The skies blazed crimson as the flames devoured Khandavavan. The inferno raged unchecked, turning trees to embers and rivers to steam. The once-thriving forest, home to creatures of all kinds, was now a land of ash. The glow of the destruction stretched far and wide, its terrible beauty visible across Aryavarta. The news had travelled faster than the wind. Indraprastha had set the sacred land ablaze.

In the celestial realms, King Takshaka, the mighty Naga, had abandoned his burning kingdom and sought refuge under Indra's wing. Yet, on this scorched land, no one remained to claim what was lost. The land stood bare, stripped of its past, waiting silently for what would come.

Prativindhya stood at the edge of the ruins, his young heart heavy with emotions he could not name. He had fought alongside his uncles and brothers, calling upon his elemental powers to aid in the destruction. He had willed the flames to spread and felt the earth tremble as the forest fell, yet... now that it was done, he could not ignore the ache in his chest.

It was as if the land mourned, whispering to him in sorrow. He could feel the absence of life, the hollowness left behind. The trees that had once sung with the wind, the rivers that had once laughed as they flowed, and the creatures that had once called this land home all had been silenced.

And he had been part of it.

Krishna approached him, his gaze as deep as the cosmic ocean. He did not ask with curiosity; his voice carried the weight of one who had seen the rise and fall of countless worlds. "What happened?"

Prativindhya did not answer immediately. His fingers curled into fists, and he took a steady breath, trying to make sense of what he felt. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter than usual. "It is done, but at what cost?" he whispered. "This land... it was alive. And now, it is nothing but ash. I helped in its destruction, yet my heart grieves for it."

Krishna's gaze did not waver. He knelt beside the boy, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. His touch was light, but it carried the weight of divine wisdom. "You feel sorrow because you understand life, Prativindhya. That is not a weakness. That is your Dharma."

Prativindhya turned to him, searching his uncle's eyes for an answer. "Then why?" he asked, the ache evident. "Why must life be destroyed?"

Krishna smiled, but it was not one of amusement it was one of understanding and compassion. He looked out at the land before them, the embers still glowing, the scent of burnt earth thick in the air. "Tell me, Prativindhya," he said, his voice as soft as the wind, "when a seed is buried beneath the earth, what happens to it?"

The boy frowned, confused. "It disappears," he said after a moment. "It is buried in darkness."

Krishna nodded. "Yes. And then?"

Prativindhya's eyes widened slightly as realization dawned. "It grows. It becomes a tree."

"Exactly." Krishna's voice was gentle but firm. "Destruction and creation are not enemies but two sides of the same truth. This land, Prativindhya, was not genuinely alive before. It was stagnant, untouched, waiting. But now, it will be reborn stronger and more prosperous. It will bear fruit it never could before. The fire did not end it; it freed it."

Prativindhya looked back at the barren land, his heart still aching, but now there was something else understanding. The fire had not simply taken; it had also given. In time, the earth would heal. The ashes would nourish new life. What was lost would return, changed but not forgotten.

Krishna ruffled his nephew's hair, his celestial smile warming the young boy's soul. "You have the heart of a king, Prativindhya. Never lose it. But remember, sometimes, the hardest acts of Dharma are the ones that seem cruel at the moment."

Prativindhya did not respond, but he no longer looked away. He stood a little taller, the weight on his heart a little lighter. He would remember this moment for the sorrow and the lesson that came with it. The land was barren now. But it would not be forever.

The Return to Indraprastha

A sudden movement in the distance caught Krishna's eye as they stood amidst the embers. Emerging from the ruins of Takshaka's hidden abode, a lone figure sprinted desperately. It was Maya, the great architect of the Asuras; his robes sang, his face drenched in fear. Behind him, the fire roared like a living beast, its charioteer the wind itself, hunting him down as a hermit with matted locks and eyes that burned with unquenchable hunger.

Krishna did not hesitate. His Sudarshana Chakra spun to life, its radiant edge thirsting for blood. The Asura was doomed, fire at his back, divinity before him. Maya fell to his knees, his voice hoarse with terror. "O Arjuna! Save me!"

