Time flowed like a river, relentless, eternal, and indifferent to the affairs of men. In Indraprastha, prosperity reigned; the city breathed with the quiet hum of contentment. Children's laughter mingled with the rhythmic clang of the blacksmith's hammer. Merchants lined the streets with fabrics dyed in colours as vivid as a peacock's feathers. Farmers proudly offered their fresh harvest as the scent of ripening mangoes lingered in the air. Peace had settled over the kingdom like the soft caress of twilight.

But peace, like time, was a fickle thing. That day, it fractured beneath the weight of conflict; a case had been brought before the royal court, one so labyrinthine in its moral complexity that even the most seasoned minds trembled at its implications. Yudhishthira, son of Dharma, the unshakable pillar of justice, now stood before the test of his lifetime.

The royal hall was crowded with nobles, merchants, scholars, and commoners filling every corner, anxious murmurs weaving into an undercurrent of unease. Yudhishthira sat upon his carved ivory throne, draped in garments of pale gold, a wreath of sacred Tulasi leaves adorning his head. His gaze was steady, his breath calm, but beneath that stillness lay the simmering storm of a moral dilemma unlike any other.

Before him stood two figures: a man and a woman. The man's face was a storm of rage and bitterness; the woman's was an abyss of quiet devastation. Surrounding them were the assembled nobles and sages, their gazes cold and expectant. The Pandavas were seated nearby, Bhima's jaw tight, Vasusena's gaze burning. Arjuna, Nakula and Sahadeva, silent as shadows, sat unmoving. Draupadi's gaze was sharp, her hands clenched at her sides.

At the edge of the hall stood Niyati and Yuyutsu. Niyati's dark eyes shimmered with unsettling calm, not indifference, but they were the quiet gaze of one who had witnessed the unravelling of cosmic truths. Yuyutsu's stillness was colder, and his presence was like the quiet edge of a blade before the strike.

The man's voice was like a lash when it cut through the silence. "Maharaja Yudhishthira," he began, his voice seething with restrained fury. "I come to seek justice."

Yudhishthira's gaze steadied. "Speak."

"My wife..." The man's breath hitched a sharp intake of barely restrained rage. "She was wagered in a game of dice."

The air thickened. A flicker of shadow passed across Yudhishthira's face. "Dice?" His voice sharpened.

"Yes." The man's lips curled into something bitter. "My Pitashree wagered her."

Yudhishthira's gaze darkened. "Your Pitashree wagered his own son's wife?"

"Yes." His voice trembled on the edge of control. "Because he had nothing left. His land. His gold. His dignity. All lost. And when the dice fell against him, he staked my wife as a final throw of fortune."

A hush swept through the hall, the silence sharp as broken glass.

"And when he lost," the man's voice twisted with bitterness, "the victor claimed her."

Bhima's fists curled into stone. Arjuna's lips parted in disbelief. Nakula and Sahadeva's eyes darkened in quiet fury. Draupadi's breath hitched a subtle sound that cut through Yudhishthira like a blade.

Yudhishthira's gaze turned toward the woman. Her eyes were lowered, and her face was hollow. "Devi..." His voice softened. What happened to you?"

Her eyes lifted slowly, and Yudhishthira wished they hadn't. There was no anger there. Only emptiness. "He took me," she said, her voice hollow. "And he claimed me."

Yudhishthira's hand tightened around the armrest. His breath felt thin. "And you seek justice?"

Her gaze sharpened. "I seek dignity."

The man's voice rose, sharp with desperation. "Tell me, Maharaja, is it Dharma for a woman to be staked like property? Is it Dharma for a man's honour to be wagered through the body of his wife?"

Yudhishthira's breath grew shallow. His eyes darkened. "It was not his right."

"Then why was it accepted?" The man's voice cut through the thin veneer of Yudhishthira's composure. "The dice were rolled. The terms were agreed upon. He lost, and she was taken."

Yudhishthira's jaw tightened. His gaze dropped for a moment before rising again, sharper now. "Did your Pitashree seek your permission before wagering your wife?"

The woman's eyes widened. Her gaze sharpened as her head lifted, and her dark eyes locked onto Yudhishthira with quiet fury. "Maharaja?" Her voice trembled with disbelief. "Are you saying I could have been wagered if Arya had accepted it?"

Yudhishthira's breath hitched.

Her voice sharpened. "You speak of Arya's permission, but what of mine? What about my own will? Is my existence bound to the acceptance of Arya? Is my dignity only preserved so long as the man who claims me forbids its destruction?"

Yudhishthira's throat tightened painfully.

The man's gaze darkened. "The head of the household is the earning man," he said, his voice cutting. "And the head has rights over the house and all within it."

Yudhishthira's gaze sharpened dangerously. "Then your Pujya committed adharma." His voice was sharp as a blade. "A man has no right to wager what he does not own, least of all another soul."

The woman's gaze burned. "No." Her voice trembled, but it was not weakness. It was quiet fury beneath fragile composure. "No man has a right over a woman. You speak of Amba's law that a woman is Shakti Swaroop, the embodiment of power. Was not Indraprastha built on that law that no woman would be claimed without her consent?"

Yudhishthira's gaze sharpened.

"Then tell me, Maharaja," her voice rose, trembling with cold anger. "Did I give my consent? Did I offer myself for the taking? No. Then what kind of Dharma allows this?"

The silence was suffocating.

Her gaze hardened. "And I wish to know..." Her voice sharpened, cutting through the hall like steel. "Was this a game of dyuta or samāhvaya?"

Yudhishthira's brow creased.

She stepped forward. "As Manu Samhita says — 'Aprāṇibhir yat kriyate tal loke dyūtaṁ ucyate | Prāṇibhiḥ kriyate yas tu sa vijñeyaḥ samāhvayaḥ' — that which is played without living beings as stakes is called dyuta in this world. But that which is played with living beings is known as samāhvaya."

Her voice sharpened. "He said Pujya lost everything in gambling. Then why was I given out?"

Yudhishthira's breath trembled. His chest ached beneath the weight of the words. His gaze steadied. "Devi, what do you seek?"

