slow breath, the silk of his angavastra rustling briskly as he turned to face her fully. “Lady Urvashi,” he said softly, his tone now gentler than it had been all afternoon, “may I?”

Her brows furrowed slightly. “May you…?”

“Carry you,” he clarified, though his words carried none of the arrogance of a prince, only a respectful calm. “You are hurt, and I will not have you walk another step in pain. It would dishonour the guest-rights of Kalinga.”

Urvashi’s lips parted, but no ready protest came. The way he said it: quiet, sincere and edged with that strange formality, that somehow made it harder to refuse. It left her momentarily still. “It’s really not necessary—” she began again with her words of superficial comfort.

But Adeettiya shook his head lightly. “Then, at least allow me the courtesy of choice,” he said, the barest smile softening his voice. “Yours, not mine.”

Pride wavered against practicality before she exhaled in quiet surrender.

For a moment, neither of them moved, as if time had stopped them and their surroundings. The sound of the breeze was the only thing that could be heard. Finally, with a small, reluctant nod, Urvashi gave her permission. "Then remove them", his tone was edged with finality.

He stepped closer, the movement slow and deliberate, as though he feared startling her. Then, with one arm, he gently wrapped it around her back, the other beneath her knees. The silk of his shawl brushed her arm—a faint, fleeting contact that made her breath catch before she could stop it. In one smooth motion, he lifted her effortlessly, his strength evident but never showy.

The world tilted. Urvashi felt the ground recede as her body rose into his hold. A small gasp escaped her before she could stifle it. The sudden closeness sent her pulse fluttering beneath her skin.

Adeettiya glanced at her face briefly, as if checking whether she was comfortable. “Am I hurting you?” he asked quietly, the words almost lost to the rustle of their garments.

She shook her head, unable to trust her voice.

With his other hand, he reached down and carefully took her sandals, holding them with unexpected delicacy—like one might handle a relic, not a pair of shoes.

It struck her then: no one had ever carried her like this before. Not since her father, when she was small enough to fall asleep in his arms after visits or late-night walks. But this was different. This wasn’t a father’s warmth; this was something else...something steadier, mature, threaded with unspoken awareness.

Adeettiya was tall—taller than most men she had met. From this height, the corridors seemed narrower, the world smaller. Her arm, by instinct, found balance around his neck, her fingers brushing against the fabric near his collarbone. The contact was faint, yet electric.

Still, a sliver of skepticism stirred within her. “You won’t… drop me, will you?” she managed, her voice softer than she intended.

A short laugh escaped him, low and rich. “If I do,” he said, eyes glinting with teasing amusement, “it will not be from lack of strength, I promise you that.”

Only then did she allow herself to breathe. She could feel the steadiness of his heartbeat beneath the fabric, unhurried and certain, grounding her against the strangeness of the moment.

Her gaze drifted upward, and for the first time, she truly saw him. Not as the crown prince, not as the heir of a warlike kingdom—but as a man.

The sunlight filtering through the latticed ceiling struck his features in fleeting gold. His cheekbones caught the light, sharp and regal; his jawline, sculpted with an almost unnatural precision, was dusted faintly with shadow. His nose was aquiline, proud, the kind carved into old coins and temple murals. A faint scar traced the edge of his brow; a thin, brown mark that added something raw to his otherwise polished composure.

And his eyes—those eyes—were a strange blend of molten gold and brown, shifting like sunlight on deep river water. In their depths, she saw something she hadn’t expected: not arrogance, but an unspoken weariness, a quiet thoughtfulness he rarely revealed.

Freckles dotted faintly across his cheek, catching the light as he moved. She had never noticed them before; they softened him, made him real. Human.

For a heartbeat too long, Urvashi’s gaze lingered there, studying him, memorizing him, as if her mind wanted to preserve every detail for a story she was never meant to tell.

Adeettiya must have noticed the weight of her silence. His lips curved slightly, though his eyes remained fixed ahead. “You’re very quiet,” he murmured.

She blinked, snapping out of her thoughts, heat rising faintly to her cheeks. “Just… thinking,” she said, forcing a small smile. “You walk faster than my thoughts can keep up.”

His chuckle was soft, almost fond. “Then I’ll walk slower,” he said, adjusting his hold, gripping around her waist firmly.

The silence between them stretched, thick and palpable. Urvashi could almost hear the rhythmic thud of her own heartbeat against her ears as she sat stiffly, her gaze flicking toward Adeettiya. His jaw had tightened, the muscles along his cheek flexing as though restraining something... an emotion, perhaps a thought he dared not voice. For a brief, unsettling moment, she wondered if she was the cause of his discomfort. Her chest tightened with self-consciousness, and before she could stop herself, the thought slipped out as a whisper, hesitant and unsure.

“Am I… too heavy?”

Adeettiya’s eyes snapped toward her. The tension in his face softened instantly, the corners of his lips parting in quiet surprise. “No,” he said, his tone calm yet carrying that unmistakable authority that seemed ingrained in his every word. There was a faint pause before he continued, voice lower now, touched with something almost reverent. “It’s not because of you.”

Then, just as suddenly, he fell silent again.

From his eyes, the moment unfolded differently. The air between them seemed to hum with an unspoken rhythm as he studied her, really studied her. The royal blue silk of her angvastram caught the fading sunlight, draping over her skin like liquid dusk. The delicate curve of her shoulders, the way the fabric shimmered when she moved, and those eyes—large, searching, and impossibly alive. They reflected her inner thoughts as clearly as still water mirrors the moon.

She wasn’t conventionally beautiful—her features were not conforming to the standards of beauty they gauged in his era—but there was something about her that commanded attention. Her presence had a quiet gravity, a kind of fragile strength that drew him in. To say he was impressed would fall short; he was entranced. There was grace in her simplicity and endearment in her uncertainty.

To him, she was like a lotus blooming in still water, unassuming yet radiant, untouched by the chaos that surrounded her. And though he said nothing more, his silence held meaning; it was not emptiness, but reverence.

Urvashi shifted uneasily under his gaze, unaware of the storm that brewed behind his composed expression. The air felt heavy, not with discomfort, but with something unnamed, something that made her pulse skip for reasons she couldn’t explain. She tried to fill the silence with a nervous laugh, but it came out too soft, faltering midway.

Adeettiya’s eyes followed the movement of her hands as she adjusted the folds of her angvastram, as though she were trying to anchor herself. He could sense her discomfort, the way she mistook his quiet for judgment. It stirred something in him. A strange urge to reassure her, though words, for once, felt insufficient.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, deliberate. “You shouldn’t doubt yourself.”

Urvashi looked up, startled “I didn’t mean to—” she began, fumbling for words.

He shook his head faintly, stopping her before she could continue. “You didn’t. Sometimes… silence says more than speech.”

It was the kind of sentence that lingered. The kind that sank into her chest long after it was spoken. She lowered her gaze, unsure of what to say next.

Her lips parted as if to speak again, but the words never came. He watched the faint tremor in her breath, the flicker of hesitation that betrayed her thoughts. And in that pause, in that fragile stillness between them, something shifted within him.

For the first time, Adeettiya found himself unable to look away.