Standing tall amidst the flames, Arjuna turned at the cry. His gaze met Maya's wide, pleading, desperate eyes. He stepped forward, his presence alone enough to halt Krishna's hand. "Do not fear," Arjuna said. His steady and sure voice seemed to carve through Maya's terror like a blade through silk.

At those words, something shifted. The fire that had sought to devour him hesitated as if shackled by Arjuna's promise. The Sudarshana Chakra slowed its gleaming edge dimming. Krishna's lips curved into a knowing smile. "If Partha has given his word, then so be it," Krishna declared.

The fire obeyed. The wind withdrew. Maya, whose fate had been sealed moments ago, found himself untouched. A new life had been granted to him, not by gods, but by a mortal.

Six beings remained unburned from the ruins of Khandava Ashvasena, Maya, and the four Sharngakas. Prativindhya, with a heart still burning with grief, had ensured the safety of the innocent children untouched by sin, mothers whose hearts had not turned to stone.

Back in Indraprastha, anticipation thickened the air. Yudhishthira stood at the gates, his eyes scanning the horizon. Finally, they arrived. The moment he saw them, he moved, urgency in every step. His arms wrapped around Vasusena first, his Jyeshta, the warrior who had stood against celestial beings themselves to safeguard their kingdom. He turned to Krishna, embracing him with gratitude, then to Arjuna, his youngest brother, who had once again wielded his bow with unshakable resolve.

But his eyes softened when he saw Prativindhya and Sutasoma. He knelt, pressing a fatherly kiss to their foreheads. "You have done well, Putro."

Once inside the palace, the tension rose again. Yudhishthira, now flanked by Bhishma, Vidura, and Aruni, finally asked the question on his mind. "Tell me why we attacked Khandavavan?"

As silence settled over the room, Niyati spoke. Her voice, steady yet carrying the echoes of fate itself, began to weave a tale that traced back to a time long before their own.

She spoke of King Swetaki, a ruler whose devotion to dharma was unparalleled. His heart burned for sacrifice, for rituals that honoured the gods. Yet his very piety became his burden, for the Brahmanas who once aided him had turned away, their eyes reddened and weary from the endless smoke of his yajnas.

She told of his perseverance, refusal to abandon his path, and desperate search for priests who would stand by him. But none came. Desperation turned to anger, and in his fury, he sought refuge in the Himalayas, surrendering himself to Mahadev's mercy.

For twelve years, he stood unmoving, his body weathered by penance, his spirit forged in the fires of devotion. And at last, Mahadev appeared before him, pleased with his unshakable will. "You seek my aid, O King?" the Lord of Kailasa had asked.

"Yes," Swetaki had replied, his voice unwavering. "Assist me in my sacrifice."

Shiva had smiled then, a smile that held both power and inevitability. "I do not assist in sacrifices, O King. But you have earned my favour. I shall send you one who is a part of me, Durvasa. He shall conduct your yajna."

And so, it had come to pass. The greatest sacrifices were performed, the heavens bearing witness to its grandeur. With the yajna concluded, the great sages who had gathered illustrious Brahmanas and ascetics of immeasurable energy bowed to Durvasa, their leader in this endeavour. At his leave, they withdrew, their departure resembling the waning of stars before the break of dawn. Their presence had sanctified the land, and now, their task complete, they returned to their ashrams, carrying with them the blessings of divine fulfilment.

The embers of the grand sacrifice had long since faded, but the effects of its excess still lingered. Agni, the divine consumer of offerings, had feasted beyond his fill twelve relentless years of consuming an unceasing stream of clarified butter poured into his mouth by Swetaki's unwavering devotion. What once had been a blessing now felt like a curse.

Agni's once-blazing form had dulled; his flames, which once licked the heavens, now flickered weakly. His golden hue had turned pale as sickness had crept into his essence. His appetite had vanished, and the core of his being, the unquenchable hunger that defined him, had betrayed him.