Her breath hitched. Her gaze sharpened. "Justice, Maharaja."

Her voice rose with quiet steel. "Give me justice. Justice will teach this kingdom that human beings, especially women, are not commodities. Justice that will make men think twice before staking another life upon a game of chance."

Yudhishthira's gaze darkened. His heart pounded painfully against his chest. Slowly, his gaze lifted toward the nobles. "The man who claimed her shall be cast from this kingdom. His honour was stripped. His wealth was seized. His name erased."

The nobles stirred.

Yudhishthira's gaze sharpened. "The Pujya who staked her shall be punished; his name will carry the stain of dishonour for generations."

The woman's gaze darkened.

Yudhishthira's voice sharpened. "And henceforth, it shall be law in Indraprastha that no human soul, man or woman, shall be wagered in any game of Dyuta. To stake another human life shall be deemed an unforgivable crime, punishable by exile or death."

The hall trembled beneath the weight of the declaration. The woman's breath hitched. Her gaze lifted toward Yudhishthira, searching and trembling. "You have given me justice, Maharaja," her voice whispered.

Yudhishthira's gaze lowered, but his chest burned with quiet, unspoken doubt. As the woman and her husband left the hall, Yudhishthira's gaze lifted toward Niyati.

The Weight of Dharma

That night, Yudhishthira lay awake, shadows of doubt circling his mind like vultures over a dying field. Despite its grandeur, his chamber felt stifling; the carved pillars and silk-draped windows offered no comfort. The echo of the woman's words in the court clung to him, gnawing at the marrow of his being.

Unable to bear the turmoil any longer, he rose from his bed. His bare feet touched the cool marble floor as he silently made his way through the moonlit corridors of Indraprastha. His steps were steady, but his mind trembled beneath unresolved questions. His path led him toward the chambers of Yuyutsu and Niyati. He hesitated for a moment before raising his hand and knocking.

The door opened almost immediately, as though Niyati had been waiting for him. Her dark eyes, as deep and fathomless as the night sky, met his troubled gaze with quiet understanding. "Kshama, Niyati..." Yudhishthira's voice was low, almost strained. "May I speak with you?"

Niyati's eyes softened. Without a word, she stepped aside and gestured for him to enter. But Yudhishthira's restless energy made him shake his head. "Outside... please."

Niyati nodded. Together, they walked toward the vast garden of Indraprastha. The cool night breeze swept through the flowering trees, carrying the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine. Silver moonlight scattered across the marble pathway beneath their feet. Niyati walked beside him, quiet yet alert, sensing the storm brewing within him. After a long silence, Niyati finally asked, "What's troubling you?"

Yudhishthira's eyes remained fixed on the dark sky. "Today's case... whatever happened in the court... I feel something is wrong."

"Wrong?" Niyati's brow lifted slightly. "Why?"

"I don't know," Yudhishthira said, his voice rough with uncertainty. "Something about it... it doesn't sit right with me." He sighed deeply, rubbing his temple as if trying to make sense of his thoughts. "See... first of all, staking a woman is wrong. That much is clear. But then... her husband knew what his Pitashree was doing. He didn't stop him. That means, in some way, he silently gave his consent."

Niyati's gaze sharpened. "And?"

"And if the head of the family consents... is it still wrong?"

Niyati's lips pressed into a thin line. "Then... the woman is wrong?"

Yudhishthira's head snapped toward her. "No!" His tone sharpened with conviction. "She was right in her place."

"Then what troubles you, Brata?" Niyati pressed.

Yudhishthira's shoulders sagged. His expression twisted with the agony of contradiction. "Because... I am Dharmaraj. I gave my verdict. It was just that it followed the laws. And yet... Dharma did not prevail."

A long silence stretched between them. The sound of the rustling leaves and the distant cry of a night bird punctuated the tension. Niyati sighed, her gaze steady and unwavering. "Yudhishthira..." she said quietly, "tell me something...Are Nakula and Sahadeva the Asvini Kumaras?"

Yudhishthira blinked. "What?"

"Answer me."

Yudhishthira frowned. "No... they are my Anuj, not the Asvini Kumaras."

"And is Bhima Vayu?"

Yudhishthira's brow furrowed deeper. "No... Bhima is Bhima."

"Then why," Niyati's voice sharpened, "are you, Dharmaraj?"

Yudhishthira froze. His breath hitched.

"Your Pitashree Yama Raj is Dharmaraj. Not you." Niyati's gaze turned piercing. "You are Yudhishthira. A man who seeks justice, who learns, who rises and falls, who grows. A human being."

Yudhishthira's lips parted, but no sound emerged.

"A society runs on rules and regulations, Yudhishthira," Niyati continued, her voice hardening. "But over time, people have started mistaking those rules and regulations for Dharma. That is the greatest fallacy of our age. Dharma is not a cage of laws and codes. Dharma breathes. Dharma flows. Dharma bends toward compassion and mercy."

Her eyes darkened. "Saving an innocent life by lying is Dharma. Protecting a woman's honour by breaking the code of conduct is Dharma. Killing a man who commits Adharma through manipulation is also Dharma. The intention matters. Do you understand?"

Yudhishthira's breath shuddered. His chest tightened.

Niyati's gaze did not soften. "Today... whatever happened, remember it. Whatever I have said tonight, remember it." Her tone sharpened. "Do not forget it — ever."

Yudhishthira's mouth opened as though to speak, but Niyati had already turned away. She began to walk toward the path leading back to the palace but then stopped, her back still turned to him. Without looking over her shoulder, she said, "And remember... the curse of Rajkumari Durshrita of Kalinga."

Yudhishthira's breath caught in his throat.

"You will win everything," Niyati said coldly, "but you will lose more than anyone."

Yudhishthira's eyes widened. His throat tightened painfully.

"If you take pride in being the embodiment of Dharmaraj..." Niyati turned slightly, her eyes glinting beneath the moonlight, "...then yes, that curse will take its form." Her voice lowered into a cutting whisper. "Leave behind this arrogance, Yudhishthira. Understand you have a long road yet to walk. You have a long way to grow... and to learn."

