Madhavpoor rose from the plains like a declaration of power—high red-stone walls, golden domes catching the last light of the monsoon sky, and the vast imperial palace that seemed to breathe authority from every carved pillar. The army entered through the northern gates to the sound of conch shells and the low roar of victory drums. Crowds lined the streets, throwing marigold petals that stuck to the wet flanks of the elephants.

Sayoojya sat rigid inside the howdah, curtains half-drawn now that they were within the city. She felt every eye that tried to glimpse the captive princess of Dakshinapur. Beside her, Adhiraj remained silent, one long arm resting along the carved edge, his presence a constant, living heat she could no longer pretend to ignore.