A deep weariness settled over him. No longer did he burn with vigour; no longer did he roar with hunger. Instead, he languished, burdened by excess, his power ebbing like a tide retreating from the shore. The fire that once could consume worlds now faltered, subdued by its surfeit. Unable to bear the weight of his affliction any longer, Agni turned his gaze toward the supreme refuge of all Brahman, the Eternal, the Creator of all things. He ascended to that sacred abode, where the air vibrated with cosmic order, and all things found their purpose. There, seated in divine tranquillity, was Brahma, the Grand Architect of the Universe.

Agni approached with reverence, yet his voice, usually fierce and crackling like a wildfire, was now subdued, almost pleading. "O Exalted One, hear me!" Agni spoke, his flames sputtering as he struggled to articulate his plight. "Swetaki has worshipped me with a devotion unparalleled. He has poured sacrificial butter into my being for twelve long years, and now... I am undone by it! My flames have dimmed, my hunger has died, and my very nature and existence are in peril! I am weakened, afflicted, and reduced in both splendour and strength. O Lord of the Universe, grant me relief! Restore me to my true self!"

Brahma, the Supreme Deity, listened with an amused smile, his expression carrying both wisdom and kindness. "O Agni, great consumer of all things," Brahma spoke, his voice like the gentle rumbling of the cosmos. "Your suffering is but the consequence of indulgence. For twelve years, you hast feasted without restraint; thus, the imbalance has seized you. But grieve not, for I shall restore you. The time for your revival is at hand."

Agni's dim flames flickered with hope.

Brahma continued, his gaze turning toward the world below. "Do you remember Khandava? That fearsome forest, that dwelling of those enemies of the gods? Once, at the behest of the Devas, you reduce it to ashes. But now, it thrives again, teeming with vast and defiant creatures. There lies your remedy." The Supreme Deity's words rang with certainty. "Consume it, Agni! Devour its inhabitants, feed upon the fat of its creatures, and thou shalt be whole again. That is thy cure, and the time for it is now. Go forth!"

At these words, a surge of energy coursed through Agni. His purpose reignited, and his dwindling flames flared to life. He descended from Brahma's abode with newfound vigour, streaking like a comet toward the earthly realm.

The vast, untamed wilderness of Khandava lay before him a sprawling forest dense with life. Ancient trees, their roots entangled like sleeping serpents, stretched toward the sky. Beasts prowled in the undergrowth, and the air was thick with the whispers of the countless creatures that called it home. Agni's fury ignited once more. With a deafening roar, he unleashed his fire upon the forest, his flames crackling with hunger long denied. The inferno surged forward, devouring everything in its path. His flames leapt onto towering trees, coiled around the beasts that ran in terror, and swept through the very soul of Khandava. Yet the forest denizens were not without their defences. The mighty elephants, their roars mingling with the chaos, charged toward the blaze. Hundreds of thousands, their tusks gleaming in the firelight, drew water into their trunks and unleashed torrents upon the raging flames.

From the shadows, the serpentine guardians of the forest emerged. Thousands of many-hooded Nagas, their eyes burning with fury, reared against the consuming fire. Water gushed from their hoods, hissing as it met the flames, fighting to smother Agni's wrath.

The creatures of Khandava, great and small, rallied against the inferno, employing every means at their disposal. Birds carried water in their beaks, beasts kicked up earth to stifle the fire, and even the trees themselves, as though possessed by the will of the forest, resisted with a force unseen. Agni raged, but he was thwarted each time he rose to consume. Again and again, his hunger was denied. For seven times, he blazed forth, only to be vanquished. Seven times, the creatures of Khandava defied him, extinguishing his fury with sheer resilience. The Fire God, unyielding yet frustrated, recoiled in disbelief. His hunger was unfulfilled, his mission incomplete. Khandava stood not unscathed but unbeaten. Agni realized he could not do this alone for the first time in ages. The forest had resisted him, but he would not be denied. Not this time. For this, he would need allies.

The Debt of Fire and Fate

Niyati's voice was calm, yet it carried a gravity that silenced the conversation around her. "That is why Agnidev requested Brata Krishna and Brata Partha," she stated, her words measured as if ensuring every syllable carried its full weight.