Yudhishthira stood rooted to the ground, paralyzed beneath the weight of her words. His breath quickened, his pulse roaring in his ears. When he finally lifted his gaze, Niyati was gone. He turned toward the dark expanse of the night sky. Stars shimmered faintly behind a veil of thin clouds. His chest heaved. He tried to draw solace from the vastness above, but Niyati's words circled his mind, cutting more profoundly than any weapon ever could.

Burden of a Crownless King

The evening air hung heavy over Indraprastha, still carrying the scent of burnt incense from the earlier celebrations. Delicacies were savoured, songs were sung, and laughter echoed through the palace halls. Yet as the festivities faded, an unsettling quiet gripped Vasusena's chambers.

Krodhini sat at one end of the room, absently adjusting her bangles with restless fingers. Stambhinī stood by the window, her gaze locked on the moonlit courtyard where servants still gathered the remnants of the feast. Neither spoke, yet the silence was not peace; tension stretched to the brink.

Vasusena entered, his face weary yet content. "You both should rest," he said softly, placing his bow on its rack. "The day has been long and joyful. Our sons—"

"Joyful?" Krodhini cut in, her voice sharp. "For whom, Arya?"

He turned, puzzled. "For us all, I thought."

"Did you?" Stambhinī's voice, colder than Krodhini's, followed. "For us all?"

"Yes," Vasusena frowned. "We celebrated the birth of our sons. Satyasena, Prasenjit, and Dvipata. So, what troubles you both?"

"You mean the birth of our sons was acknowledged," Krodhini snapped. "However, not celebrated like the others."

"The court sang praises for Yudhishthira's Yaudheya when he was born," Stambhinī added. "The city rejoiced when Arjuna's Babruvahana arrived. But today? A few garlands, some hurried words of congratulations, that was all."

Vasusena sighed deeply. "You know this isn't true."

"Isn't it?" Krodhini retorted. "Our sons are warriors' sons too. But they're not Pandavas, are they? No matter what they achieve or become, they'll always be seen as...less."

"Because they are born to us," Stambhinī added bitterly. "To Sutas."

Vasusena's face hardened. "I have never allowed anyone to look down upon you. Indraprastha knows this."

Krodhini's eyes flashed. "Indraprastha knows nothing! They will always see us as the women you married out of pity, women left at the altar. Do you think we don't hear the whispers?"

"And what of our sons?" Stambhinī added. "They deserve to be celebrated like the rest, yet they stand forgotten in the shadow of Pandava blood."

Vasusena clenched his fists. "I will not have you speak of my brothers with bitterness."

Krodhini rose to her feet. "And what of us, Arya? What of your own family? Do we deserve to feel invisible? You chose us. You swore to stand by us. Yet today, even as your sons were named, you stood with your brothers more than with us."

"Because I am both a brother and a husband," Vasusena countered. "And I am a father. Do you think I love my sons less because I did not shout their names across the court?"

"Then prove it," Stambhinī shot back. "Prove that they are your pride."

"How?" Vasusena asked, exasperated.

"Step away from your brothers," Krodhini demanded. "You gave away the throne once, but you still walk by Yudhishthira's side as though Indraprastha is still yours to defend. But this is no longer your kingdom to serve."

Vasusena's voice grew low and firm. "I am the Chief Commander of Indraprastha. I took that role because I swore to protect this kingdom, my brothers, my family... for our sons."

Krodhini stepped closer, her voice trembling with frustration. "And yet, our sons will never be seen as equals. You stand neutral when you should be standing with them."

"What do you want of me?" Vasusena's voice wavered, the conflict clear in his eyes.

Stambhinī's voice broke through. "We want you to choose us."

The air seemed still. Vasusena's gaze shifted between his wives, the women he had chosen not out of pity but because they had become his home. His fists slowly unclenched. "I will not choose between my duty and my family," he said at last, his tone softer yet resolute. My sons will rise on their strength, not through my bias. And when they do, Indraprastha will see them as they should be seen as warriors born of pride and love."

Krodhini shook her head. "You are blind to how this world works, Arya."

"Perhaps," he replied, "but I will not change who I am to win a war of pride. I must protect this kingdom, and I love my family. I will not fail either. I don't want another set of Kauravas and Pandavas."

Krodhini and Stambhinī exchanged glances, resentment still flickering in their eyes, yet softened by something else: recognition of a man who refused to break, even when torn. Without another word, they turned away, leaving Vasusena standing alone, his heart weighed by burdens neither sword nor shield could defend against.

Palace Intrigue and Royal Births

The stars hung heavily in the night sky, their pale light barely piercing the restless air of Indraprastha. The scent of fresh flowers and burning incense still lingered from the celebrations that should have united hearts but had instead planted seeds of quiet discord.

Days turned into weeks, and subtle changes crept through the palace like a sickness in the bones. Krodhini's smile no longer reached her eyes, and Stambhinī's voice carried an edge of bitterness sharp enough to cut through silk. The shift was slight, almost imperceptible, but in a palace where even shadows had ears, it was enough to stir whispers like smoke through the halls.

Yuyutsu sat beneath a moonlit arch, his gaze following Niyati, who stood near the marble railing. Her eyes were fixed on the dark horizon, where the bleeding edge of night met the first pale light of dawn. The moonlight curled through her dark hair like a silver thread. Yuyutsu approached her, his tone measured but weighted with quiet intensity. "Niyati," he said, his voice low, barely more than a breath. "Because of you, the future stands open. But as Mahakaal, I know... nothing is certain. Yet I sense these two women... so devoted to their husband, Dambhodbhava, in their past life. Why, then, do they stir with such unease now?"

Niyati's gaze remained on the dark horizon. Her expression was carved from stone, the weight of unspoken truths pressing down upon her. "Because someone has to balance," she replied, her voice calm and edged with quiet finality. Mahadev, you know the cosmic order is balance. No matter how much you hate it, scream, or feel wrong, the truth remains—balance."

