The hall of Padmavati's court was not yet full, but Veerkund sat in his usual place, eyes sharp beneath a softened smile. His silk uttariya was neatly pinned over his shoulder, his hands folded politely.
But inside, his thoughts crawled like snakes in heat.
A masked warrior. A traitor, perhaps. A rebel for sure.
Someone from within, no doubt. Who else would know when and where to strike?
He looked across the emptying hall, and his gaze lingered — not on the courtiers — but on the corridor that led to the princess's wing.
"Too silent," he whispered to himself. "Too still to be harmless."
Later that day, Veerkund quietly summoned his most trusted aide.
"Keep watch on her chambers. I want to know when she sleeps, who visits, and what she speaks of — even in her prayers."
The aide bowed. "And if we find something?"
Veerkund smiled faintly.
"Then we plant the truth before the king. Gently… like poison in warm milk."
____________________________
While the court brewed suspicion, Dattadevi walked through the southern courtyard, her arm still stiff beneath her pale blue cotton sari.
She stopped near the temple corridor, where the air smelled of old stone, incense, and neem.
"You know him as Vaidyaji," she whispered to a maid. "I know him as the one who treated my brother's wounds before the fever."
"He's gone," the maid whispered. "Left the palace months ago. No reason given."
Dattadevi frowned.
"Then I'll find him."
___________
In a corner of the palace's granary storeroom, Rajima handed her a faded cloth scroll — records of medicinal ingredients.
"See this?" she pointed. "The prince's tonics were changed three weeks before the poisoning. A different hand signed here."
"Then that's where I begin," Dattadevi murmured.
_______________________________
Far south of Padmavati, in the temple city of Kanchipuram, Samudragupta sat inside a stone-pillared guest pavilion. The chamber was modest yet dignified — its walls etched with ancient verses, the air touched by southern sandalwood and wind from the eastern hills.
Scrolls lay open on a low wooden desk, pinned by ivory paperweights. A map of the subcontinent rested beside his quill, dotted with red and black markers — territories won, kings bowed, alliances offered.
And yet, his gaze lingered not on the Deccan…
But on Padmavati.
Two weeks earlier, he and Harisena had arrived in Kanchipuram, welcomed not as invaders — but as guests.
King Vishnuvardhana met them beneath the carved stone canopy of the Kailasanatha Temple, where the scent of jasmine mingled with camphor and bells.
"I expected a conqueror," Vishnuvardhana had said, "but I find a poet with the stance of a commander."
Samudragupta had bowed.
"I raise my sword only when my ink dries."
Since then, the two kings had formed a quiet friendship. They spoke of dharma, diplomacy, temple architecture, and trade. The southern ruler, though cautious, respected him deeply — not because of fear, but because of intellect.
Yet Harisena noticed:
Every time news arrived from Padmavati, his emperor's ink paused mid-word.
______________
Back in Padmavati, King Ganapati Naga had begun his own investigation.
Though Veerkund pressed again and again to act against the masked warrior, the king stayed quiet and thoughtful.
"We act only when truth has shape," he told the court scribe. "Gather every scroll. Every whisper. Every name from every gate."
With the king engrossed in inquiry, Veerkund could not touch the villagers, nor send men into the fields.
He hid his frustration behind obedient bows — but his silence turned sharper by the hour.
At the palace stables, Dattadevi wrapped herself in the plain robes of a merchant's daughter. Her hair was braided back, her feet slipped into simple leather chappals. Her only ornaments were a scroll tucked in cloth and a god-pendant around her neck — the one her mother had given her.
Rajima handed her a small satchel.
"Ask him about these herbs. If he flinches, press harder."
"And if he runs?"
"Then you chase. Because you're not the one who runs, Devi."
Before sunrise, Dattadevi slipped through the eastern garden wall, unseen even by the temple guards.
South of the city, in a village shaded by tamarind trees, a healer prepared his bag. The old Vaidya packed powdered neem, amla paste, and copper spoons.
A young girl entered.
"Someone from the palace is coming," she whispered.
The healer looked up calmly.
"Good. The time has come. Truth always finds its way home — even when people don't."
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In Kanchipuram, Harisena returned from the market road with dust on his sandals
"you are going to padmavati?" he said, handing Samudragupta a folded note. "
Samudragupta stood beneath a flowering kadamba tree, its scent mixing with that of earth and oil lamps. The emperor's eyes narrowed — not in fear, but in clarity.
"Then we leave at dawn. Just us."
"No guards?" Harisena asked.
"No guards. No titles. Just two travelers and a veena or a flute."
"Shall I write a cover story?"
"No," Samudragupta smiled. "Let them wonder. Wonder is more powerful than lies."
And so, as the full moon passed over the land, three destinies unfolded in silence:
A princess in disguise, walking dusty roads in search of a truth buried in herbs and betrayal.
A king without guards, riding north not for conquest, but for curiosity — and perhaps something more.
A palace shaken, where whispers began to outrun commands, and loyalty sharpened like a sword behind velvet words.
Padmavati waited.
And the gods watched.