A pause lingered in the air. The flickering torches around them cast restless shadows, mirroring Vasusena's questions. He broke the silence. "Then why was Prativindhya able to save them?" His brow furrowed, the warrior in him demanding clarity. "And how did Krishna and Arjuna rescue those creatures?"

A story, ancient and profound, was woven into this question. And Niyati, with her voice like flowing water, began to unravel it. "There was a great rishi, renowned by the name of Mandapala," she spoke, her tone carrying the weight of old wisdom. "He was learned in dharma, unwavering in his vows, and counted among the greatest ascetics. He had conquered his senses, studied the sacred texts, and walked the arduous path of tapas. And yet, when his time came, when he cast aside his mortal form and ascended to the world of the ancestors, he did not find the fruits of his actions awaiting him."

Vasusena listened intently, his battle-hardened mind shifting from strategy to philosophy. "The dwellers of heaven sat around Dharmaraj, and Mandapala asked them, 'Why have I not attained the worlds that should have been the reward of my asceticism? What is it that I have left undone?'"

Niyati's voice dropped lower, drawing them in. "The celestials replied, 'O Brahmana! All men are born with three debt rituals: brahmacharya and offspring. These are fulfilled through yajnas, austerities, and progeny. You have performed sacrifices, and you have upheld austerities. But you have no offspring. Without a son, these realms remain closed to you. A son saves his father from Put, the hell meant for those who fail in this duty. So, seek progeny, and you shall enjoy these worlds for eternity."

A fire danced in Vasusena's eyes, a flicker of recognition. The duty of a father, the responsibility of legacy, was something he understood deeply. "Mandapala was a man of great wisdom," Niyati continued. "He pondered upon the words of the gods and sought the swiftest way to fulfil his destiny. He realized that birds bring forth many offspring at once, so he took the form of a Sharngaka bird and united with a female bird named Jarita. From their union, four sons were born, each destined for greatness, each steeped in the knowledge of Brahman. But before they even hatched and could feel their father's warmth, Mandapala abandoned them. He left Jarita and his unborn sons in the depths of the Khandava forest... and sought another mate, Lapita."

A hush fell. The weight of abandonment, of choices made for destiny, pressed upon them. "Yet, Jarita could not leave her children. She nurtured them and protected them despite the dangers lurking in Khandava. She had no one but herself to rely upon, yet she did not falter."

Vasusena exhaled sharply. "And then Agnidev came," he said, not as a question but as an inevitability.

Niyati nodded. "Yes. One day, as Mandapala wandered with Lapita, he saw Agni advancing upon Khandava, ready to consume it. A father he had not been, but he was still bound by blood. Fear gripped him, not for himself, but for the sons he had abandoned."

She leaned forward slightly, her eyes darkening. "Mandapala prayed to Agni, the great purifier who devours and sustains. He called upon the Fire God's many forms: the flames that dance in the heavens, the ones that reside in the bellies of men, and the fire that carries offerings to the divine. 'O Agnidev!' he cried. 'You are the breath of the gods, the eternal purifier! You, who burn all beings to ash, are also the force that sustains them. I beg of you, O Jataveda, grant me this boon—spare my sons when you consume Khandava!'"

Niyati's voice softened. "Agni, moved by the sage's plea, gave his word. And with that promise, he blazed into Khandava, ready to engulf it."

Vasusena's fists clenched at his sides. "And what of the children?" His voice was tight, as though bracing against an inevitable tragedy.

"The fire raged," Niyati said, "and the Sharngakas, still young, still fragile, were trapped. Flames rose around them, their cries echoed in the inferno, and their mother's sorrow pierced the heavens."

Her voice wavered slightly, carrying the grief of a mother abandoned, a mother desperate. "Jarita, the ascetic mother, listened to her sons' voices, trembling with fear and helplessness yet refusing to abandon them. Even as the flames closed in."