She turned to face him, her dark eyes flashing with hidden knowledge, with the weight of eternity. "If I change something, Para Niyati will counter it. I told you before this retelling is a battle between me and Me."

Yuyutsu's jaw tensed. His dark eyes narrowed. "At this moment, Vasusena stands at the centre of this storm."

Niyati's gaze sharpened, her lips curving into the faintest shadow of a smile. "Yes."

Amidst this fragile unrest, life fought to assert itself. Subhadra's labour pains echoed through the marble halls of Indraprastha. Her cries tore through the silence, raw and primal, as Arjuna knelt beside her, his hands trembling as he wiped the sweat from her forehead.

"Shhh... breathe, Subhadra," he whispered, his voice hoarse with worry. He stroked her hair, helplessness flashing in his dark eyes. "I'm right here."

Niyati stood at Subhadra's side, her hands steady as she pressed a wet cloth to her brow. Her presence was a quiet anchor amid the storm. "She's strong, Partha," Niyati murmured, calm yet commanding. "She will endure." Subhadra's nails dug into Arjuna's arm as another wave of pain tore through her.

At the same time, Krishna entered the gates of Indraprastha with Satyabhama by his side. Pradyumna and Samba followed closely; their young faces sharpened with quiet expectation. They reached the doors of the delivery chamber and stood in silent vigil, waiting for the sound that would announce a new dawn.

"Come now, Subhadra," Arjuna said gently, his voice thick with emotion. "Do you think the Mata of a warrior would surrender so easily?"

Subhadra's breath hitched. Her scream broke the air, and then a cry. A fierce and powerful wail echoed through the chamber, like the roar of a lion cub tasting the air for the first time. Niyati smiled. "It's a boy."

Arjuna's hands trembled as he took his son, his breath catching as he gazed into the infant's dark, steady eyes.

Niyati's smile widened. "Subhadra," she whispered. "A warrior born beneath the eye of destiny."

The room sighed with relief. Outside, the palace erupted into celebration. Musicians played; lamps were lit. The people of Indraprastha rejoiced beneath the star-dappled sky.

But even in celebration, shadows lingered.

The next day, the festivities were still in full swing when Valandhara's cries pierced through the palace walls. Bhima was a storm of chaos. He paced outside the chamber, his massive frame tensed like a coiled spring. Sweat dripped down his brow. His fists curled and uncurled as his mind wrestled with helplessness.

"Why is it taking so long?" he growled. "What's happening? Is she in pain? Are the midwives doing it right?"

Arjuna, still riding the quiet high of fatherhood, smirked. "Calm down, Brata."

"Calm down?" Bhima rounded on him, his nostrils flaring. "My Patni is — she's—"

"Breathing," Arjuna said, his smirk widening.

Bhima froze as a sharp, fierce cry erupted from the chamber. The midwife rushed out, beaming. "Yuvaraja Bhima, you have a son!"

Bhima's face crumpled, relief, joy, and overwhelming love flickering through his fierce features. He stumbled into the chamber, his massive hands trembling as he knelt beside Valandhara. "You..." Bhima's voice cracked as he brushed a strand of hair from her damp forehead. "You're incredible."

Valandhara smiled weakly. "You doubted me?"

Bhima chuckled through his tears, pressing his forehead to hers. "Never."

Outside, Yudhishthira's voice rang out like a bell of righteousness. "Give away ten thousand cows and several thousand coins for Brahmanas!"

But as the sounds of celebration filled the air, Krodhini and Stambhinī sat silently, far from the joyful noise. Krodhini's gaze was dark, her hands curled into fists. "Did you see?" she hissed. "The way they celebrated?"

Stambhinī's lips thinned. "For Subhadra, Shri Krishna himself stood at the door. Yudhishthira himself announced the celebration for Bhima's son."

Krodhini's eyes flashed with resentment. "And what of ours? Were they not born beneath the same stars?"

Stambhinī's voice was cold, cutting through the stillness like a blade. "No feasts. No songs. No gathering of gods."

"Because they are born from Sutaputri," Krodhini spat, her voice laced with venom. "Because we are not of royal blood."

Stambhinī's lips curled into a dangerous smile. "And yet they carry the blood of Arya, the eldest Pandava, the true king of Hastinapur."

Krodhini's eyes gleamed dangerously, her breath sharpening with quiet rage. "But his blood was not enough for them, was it?"

Echoes of Resentment

The golden glow of the grand hall flickered off the polished marble floors as Yudhishthira stood upon the dais, his serene face reflecting the warmth of the celebrations. The chime of anklets and the murmur of anticipation floated through the air. His silver hair glinting under the torchlight, Bhishma stood proudly, cradling the infant Dvipata in his firm yet tender arms. The joy in the hall was palpable as Yudhishthira raised his hand to announce the giving of gold coins and garments to the Brahmanas and the poor.

A sharp voice cut through the warmth as his lips parted like a blade. "Stop it, Yudhishthira."

Gasps rippled through the court. Heads turned, eyes widening. Krodhini stood at the hall's threshold, her eyes dark and fury, her chest rising and falling with the weight of her words. The venom in her voice was unfamiliar, foreign and chilling.

Yudhishthira's hand dropped slowly, the weight of the moment sinking into his chest. Vasusena stood at the edge of the hall, his broad shoulders tensing. He stepped forward, but Niyati's slender hand caught his wrist. Her dark eyes sharpened as she shook her head. No.

Yudhishthira descended from his throne, his footsteps steady despite the storm building in the air. His voice was low, tempered. "Bhabhishree... has something troubled you?"

Krodhini's smile was brittle. Before she could speak, Stambhinī stepped forward, her chin lifting with cold defiance. "Troubled? Everything is wrong."

Yudhishthira's brow furrowed. "Tell me. I will correct it at once."

Draupadi, Kunti, and Devika watched with wary silence from the sidelines, their children clustered at their feet. Krishna and Satyabhama stood on the other side, Pradyumna and Samba exchanging uncertain glances.

