4.
Back in Vanga, rain had begun again.
Not the violent kind that arrived roaring through kingdoms like war drums—
but the soft eastern monsoon Vanga was beloved for.
Rain drifted endlessly from silver-blue skies in delicate curtains, turning the entire kingdom dreamlike beneath mist and riverlight. The great eastern rivers had overflowed their banks days ago, swallowing the edges of lotus gardens and temple stairs until water itself seemed woven into the land.
From the highest terraces of the royal palace, Vanga looked less like a kingdom and more like a painting abandoned halfway between earth and heaven.
White marble pavilions shimmered pale beneath rainwater while saffron temple flags danced wildly atop domes kissed by storm-clouds.
Peacocks wandered through overflowing gardens trailing jewel-toned feathers across drenched stone pathways lined with flowering champa trees.
Somewhere below, priests chanted evening hymns while hundreds of diyas flickered along river shrines like fallen stars trembling against dark waters.
The air smelled of everything Devasena loved most.
Wet earth.
Jasmine oil.
Burning sandalwood.
Rain striking warm stone.
From the eastern pavilion overlooking the riverbanks, Devasena watched the storm with poorly concealed irritation.
"He still has not returned," she muttered.
Beside her, Shona carefully hid a smile while arranging fresh lotus flowers into bronze vases lining the chamber.
The pavilion itself resembled a monsoon dream. Open archways framed the rain-soaked kingdom beyond while gauze curtains drifted restlessly through cool winds scented with river mist. Bronze oil lamps glowed softly against carved walls painted with old legends of gods and celestial wars.
"Rajkumari," the older dasi replied patiently, "the Crown Prince attended a royal swayambara in Hastinapur, not a village fair."
"That was twelve days ago."
"Ten."
"Shona."
The woman surrendered immediately. "Twelve."
Satisfied, Devasena returned dramatically to staring beyond the rain-soaked terraces.
At seventeen, she had become almost painfully lovely beneath monsoon light.
Her pale rose silks flowed around her like diluted sunset while tiny pearls shimmered faintly along embroidered sleeves dampened by drifting rain.
Long dark hair escaped endlessly from the braid Ruti had spent nearly an hour perfecting earlier that morning, curling softly around her face in restless waves.
Gold bangles rested loosely against delicate wrists inked faintly with sandalwood paste from temple prayers.
Yet despite the beauty everyone else noticed first—
Devasena herself looked entirely unconcerned with it.
At the moment, she looked offended.
"He leaves for Hastinapur," she continued, voice growing increasingly scandalized, "meets the Princess of Hastinapur herself, attends royal ceremonies with legendary princes, probably eats magnificent food—"
"You are describing politics like betrayal," Ruti observed dryly from nearby.
The younger dasi sat cross-legged upon the carpet threading jasmine flowers together for the evening temple offerings.
Unlike gentle Shona, Ruti possessed dangerous honesty sharpened by growing up alongside Devasena since childhood.
"It is betrayal."
Shona laughed softly beneath her breath.
Devasena spun around immediately, anklets chiming sharply against marble floors.
"And nobody finds it suspicious that Dushala chose my bhai? "
"Rajkumari—"
"No offence to him," she continued quickly, holding up both hands, "I love him deeply. He is intelligent. Brave. Very dignified when silent." A pause. "But Hastinapur?"
Even saying the name carried weight.
The capital of emperors.
The heart of Aryavarta itself.
Compared to kingdoms surrounding Hastinapur, Vanga seemed almost unreal rather than powerful. Beautiful. Cultured. Wealthy through rivers and trade—
but not mighty.
Not feared.
Certainly not equal to the Kuru empire.
Devasena collapsed dramatically onto the cushioned divan near the open terrace.
The cushions dipped beneath her lazily while rain-cooled winds tangled through silk curtains around her like living things.
"How wonderful must Princess Dushala be," she sighed wistfully, "to belong to a family spoken of like legends.
"
Rain shimmered softly beyond the carved marble railings while distant temple bells echoed through the mist below.
The Pandavas.
The Kauravas.