A heavy silence stretched between them, the weight of fate pressing against their chests. Jarita's voice trembled as she gazed at the advancing inferno. The flames danced wildly, devouring everything in their path as if the universe had been set ablaze. Terror clawed at her heart. "Putro," she whispered, her wings trembling. "They are so young, so helpless. They do not yet have their feathers or the strength to escape. And yet, they are the refuge of our ancestors, the very foundation of our lineage. How can I leave them?"

The fire crackled in response, its greedy tongues licking the towering trees, reducing them to embers. The heat seared her feathers, but her pain was nothing compared to the anguish in her heart. "I cannot fly away or take them with me. If I stay, we all perish. If I leave, I abandon my flesh and blood." She looked at her little ones, her voice breaking. "How do I choose between you? Which one shall I save, and which shall I let burn?"

Her thoughts spiralled into despair. There was no path, no hope. "Then so be it," she resolved, her voice firm despite her tears. "I will shield you with my body. We will perish together."

She closed her eyes, ready to embrace death, but her mind betrayed her, echoing the cruel words of her mate. "My lineage will continue through Jaritari, the eldest. Sarisrikva will bear offspring, ensuring the continuity of our ancestors. Stambamitra will be an ascetic, and Drona will master the knowledge of the Brahman."

The weight of those words crushed her. He had abandoned them without hesitation, and now she was left alone to make an impossible choice. Her children, sensing her despair, chirped in unison. "Mata, do not grieve for us. Go! Escape while you can."

She gasped, stunned. "If we perish, you can have more children. But if you perish, our lineage ends forever. Do not destroy our father's efforts."

Her heart clenched. "No! I cannot leave you."

"There is no other way," they insisted. "Do what is best for our family."

A glimmer of hope ignited in her heart. "There is a burrow beneath the tree—a rat hole. If you hide inside, the fire will not touch you." The little ones hesitated. But Mata... what if the rat eats us alive?"

Jarita's voice was urgent, pleading. "A hawk took the rat. I saw it with my own eyes! The hole is safe. Trust me."

But doubt clouded their innocent eyes. "What if there are more rats?"

She tried to reassure them. "I followed the hawk as it flew away with the rat. I even blessed it for ridding us of that menace."

Still, her sons hesitated. "We cannot be sure. The wind is shifting, and the fire may not reach us. But if we enter that hole, death is certain."

Tears filled her eyes. "Putro, please—"

They silenced her with heart-breaking words. "You have no reason to suffer for us. We are not your burden. You are young and beautiful. You can find another mate and bear more children. But... we will enter the fire and find peace in the higher realms. If fate spares us, you will return to us."

As the flames of destruction loomed closer, Jaritari spoke with wisdom, "The intelligent man remains vigilant before difficult times; when challenges arrive, he does not suffer. But the one who lacks foresight stumbles into hardship, unprepared and lost." Sensing the impending danger, Sarisrikva turned to him with admiration, acknowledging, "You are resolute and wise. Our lives now stand on the edge of peril, and in such moments, only a rare few possess the strength and clarity to lead." Stambamitra, his voice firm with conviction, declared, "It is the eldest who stands as the shield in times of crisis. If he falters, what hope do the younger ones have?" Drona's voice carried a dire warning: "The one with the golden seed rushes toward us, bringing fire in its wake. The seven tongues of flame stretch out, lean and hungry, eager to consume all in their path." Drona's voice carried the weight of command, and Jataveda Agni, the devourer of offerings, was bound by honour and promise.

The fire god's flames flickered as he addressed the sage. "O Drona, rishi of unsullied deeds! Your words are truth itself, for they are the Brahman. Fear not, for I shall fulfil your desire. Before this moment, Mandapala had sought my promise to spare his sons when I consumed the forest. His words and yours carry equal weight, and I honour them both. Speak, O illustrious one, and I shall do as you wish."

Drona's expression remained impassive as he responded, "These cats trouble us incessantly. O bearer of sacrificial flames, take them and all their kin into your burning jaws."

Niyati's voice, steady as fate itself continued, continued, "And thus, after granting leave to the Sharngakas, Agni did as was asked. His flames blazed higher, devouring all in their path..."