"You ask what is wrong?" Krodhini's voice sharpened her words, cutting through the hush like steel. "Then let me tell you. Arya gave this kingdom to his brothers and you all, but what does he get in return? What do our sons get in return? Nothing. Do you even respect us? Do you even acknowledge them?"

Yudhishthira's eyes widened, his breath halting at the accusation. He opened his mouth to respond, but Stambhinī stepped into the silence like a shadow. "If Arya is cursed and cannot be king, so do you. Why didn't you make Bhima the king? Why you?" Her dark gaze pinned Yudhishthira in place. "And our sons? Why are they treated differently? Why are they spoken of with whispers and not with pride? The palace... it laughs at us. And so, do you."

Pain flashed across Yudhishthira's eyes. He stepped toward them, his voice trembling with sincerity. "Bhabhishree... you are right." His hands folded before him. "Everything here belongs to Jyeshta. I am ready to give up this throne when he asks it of me. None of us brothers will contest it." His eyes softened, glistening with unshed tears. "And your sons... From when were they your sons alone, Bhabhishree? Vrishasena, Banasena, Sushena, Bhanusena, Satyasena, Prasenjit, and Dvipata are our sons. Just like Prativindhya, Yaudheya, Sutasoma, Iravan, Babruvahana, and Satanika. We have never distinguished between them."

Draupadi made to step forward, but Yuyutsu's hand closed around her wrist. He shook his head slowly. No.

"Same?" Stambhinī's bitter laugh rang through the hall. "Then why were their births not celebrated like today? Did you give away ten thousand cows and gold coins when Vrishasena and Banasena were born? No." Her eyes darkened. "Only a handful of sages came. Where were the celestials then? Why were the skies not torn open with blessings for them?"

Krodhini's lip curled. "Shall I tell you why?" Her gaze swept over the court with cutting precision. "Because we are Suta. Abhimanyu is Krishna and Niyati's nephew. Of course, you need Dwaraka; you cannot afford to lose Kashi, Panchala, and Sivi alliances. But us? We have nothing to give you." Her breath shuddered. "Even though they are sons of the eldest Pandava, his blood was not enough for you."

The air thickened with tension. The weight of her words left a cold silence in its wake.

Bhishma's deep voice rose like a thunderclap. "Kulvadhu Krodhini!" His grey eyes flashed dangerously. "Do not cross this line. You are speaking to your Maharaja!"

Krodhini's chin lifted defiantly.

Bhishma's gaze sharpened. "And this so-called partiality you speak of... Vasusena gave life to you both. Do you know how often Aryavarta's kings have sent letters begging them to marry their daughters? He never reads them, not because he cannot, but because he chooses not to. He knows that if a Rajkumari steps into his house as a Kshatriya bride, she will become the chief wife by the laws of the Vedas, and you two will be lowered. He loves you both more than his name." Bhishma's gaze darkened. "This is no different from Dritarashtra's greed for his sons. The only difference is that your sons are pure... untouched by sin."

Niyati's hand loosened around Vasusena's wrist. He inhaled slowly, his golden eyes burning. She gave a faint nod.

Vasusena stepped into the hall's centre, his broad frame casting long shadows across the polished floor. His gaze cut through Krodhini and Stambhinī. "I told you once I will not allow another war of Pandavas and Kauravas." His voice resonated through the hall, sharp and unyielding. "And this celebration? I am the one who asked Yudhishthira not to announce it." His gaze narrowed. "But if a celebration is what you seek to satisfy your pride..." He turned toward Yudhishthira. "I command you announce to the entire Aryavarta: one lakh cows and gold coins equal to them will be given away."

Yudhishthira bowed his head. Devika stood at his side, her hand resting gently on his arm.

Yuyutsu hesitated for a moment before releasing Draupadi's hand. Her breath was shallow as she stepped forward, her dark eyes shimmering with restrained tears. Her gaze softened as it fell upon Krodhini and Stambhinī. "Bhagini..." her voice trembled yet carried the weight of years of shared joy and sorrow. "After me, you both were the Kulvadhu of the Kuru family. We have stood together through storms and sunshine alike." Her lips quivered as memories of their whispered conversations and quiet support surfaced in her mind.

"You know how I felt when I wore the crown of Maharani? You both strengthened me when the world's weight touched my head. Your words, your hands holding mine... you were my anchor when the crown felt too heavy." Draupadi's voice broke as her tears began to flow freely.

Her gaze shifted toward Vrishasena and Banasena, pride mingling with sorrow. "Never once did I teach my sons to look down upon yours. I love them as if they were my own. Vrishasena—" her voice steadied as her eyes glistened with admiration, "Vrishasena is a better archer than Prativindhya. I've seen it with my own eyes."

A sad smile curved her lips. "Yes... I once felt jealous. But that jealousy was not out of hatred, Bhagini. It was because I am a mother. A mother wants her children to shine the brightest, but I knew in my heart that Vrishasena's light was blinding in its brilliance. And I was proud of him." Her voice cracked, and a single tear slipped down her cheek. "But that pride... it was never touched by bitterness. Because your sons are my sons, too." Her hands folded at her waist, her voice reduced to a whisper. "How could you think I would ever see them as less?"

A heavy silence followed Draupadi's words. Devika's eyes burned with intensity as she stepped forward, her chin lifting defiantly. The quiet strength in her voice cut through the charged atmosphere. "Bhagini..." Devika's voice was edged with both tenderness and sharp resolve. "You both cared for me when I was trembling in fear during those first days here. You guided me when I couldn't carry myself in this grand palace. You were my strength when I was weak."

Her hands curled into fists as her eyes darkened with anger. "And now... Do you feel belittled? Dishonoured?" Her gaze hardened. "Tell me, who laughed at you? Who dared to ridicule you and our children?"

Her gaze swept across the assembly like a storm. "I am the wife of Maharaja Yudhishthira. My words hold weight in this court. If anyone within these walls has dared to mock you, if anyone within Aryavarta has dishonoured you—" Her eyes flashed dangerously. "I have the power to send them into exile. Permanently." Her breathing quickened as her eyes met Krodhini's. "Your dishonour is my dishonour. Your humiliation is my humiliation. If someone has made you feel lesser, tell me, Bhagini..." Her voice dropped into a deadly calm. "I will not let it stand."