Bhishma.
Queen Gandhari.
Even as a child Devasena had heard stories about Hastinapur whispered beside sacred fires and festival songs.
Heroes who wielded celestial weapons. Princes blessed by gods themselves.
A kingdom carrying the weight of history upon its shoulders.
And now—
somehow—
that family stood tied to hers.
The thought still felt unreal.
Queen Vaidehi sat nearby beneath the warm glow of hanging oil lamps, observing her daughter over an unfinished embroidery frame resting across her lap.
The queen looked elegant even within simplicity.
Deep emerald silk draped softly around her while diamonds glimmered faintly near her throat each time candlelight shifted across the chamber.
"You romanticize Hastinapur too much," she remarked mildly.
Devasena looked scandalized immediately.
"How can I not?"
"You have never seen it.
"
"That makes it worse."
Ruti snorted quietly.
Queen Vaidehi ignored them both gracefully.
"You will someday oversee these responsibilities yourself," she continued instead, nodding toward scrolls and ceremonial ledgers arranged across the low sandalwood table between them.
"The welcoming of royal brides. Temple customs. Alliances.
"
Devasena looked toward the mountain of duties with visible despair.
"If," her mother corrected calmly, "you manage to get married.
"
Shona coughed violently trying not to laugh.
Devasena gasped.
"Ma."
"You reject every prince entering this kingdom.
"
"I reject irritating men."
"You find all men irritating. "
"That is because they continue being men."
Even Queen Vaidehi smiled faintly then.
Ruti looked deeply satisfied.
"But my husband will not irritate me," Devasena declared confidently.
The room fell silent briefly afterward.
Not mocking.
Only familiar.
Because everyone within the palace knew about the flame.
Knew about the impossible devotion Devasena carried toward a man she had never met.
Her gaze drifted unconsciously toward the inner temple chambers beyond the corridor where golden light flickered softly through carved doors.
Where the sacred diya waited.
Always burning
Always alive.
Protected day and night beneath endless prayer.
Sometimes Devasena sat beside it for hours listening to rain strike temple rooftops while imagining him.
The man chosen by destiny itself.
She wondered whether he preferred silence or laughter.
Whether he looked toward storms the way she did.
Whether his hands carried sword-calluses.
Whether he prayed.
Whether he ever felt restless without reason because somewhere far away, part of his soul already belonged to her.
She loved him already.
Hopelessly.
Ridiculously.
Without even knowing his name.
Not because she was foolish—
though Dyumsena claimed otherwise frequently—
but because the flame had made him real long before she had ever seen him.
Somewhere beneath the same sky existed a man tied to her destiny so deeply that the gods themselves protected him through sacred fire.
How could she not love him?
And yet—
he was taking far too long to arrive.
Devasena frowned immediately.
"I dislike him today."
Shona blinked once. "Whom?"
"My future husband."
Ruti stared openly now. "The man you have defended for years despite never meeting him?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because," Devasena declared with gathering outrage, "if the gods tied our destinies together, then he should at least make an effort to appear."
Shona covered her face trying not to laugh.
Devasena stood abruptly, anklets ringing sharply as she paced toward the rain-drenched balcony again.
Thunder rolled softly somewhere distant beyond the rivers while cool wind wrapped around her like silk.
"Honestly," she continued, deeply offended now, "how difficult can it possibly be? Entire kingdoms have found me. Traveling poets have found me. Marriage proposals from men I do not even like have found me."
Ruti folded her arms. "Perhaps your husband is lost."
"Then he lacks survival instincts."
"Perhaps he is searching."
"He is searching poorly."
Shona finally lost the battle against laughter entirely.
The sound echoed warmly through the monsoon chamber while outside lightning illuminated the rivers briefly in silver-white flashes.
Queen Vaidehi watched her daughter quietly then.
This strange child who loved destiny more fiercely than reality itself.
Who waited for a man she had never seen with the devotion of a wife already in love.
And somewhere within the palace—
inside a quiet temple room glowing gold beneath endless oil lamps—
the sacred flame burned steadily on.