The inferno was merciless, consuming everything in its wake. But there was one who stood against it, Prativindhya. He saw the creatures, small and innocent, trapped by circumstance. They were born in the wrong place at the wrong time, destined for death by fire. Had it not been for him, they, too, would have perished. But he saved them.

Bhima, ever direct, turned sharply. "Does Sage Mandapala know of this?" he asked.

Niyati's gaze darkened. "Mandapala," she continued, "had already begun to worry. Though he had pleaded with the one of piercing rays Agni himself, his heart knew no rest. Anxiety clutched him like a vice, and in his distress, he turned to Lapita. 'O Lapita, my sons are too young to escape the coming doom. The fire will rage, the winds will howl, and they will be trapped. Their mother, devoted as she is, will be unable to save them. She will watch, helpless, as the flames close in. My sons cannot run; they cannot fly. She will weep and wail in sorrow. How is my son Jaritari? And Sarisrikva? And Stambamitra? And Drona? And my ascetic child? What fate has found them?' Thus, the rishi lamented as the firestorm engulfed Khandava."

Lapita's eyes gleamed with something sharp, perhaps resentment or something more profound. Her words were laced with it. "You suffer, Mandapala, but not for the reason you claim. Your sons are strong; they are rishis of great power. You do not need to fear for them. Did you not speak on their behalf before Agni himself? Did he not promise you? Agni is the world's protector, and his word is never false. Your anxiety, Mandapala, is not for them. It is for her. You think of my enemy. Please do not lie to me. You do not love me as you once did. A man with two ties should not be so evident in his affections, yet here you are, showing no care for the one beside you. Go, Mandapala! Go to Jarita, the one who holds your heart. Leave me to wander alone, abandoned like a fool allied with a wretch."

Mandapala's voice was weary but firm. "You are mistaken, Lapita. I do not wander for the reasons you suspect. I do not abandon what I have for the sake of what might be. The world disregards such a fool. Do as you will, Lapita. But know this: Agni's flames are already upon us. They lick the great trees, birthing sorrow in my heart."

And with that, the inferno roared. The firestorm passed, and Jarita stood where ruin should have lain whole, breathless, desperate. She had run, her heart in her throat, dreading what she would find. But when her eyes beheld them, her sons alive, untouched grief left her in violent sobs. One by one, she held them close, trembling, weeping. And her sons, too, wept in her arms.

Niyati's voice was measured as she recounted the next moment. "And then, Mandapala arrived. His sons, however, did not greet him. Not one. He called their names repeatedly and spoke to Jarita, but silence was his only answer: no words of joy or anger. Mandapala frowned. 'Who among you is my eldest? Who was born after him? Who stands in the middle, and who is the youngest? I ask you in my misery, why do you not speak to me? I left you to the fire but have found no peace.'

At last, Jarita answered, her voice a quiet storm. 'What matters to you is which one is the eldest? Or second? Or third? Or youngest? What concern is it of yours? You left me, Mandapala. You abandoned me, miserable and alone. Go now. Return to Lapita, the one with the beautiful smile.'

Mandapala exhaled, a bitter laugh on his lips. 'There is nothing in this world crueller to a woman than another woman. The great Arundhati, devoted and righteous, could not escape suspicion; she doubted even Vashishtha himself. You, too, Jarita. You sought me for sons' sake, and now that you have them, you discard me. You are no different. A man should never trust a woman, even his wife. For once a woman has borne sons, her heart no longer belongs to her husband.' And then, in an instant, his sons stepped forward. One by one, they bowed before him, acknowledging their father at last. And Mandapala, despite the ache in his heart, reassured them. He had returned."

As the Pandavas sat in deep contemplation over the tale of Mandapala, Niyati's gaze fell upon Yudhishthira. Her voice was calm, yet there was an undercurrent of something more profound, perhaps a test or the weight of truth she carried alone. "Brata Yudhishthira," she began, her words resonating like the echoes of fate. "Indra granted boons not only to Brata Partha but also to Brata Krishna."