Yaudheya stood at Devika's side, his small hand finding Banasena's. A soft tug, childish and innocent, bridged the gap between them. Yaudheya smiled at Banasena, his expression pure and untainted by the bitterness of adults.

Devika's lips trembled as she whispered, "If our children can see no difference, why should we?"

Yudhishthira took a slow step forward, his hands clasped together. His calm exterior wavered, betraying the storm within. Low and heavy with unspoken sorrow, his voice cut through the silence. "Bhabhishree..." His voice was raw. "When Pitamah said Prativindhya would be the next king, you know who objected?" He looked toward Draupadi, his eyes dark with memory. "It was Draupadi who said Vrishasena would be the king. We all agreed. Yet...?"

A bitter smile touched his lips. "We wanted them to have the freedom we never had." His voice deepened with emotion. "We six, no seven of us " his gaze found Yuyutsu. "We never knew what a proper childhood was. We knew hunger. We knew exile. We knew what it felt like to be hunted like animals." His breath hitched as tears welled in his eyes. "The minute we smiled, it was taken from us. So... we decided our children would not suffer that fate. We wanted them to grow without the weight of expectation crushing their souls. We wanted them to live, not just survive."

Yudhishthira's eyes locked with Krodhini's. "The children of Pandavas can become whatever they desire. A king, a warrior, a sage, or none of those things. It is their choice. And we will never look down upon them for it." A lone tear slipped down his cheek. "That is the only legacy we wish to leave them."

Yudhishthira's chest rose and fell as he steadied himself. His gaze sharpened as he addressed the court. "Since we are at this place..." His voice grew more assertive. "The Eastern kingdoms won by Jyeshta Vasusena shall be financially allotted to his children. Let it be divided among them equally."

Krodhini's lips parted in shock. Stambhinī's eyes widened in disbelief.

"And that wealth..." Yudhishthira's gaze hardened. "Shall belong solely to them. Neither I nor my brothers nor our children shall have any right over it."

Vasusena opened his mouth to object, but Yudhishthira's hand shot up, his eyes dark and resolute. "It is not a request but a Maharaja's order." His eyes softened as he looked at Vasusena. "You have given enough, Jyeshta. It is time your children receive their due."

Yudhishthira's gaze dropped, his expression shadowed with pain as he stepped away from the throne. He walked away from the court without another word, his footsteps echoing through the vast hall. The weight of his sorrow trailed behind him, leaving the assembly steeped in stunned silence and unspoken grief.

A Father's Solace

A heavy silence hung over the court, the remnants of Yudhishthira's earlier decree weighing on the air like an unspoken storm. His figure sat still beneath the dimming glow, his head bowed, hands clasped tightly upon his knees. His breath was steady, but his turmoil screamed louder than the quiet around him.

Suddenly, soft footsteps echoed in the hall. Light, yet deliberate. "Pitashree?"

Yudhishthira's head lifted, and his tired eyes softened as they met Prativindhya's calm gaze. The seven-year-old stood before him, minor yet possessing a quiet strength that defied his tender age. His eye's dark pools of understanding reflected the depth of wisdom far beyond his years.

"Prativindhya?" Yudhishthira's voice was strained, heavy with the remnants of sorrow. "Why are you here, Putr?"

Prativindhya stepped closer, his tiny hands clasped behind his back. His gaze didn't waver; it was steady and piercing, the way only a child untouched by fear could manage. "You are sad." The boy's voice was soft but unwavering. "Why?"

Yudhishthira inhaled sharply. His lips parted, but no words came. The weight of leadership, the burden of fatherhood, and the echoes of his fractured childhood tangled in his throat. He shook his head with a tired smile. "It's nothing, Prativindhya. Some matters are too heavy for a child to carry."

Prativindhya's head tilted slightly. A flicker of something ancient glinted in his eyes, the knowledge gifted by Narayana himself. "Heavy?" Prativindhya's brow furrowed. "But, Pitashree... aren't I the embodiment of the Panchabhootas? The lord of the elements?" His tiny chest lifted as he stepped closer. "If I can hold the weight of fire, water, air, earth, and sky within me... why can't I hold a piece of your sorrow too?"

Yudhishthira's breath hitched. A thin, tired smile pulled at the corner of his lips. "Ah... when did you grow so wise, my son?"

Prativindhya's lips curled into a faint smile. "Kakashree Yuyutsu and Mamashree Krishna taught me." His hand stretched out, his tiny palm curling around Yudhishthira's large, calloused hand. "You are the pillar of this family, Pitashree. But even a pillar needs to lean sometimes. If you can't lean on the others... lean on me."

Yudhishthira's throat tightened. He lifted his hand, brushing Prativindhya's hair back from his forehead. "What did I do to deserve a Putr like you?"

Prativindhya's smile widened. "You taught me how to love."

A soft rustling broke the quiet moment. "Pitashree!"

Yudhishthira's gaze lifted to see Yaudheya, Devika's son, bounding toward them with bright eyes and flushed cheeks. At just four years old, Yaudheya was all wide grins and mischievous energy. He skidded to a stop beside Prativindhya, his tiny hand clutching his elder brother's sleeve.

"Did Jyeshta make you feel better?" Yaudheya asked, his head tilting curiously.



"He's trying," Yudhishthira replied with a smile tugging at his lips.

"Then I'll help too!" Yaudheya declared proudly. He climbed into Yudhishthira's lap without hesitation, his arms curling around his father's neck.

"Pitashree... why are you sad?" Yaudheya whispered, his lips brushing Yudhishthira's ear.

Yudhishthira's hand rubbed Yaudheya's back gently. "Sometimes a Pita worries, Yaudheya. About things he cannot control."

"Then don't worry." Yaudheya's voice was matter-of-fact. "You have us."

Prativindhya smiled. "See, Pitashree? Even Yaudheya understands."

