Urvashi broke it first, leaning forward slightly. “I still can’t believe how huge this place is. I thought royal kitchens would be… I don’t know, quieter?”

Adeettiya huffed. “If a royal kitchen is quiet, the kingdom is starving.”

She snorted, the sound small and genuine. “Fair point.”

His gaze softened. “You really speak of food like it is your lifeline.”

“It does,” she admitted. “Food sustains life." She paused for a moment, her mind drifting back again to the image of her parents, "Back home, other than ilish bhapa, my maa would make chital macher muitha on special days."

"Chital mach? What is that?" 

"It's a long, shining silver fish with dotted back, soft flesh, and lots of tiny bones."

"It might be śilīndhra or vadisha." Adeettiya remarked.

"Maybe." Urvashi nodded, continuing her story. "She’d mash, shape, and cook the fish balls into dumplings, dipping them in a rich gravvy and the whole kitchen would smell like—” She inhaled deeply, nostalgia warming her chest. “Like today.”

Adeettiya studied her, the firelight casting gentle gold across his features. “You are missing them.”

Her smile wavered. “Every second.”

He dipped his head, not intruding, only acknowledging. “One day,” he said quietly, “you will return. I promise that.”

Urvashi didn’t answer. Her throat was tight. Too tight for promises or hope or even denial. Instead, she lowered her gaze to her hands, letting the warmth of the room soften the ache inside her.

A servant approached with two gold thālas, each arranged with care: steaming rice mounds shaped like little hills, bowls of dal glistening with ghee, vegetables spiced and fragrant, and in the center, the main-dish they had both been waiting for: the golden mustard-slicked ilish bhapa for her, and a small clay pot of tender deer meat simmered in ghee and chilies for him.

The servant set them down, bowed, and left soundlessly.

Adeettiya watched Urvashi as she inhaled the aroma; not with the dainty curiosity of a guest but with the full-bodied, emotional breath of someone tasting a memory. The kind that filled both lungs and heart. Her demeanor held no room for pretense. Urvashi paused for actions and waited for Adeettiya to start eating.

“You should eat first,” he said softly. “Your eyes look like they have starved more than your stomach.”

Her lips parted in a small, helpless laugh. “You make everything sound dramatic.”

“It is not drama,” he replied, picking up his golden bowl to pour some dal on the steaming rice with a royal’s care. “It is… recognition.”

He gestured for her to begin.

Urvashi unwrapped the banana leaf coverings from the fish-pieces, and the mustard fragrance burst forth—sharp, warm, and nostalgic. Her heart clenched so fiercely that she felt it in her ribs.

She scooped up a small portion, mixed it into her rice, and took the first bite.

It almost undid her.

Her eyes watered from the spice...or the memory, she wasn’t sure. The flavors were not identical to her mother’s, but close enough that her chest burned with longing.

Adeettiya noticed immediately.

“You are crying,” he observed quietly.

“It’s just the mustard,” she lied, wiping her eyes quickly.

He said nothing, but his gaze lingered, thoughtful and steady, as though trying to commit her expression to memory.

Urvashi cleared her throat and forced brightness into her voice. “Try yours. I want to see that princely approval.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. He tasted the deer meat with the dignified seriousness of someone tasting war strategy.

Then his eyelids lowered, just a fraction. His shoulders relaxed.

“It is good,” he said simply.

“That’s it?” she demanded, her voice a little too dramatic and loud. “Good?”

He angled his head. “Would you prefer I give a poetic ode to garlic and chilies?”

“Honestly? Yes.”

He set down his spoon. “Garlic burns like a soldier’s oath. Chilies awaken blood. And ghee—”

“Oh my god,” she laughed, covering her face, the tears streaking her visage. “Stop, stop. Fine, fine, you win.”

His smile deepened, warm and slow, like a curtain of sunlight slipping through clouds. He knew how hard it was for her to accept everything.

They ate in companionable silence for a few moments, the clatter of utensils mixing with the distant roasting sounds of the kitchen. Cooks bustled around them, but none intruded; a respectful bubble seemed to form around the pair, as though even the flames recognized this was… rare.

After a few more bites, Urvashi exhaled contentedly. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

“You walked nearly the length of the eastern and western wing,” Adeettiya reminded gently. “Your body must be tired.”

She nodded. “It is. But this… this helps.”

He continued observing her again; he was always watching, always studying. Not in command this time and certainly, not with the gaze of a prince. There was something quietly protective. Almost tender.

A minute passed. Then he spoke again.

“Tell me something,” he said, voice gentler than before. “If this were your home, if this were your time, would you cook?”

She laughed. “Oh god, no. I’m terrible at cooking. I’d probably set this entire kitchen on fire.”

“Then it is fortunate you are not a royal cook.”

“Or unfortunate for your soldiers,” she retorted.

He hummed in amusement. “I thought you might be someone who has held the pakshala like an experienced cook.”

“That’s because I’m not the one cooking. I’m the one tasting.” Urvashi continued eating her food. She chewed slowly, trying to savour every last lingering taste that was familiar to her.