The mention of boons from the King of the Devas caught the attention of the assembled warriors. Bhishma, listening with keen interest, now straightened, his wisdom-seeking eyes locking onto Niyati. "What boon, Putri?" Bhishma asked, his voice steady but filled with curiosity.

A knowing smile flickered on Niyati's lips as she recounted the words of Śakra, the mighty Indra himself: "Indra said— 'You have accomplished a difficult feat even for the immortals. I am pleased. Choose boons that are difficult to obtain and beyond what humans can receive.'"

The room fell silent, absorbing the weight of Devaraj's proclamation.

Niyati turned to Arjuna, her eyes deep as the cosmic void. "And what did you ask for, Brata Partha?"

Ever the humble warrior, Arjuna inclined his head, his voice carrying the burden of destiny. "I asked for the boon that I might receive all of Indradev's celestial weapons."

A murmur of awe passed through the gathering, but Niyati was not finished. "Then Śakra fixed the time for their bestowal. He said— 'O Pandava! When the illustrious Mahadeva is pleased with you, I shall grant you all my weapons. O scion of the Kuru lineage! O Dhananjaya! I shall know when that time has arrived. Because of your great asceticism, I will then bestow upon you all my Agneya, Vayavya, and other celestial weapons, and you shall accept them.'"

Arjuna clenched his fists as if he could already feel the power of Indra's weapons coursing through him. He knew what was required of him to please Mahadeva himself. Then, Niyati turned to Vasudeva, her voice shifting to a gentler tone yet filled with something almost ineffable. "And what did you ask for, Brata Krishna?"

Those who knew Vasudeva might have expected a request for great power, a celestial weapon beyond mortal reach. But Niyati's following words carried the weight of something far more significant than mere strength. "Vasudeva asked for the boon that he might always be loving towards Partha."

Silence. A silence deeper than the vast heavens themselves.

Indra had granted his blessings, but Krishna had sought love, whereas Arjuna had sought weapons.

Bhīma exhaled sharply, breaking the stillness. "Such a boon... it is beyond even the gods."

Sahadeva, always perceptive, murmured, "Not a boon of power, but a boon of devotion."

Niyati nodded, her voice softening. "Purandar, pleased with their requests, granted them both. And having done so, Indra departed and ascended again to Swarga, taking the thirty celestials with him."

The Pandavas sat quietly, absorbing the enormity of what had been spoken. "Thus, was fate sealed," Niyati whispered. "Weapons for one, love for the other, and destiny for both."

Lessons from the Ashes

As the embers of Khandava still smouldered in their minds, Niyati turned to the Pandavas. Her gaze was piercing, holding the weight of cosmic truth. "Brata," she addressed them, both gentle and unyielding, "the fire of Khandava was not just destruction. It was a lesson written in the language of fate. What did you learn from this incident, especially concerning Mandapala and his children?"

Yudhishthira folded his hands, his expression solemn. "Dharma is not always straightforward," he said. "Mandapala abandoned his duty as a hermit and embraced a householder's life because he desired progeny. But was he wrong? His sons were left to face the fire without him, yet they upheld their duty and gained heaven. Their Sacrifice, their devotion, this is dharma in its highest form. Khandava taught me that duty often comes with suffering, and the path of righteousness is not free of sorrow."

Vasusena, his golden armour catching the light, exhaled deeply. "What I see is that abandonment does not mean detachment. Mandapala left his sons behind, but he did not stop caring. When the fire raged, his heart burned alongside it. Many think duties mean severing ties, but this is not always true. We carry our responsibilities, even from afar. Khandava showed me that war, destruction, and duty are entangled. Even as warriors, our hands are never free of the lives we touch."

Bhīma's fists clenched, his eyes burning with the memory of the inferno. "Strength means nothing if it does not protect," he growled. "Those who are weak perish in the fire, and those who are strong must ensure that does not happen. I saw a father's helplessness as his children burned. I saw creatures pleading for mercy. And yet, we stood with Agni, feeding the flames. Why? Because this world runs on Power. The strong must rule, or chaos will consume all. Khandava was proof of that truth."