Yudhishthira let out a breathy chuckle, his chest lightening despite himself. He wrapped an arm around Yaudheya, the other hand resting on Prativindhya's shoulder. "Ah... how did I become so fortunate?" he murmured.

"You didn't," Yaudheya said brightly. "We chose you!"

Yudhishthira's deep laugh rumbled through the hall, the sound rich and rare. "Ah, Putro... what would I do without you?"

"You'll never have to find out!" Prativindhya grinned.

"Oh?" Draupadi's soft, amused voice drifted through the hall, followed by the graceful sound of anklets chiming in rhythm.

"Is this a family meeting without us?" Devika's voice followed lighter and teasing.

Yudhishthira's smile widened as he watched Draupadi and Devika approach together. Draupadi's dark eyes glinted with playful mischief, while Devika's gentle smile radiated quiet warmth.

"I see how it is," Draupadi smirked, folding her arms across her chest. "Our sons have taken our place."

"As it should be," Yudhishthira replied, raising a brow.

"Oh? Is that so?" Draupadi's eyebrow arched as she knelt beside him. Her hand brushed over Prativindhya's hair. "Prativindhya," Draupadi said, "Is your Pitashree pretending to be strong again?"

"He's not pretending," Prativindhya answered sincerely.

Devika laughed, sitting beside Yudhishthira. "Let them have this moment, Bhagini. It's rare enough."

"Rare indeed." Draupadi smiled, her gaze softening.

"I owe you both for raising Putr, who knows how to heal me." Yudhishthira's tone was light, but his eyes betrayed the depth beneath it.

"You're welcome." Devika's eyes sparkled.

"Oh, you owe us more than that," Draupadi teased, nudging his arm.

Yaudheya suddenly climbed from Yudhishthira's lap and into Draupadi's arms. "And I owe you for giving me this little miracle." Draupadi kissed Yaudheya's cheek.

"He's mine," Devika corrected with a smirk.

"Mine now," Draupadi winked.

Yudhishthira chuckled as Prativindhya leaned into his side, his small hand still curled within his father's larger one. "It seems I am truly blessed," Yudhishthira said, his voice deep and grateful.

"Finally figured that out, have you?" Draupadi teased.

"Took him long enough," Devika added with a grin.

Yudhishthira's eyes softened as he took them all in: his wives, his sons, the warmth, the laughter. His heart was no longer weighed down but lifted by love. "Yes," he murmured. "I finally understand."

The sun outside the palace bathed them in golden light, illuminating their faces and the unbreakable bond that made them whole.

Restlessness of Bhishma

The moon hung high over the palace of Indraprastha, casting a pale silver glow upon the marbled corridors. The torches lining the vast halls flickered weakly against the cold draft that swept through the ancient stone. Deep within his abode, Bhishma sat upon a simple wooden seat, his eyes wide open despite the late hour. His white hair, neatly tied behind him, glowed under the dim light. His face was calm, but his mind was turbulent.

His eyes were sharp despite his age, and he stared out into the night. His breath was steady, yet his heart was not. His thoughts swirled a silent storm trapped within the stillness of his aged frame.

"Tatshree?"

Bhishma's gaze lifted as Vidura stepped into the chamber, his footsteps soft and respectful. The wise minister's face was composed, but his eyes reflected the same unrest that gripped Bhishma's heart. "You couldn't sleep either?" Bhishma's voice was low, edged with quiet weariness.

Vidura sighed, stepping closer. He sat opposite Bhishma, his hands folded across his lap. "No... how could I?"

Bhishma's gaze sharpened. "You've sensed it too, then?"

Vidura nodded. "It lingers in the air. Unspoken... yet palpable. The cracks beneath the foundation of this house."

Bhishma's hand curled into a fist over his knee. His lips pressed into a thin line. "Krodhini and Stambhinī," he murmured. "Their hearts are restless."

"Jealousy," Vidura said softly. "It poisons even the strongest of bonds."

Bhishma's eyes narrowed. "And why shouldn't they feel this way? Vasusena is the eldest of the Pandavas and the firstborn son of Kunti. He carries the blood of the royal line more purely than any of them. Yet... this palace made his sons be seen as lesser. Vrishasena... Banasena... they stand beneath Prativindhya and the others, not because of merit, but because of perception."

Vidura's gaze darkened. "It is the shadow of the Suta blood that taints them in the eyes of others."

"Fools," Bhishma's tone sharpened. "What do names and birth matter when the blood of Kunti herself flows through their veins?"

"But not all see it that way." Vidura's voice was quiet, measured. "Krodhini and Stambhinī are mothers. Their pain is not unjustified."

Bhishma's brow furrowed deeply. "But jealousy... that is a dangerous fire. It consumes the vessel it inhabits before it burns anything else."

Vidura's lips curled faintly. "Much like greed."

Bhishma's eyes darkened. "Yes. Like greed."

A heavy silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths.

"Dritarashtra." Bhishma's voice was laced with the bitterness of old wounds. "He was never satisfied with what was his. It was not enough to be king. He wanted his sons to own what was not meant for them. That greed," Bhishma's hand tightened over the armrest of his chair, "is leading to the destruction of the Kuru lineage."

"And now jealousy..." Vidura's voice was low. "Will history repeat itself?"

Bhishma's gaze sharpened. His aged hand lifted to his mouth in thought. A long silence passed before he finally spoke. "No," he said, his tone resolute. "It cannot be allowed to happen."

Vidura oversaw him. "Then what must be done?"

Bhishma's eyes gleamed with sudden clarity. His hand lowered, resting upon his knee with quiet strength. "A Rajasuya Yagna."

Vidura's brows lifted. "Rajasuya?"

Bhishma's gaze was steady. "It is time."

Vidura's eyes darkened with understanding. "A declaration of supremacy. A unifying force."