Adeettiya’s words lingered between them, warm as the steam rising from their plates. Urvashi lowered her gaze, her lashes fluttering once, twice, steadying themselves like a bird forcing its wings to still. She held her spoon a little too carefully, knuckles pressing pale, breathing evenly as if trying to smooth out every ripple inside her before it reached the surface.

“That,” he said softly, “you do really well.”

A smile tugged at her mouth, gentle, yearning, a thread pulled too tight. She blinked once more, swallowing the tremor that rose uninvited. Her eyes shone, but she tilted her face toward the warm light of the hearth, letting the glow mimic cheerfulness. As if fire could disguise the sting in her eyes.

“I try,” she murmured lightly, voice steady only because she pinned it down. “Someone has to appreciate all this effort.”

Adeettiya’s gaze sharpened, though he hid it behind a sip of water. He saw it—the tiniest pause before her smile, the way she lifted her shoulders in a cheerful shrug that was too practiced, too careful. 

Saṃyamena balam vardhate.
Through restraint, strength grows.

He had heard it from an old sage once. Now, watching her, he understood it differently.

Urvashi lowered her gaze as she ate, but her movements had slowed; her fingers tracing idle circles on the rim of her plate, her brows knitting for the briefest second before she smoothed them out again. She took another bite, but it was thoughtful, almost absentminded, like a person tasting food while lost in a world only she could see. Every now and then, her eyes flickered to the fire, to the window, to the pattern on the floor… searching for something, remembering something, or perhaps trying very hard not to remember.

Adeettiya watched her in silence, the way a strategist studies a battlefield, not out of coldness, but because his mind refused to rest. He noticed everything: the delicate tension in her jaw as she swallowed, the slight tremble of her fingers before she steadied them, the way she inhaled just a little too deeply, as though grounding herself after an invisible blow.

Her thoughts were elsewhere. Far elsewhere. And he knew where they were.

His own thoughts began to wander toward the world she had come from, the world she had never fully described but hinted at like impossibly bright fragments of a dream. Metal chariots that moved without horses. Houses tall as mountains. Lamps that burned without flame. Healing that used tools sharper than any Kalingan blade, yet gentler than a monsoon drizzle. He remembered the strange cloth that had wrapped her when she first appeared in the sacred sanctum, the foreign stitching that no weaver in his kingdom would even know how to attempt. The way she still occasionally slipped into words no scholar in the archives recognized.

He imagined it: her life before Kalinga. A world of impossible inventions and knowledge so vast it could rewrite history. A world that must have felt unbearably distant now, reduced to nothing but memories she clung to like threads… or avoided like burns. His world must be so primitive to her to the point of laughable. Her world might be so advanced and vast for him to the point of awe and inspiration.

Then his mind shifted, as it always did, to politics. To risk. To consequence.

If other kingdoms learned about her arrival—the unnaturalness of it, the implications—chaos would follow. Some would try to claim her as a divine omen. Others would call her a curse. And the Mauryan Empire… they would not hesitate. If they believed she carried knowledge beyond their scholars and spies, they would seek to seize her, dissect her mind for secrets, twist her existence into a weapon.

He could not allow that.

Not while he lived. Not while Kalinga breathed.

His jaw tightened imperceptibly. He would have to seal the reports. Silence the rumors among the palace guards. Create a story...simple enough not to draw suspicion, yet strong enough to withstand inquiry. Perhaps she could be presented as a wandering sage’s orphan, rescued on a pilgrimage route. Or a noble’s lost daughter, taken in by the king’s mercy. Added with the fact that she had come to heal his mother. Something believable. Something unremarkable.

He pressed a thumb slowly against his lower lip, thinking, calculating, adjusting possibilities like pieces on a game board. Every move mattered. One mistake, and that damn old Bindusara’s attention would fall on them like a blade.

But then his gaze drifted back to her.

Urvashi was chewing unnaturally quietly now. A strand of hair slipped forward as she leaned toward her plate, and instead of brushing it away, she simply exhaled, letting it sway gently with her breath.

She looked… small. Not weak—never weak—but tired in a way that had nothing to do with walking too far or wearing new sandals.

A girl far from home. A girl carrying truths she could not speak, memories too heavy for any single heart. A girl with no relations to his world.

Adeettiya felt something tighten in his chest—not pity, but a fierce, protective resolve he could not name. She was not meant to be studied, leveraged, or hidden away like a relic. She was human. Fragile in ways she didn’t show. Brave in ways she didn’t realise.

And she was in his kingdom… because fate or time or something stranger had brought her here.

He tore his gaze away before she could catch him staring too long. But the thought remained, pulsing like a vow:

Whatever shadows gathered beyond their borders, whatever the Mauryas planned, whatever dangers the future hid, he would not let them touch her. Not while she sat at his table, in his halls, in his care.

Urvashi lifted her head slightly at that moment, maybe sensing his eyes. Her expression was unreadable, but her lips curved faintly, politely.

Adeettiya straightened, adopting the calm mask of a prince.

But inside, every thought, every instinct, every plan was already circling around one silent truth:

She must be protected.