"Yes." Bhishma's voice strengthened. "Vasusena has already secured the Eastern kingdoms. Pandavas ensured the alliances between Panchala, Dwaraka, Manalura, Kashi, and Sivi. With the wealth and power gained from those conquests and alliances, Indraprastha has the strength to rise beyond question. A Rajasuya Yagna will establish Yudhishthira as the undisputed emperor of Aryavarta. And when that happens—"

"Then Dharma will be ruled along with a place for the sons of all the Pandavas." Vidura completed the thought.

Bhishma nodded. "Yes. Also, jealousy thrives in the absence of security. If Indraprastha rises to its rightful place, if Vasusena's sons wish to rule, then there will no longer be reason for resentment."

Vidura's gaze sharpened. "But will Yudhishthira agree?"

Bhishma's mouth curled into a rare smile. "He will."

The following day, the grand court of Indraprastha was filled with the quiet hum of anticipation. The marble floors gleamed beneath the sunlight spilling through the high arched windows. The Pandavas sat upon their respective seats, Yudhishthira at the centre. Bhishma stood before them, his tall frame a figure of timeless strength.

"A Rajasuya Yagna," Bhishma's voice filled the hall, commanding attention. "It is not merely a ritual but a declaration of strength. A king who performs the Rajasuya Yagna does not seek to dominate. He seeks to unite. It is a sacred responsibility, a calling to protect, lead, and serve."

Yudhishthira's brow furrowed. "Rajasuya, Pitamah?"

"Yes." Bhishma's eyes glinted. "The time has come for Indraprastha to rise beyond a mere kingdom. You have the strength of your brothers, the alliances from the kingdoms, and the goodwill of the people. There is no better moment."

Yudhishthira's gaze darkened with thought. "But—"

"It must be done," Bhishma cut in firmly. "For Dharma to rule. To secure the future of Pandavas lineage. To dissolve the seeds of jealousy and resentment before they take root."

"And yet—"

A soft, feminine voice interrupted him. "Not yet."

All eyes turned toward the source. Niyati stood at the edge of the hall, her face calm, her eyes glinting with the quiet weight of divine knowledge. "After Partha and Draupadi's child is born," Niyati's voice was measured, deliberate. "Not before."

Bhishma's gaze narrowed. "Why?"

"It is written," Niyati said, stepping forward. "Partha's child carries the mark of destiny. To perform the Rajasuya before his birth would disturb the balance of fate."

Bhishma's gaze lingered on her for a long moment before he finally nodded. "So be it." His eyes turned toward Vasusena. "But begin the preparations now. Vasusena, this task will rest upon you."

Vasusena's eyes darkened, his jaw tightening. "It will be done, Pitamah."

Bhishma's gaze sharpened. "See that it is."

A quiet hush settled over the hall, the weight of destiny pressing upon their shoulders. The Rajasuya Yagna was no longer just an idea. It was the beginning of an empire.

Healing the Rift

The night was restless. The moon's silver light cascaded upon the marbled courtyards of Indraprastha, bathing the palace in a serene glow. The air, however, was charged—tense with unspoken truths and strained emotions. Krishna stood by the lotus pond, the faint ripples in the water reflecting his turmoil. His peacock feather swayed gently in the breeze as he sensed a familiar presence approaching.

"Narayana..." Krishna turned. Niyati stood there, draped in a soft blue saree that mirrored the ocean's depths. Her dark eyes, laced with quiet anger and lingering sadness, met his unwavering gaze. He smiled faintly.

"You've come." His voice was gentle.

"I had no choice, did I?" Niyati's voice was steady, yet there was a sharp undercurrent beneath it. "You have always had your way with destiny... even with me."

Krishna sighed. "You are destiny itself, Bhagini. Who can ever truly influence you?"

"Don't play with words, Narayana," Niyati's eyes flashed. "I don't hate you."

Krishna opened his eyes, pain flickering beneath the surface. "Then why are you angry?"

"Because you took away my choice!" Niyati's voice cracked. "It was not your right to decide for me."

Krishna smiled sadly. "Bhagini... you are destiny. Yet you forget sometimes even destiny needs guidance."

A heavy silence settled between them. Krishna reached for her hand, but she pulled away. "You have already shaped the course, Narayana," Niyati whispered. "But now, I will ensure that the child born from me and Yuyutsu fulfils his true destiny."

Suddenly, the quiet of the night was pierced by the sound of flapping wings. A dark cloud gathered in the sky as hundreds of crows descended upon the palace, their caws echoing through the stillness. Krishna's gaze lifted toward the heavens. "Now, which one?" he murmured, half-expecting another cosmic intervention.

Niyati's lips curled into a soft smile. "Kakabhushundi."

Krishna's head turned sharply. "What?"

Niyati stepped beside him, her eyes glowing faintly. "For yugas, he chose the form of a crow after the blessing from your Rama avatar. But it is time, Brata. He must take his original form. Therefore, Kakabhushundi will be born as Srutasena."

Krishna's gaze sharpened. "Srutasena... a fusion of Yuyutsu's wisdom and my strategic mind..."

"A warrior, a seer, and a guide rolled into one," Niyati continued. "His knowledge of the past, present, and future will make him the ultimate game-changer in retelling this story."

Krishna's smile faded. "Only one question, Bhagini." His tone was low. "You are bringing high celestials into the womb of Draupadi. That means all these children will possess divine knowledge. Too many people know the outcome of this story... that is dangerous. What will you do with them?"

Niyati's expression softened. "Draupadi's children will leave Indraprastha once Partha's child is born. Yuyutsu will take them to Kailash and train them. They will remain there for twelve years, learning, understanding, and preparing. When they return... the course of destiny will shift."

Krishna's gaze darkened. "And the Dyuta Sabha?"

Niyati's smile vanished. "I cannot say anything now, Narayana."

Krishna's eyes narrowed, but a hurried voice called from the inner chambers before he could speak.

"Arya!" Satyabhama rushed toward them, breathless. "Draupadi has given birth... to Sahadeva's child!"

Krishna's eyes widened slightly. Niyati's gaze glimmered with quiet satisfaction. "One more to go," she said softly.

Krishna's smile returned, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. It echoed through the marble hallways, reverberating across the palace walls. And for the first time in what felt like an age, Niyati smiled with him.