Arjuna, his face impassive, met Niyati's gaze steadily. "I learned that sometimes, to protect, one must first destroy. Agni sought relief, and only fire could grant him peace. I wielded my weapons not for pleasure but for balance. The creatures of Khandava perished, but something greater will rise from the ashes. Just as Mandapala's children sacrificed themselves and attained heaven, new life will emerge from destruction, too. This is the cycle of dharma."

Nakula, ever thoughtful, spoke next. "Khandava showed me that attachment and Sacrifice are two sides of the same coin. Mandapala loved his children, yet he placed them in the fire's path, trusting that they would fulfil their destiny. He let go, and yet he never truly did. This is the struggle of every father, every mother, every king, and every warrior. We must choose when to hold on and when to release."

Sahadeva's eyes were distant as if he had seen far beyond the present moment. "Time devours all," he murmured. "The great forest stood tall, yet it burned to feed Agni. The creatures ran, yet few survived. The sons of Mandapala pleaded for salvation, yet they met their end with honour. No one can stop time's fire, but we can decide whether to meet it with fear or resolve. The wise do not lament what must be but prepare for what comes next. That is the greatest lesson Khandava has given me."

Niyati listened to each answer, her expression unreadable. Then, she smiled a smile that held both sorrow and understanding. "You all have spoken truths, but do you not see? Khandava was never just about destruction. Nor was Mandapala's tale merely about Sacrifice. It was all a reminder... that everything in this world is bound by fate."

She looked at Yudhishthira. "Dharma is complex; even the righteous must make choices that burn them."

She turned to Vasusena. "Detachment is an illusion. We carry our loved ones, whether we stay or leave."

To Bhīma, she said, "Power is not the only answer. The strong survive, but the wise endure."

To Arjuna, "Balance is needed, but do not assume destruction is always necessary for creation."

To Nakula, "Sacrifice is noble, but do not mistake it for destiny fulfilled. There is always another path."

To Sahadeva, she finally said, "Yes, time devours all. But the wise also know what is devoured is never truly lost."

Then, with a knowing glance toward the skies, she whispered, "And yet... some things... some souls... defy even fate." And with that, the embers of Khandava settled into their hearts, leaving lessons as lasting as the fire itself.

The Cosmic Birth of Śrutakīrti

The air was thick with a divine charge, a weight of something inevitable. The cosmos itself seemed to hold its breath. In the birthing chamber of Indraprastha's palace, Draupadi's cries of labour echoed, but she was not alone.

Arjuna knelt beside her, his hand firmly clasping hers. Beads of sweat lined his forehead, not from battle but from a helplessness he was unaccustomed to. His wife, his Sakhi, and his strength were in pain, and there was nothing he could do except be there. "You are strong," he whispered, pressing his forehead against hers. "Stronger than any of us. Stronger than the gods."

Draupadi let out a sharp breath, gripping his hand tighter as another wave of pain struck. "Then why does it feel like the gods wish to break me?" she gasped.

Arjuna's heart clenched. He had seen her walk-through fire unscathed and command empires with her presence alone, but now, she was battling something far beyond his reach. He brought her hand to his lips. "If even the gods wish to test you," he murmured, "they shall fail, as they always do."

Outside the chamber, the winds howled. The very foundation of Indraprastha trembled. A storm raged across the skies, though no rain fell. Lightning crackled in eerie silence. The air was charged with an energy that sent shivers through mortals and immortals alike.

Bhishma, meditating in his chambers, felt a shudder in his bones. "Something ancient is descending," he whispered.

In distant Gandharva lands, celestial beings turned their gaze toward Indraprastha. The rivers that never stilled came to a temporary pause. Even the mighty ocean roared, recognizing an arrival that would shift the world's fate.

Outside, the Pandavas stood restless, their minds clouded with an odd mixture of excitement and unease. Yudhishthira's fingers pressed together in contemplation, sensing the shifting energies. Bhima paced, the weight of something immense pressing upon him, while Nakula and Sahadeva whispered among themselves, recalling omens and celestial signs.

Vasusena, arms crossed, felt an inexplicable sense of reverence wash over him. He had fought alongside great warriors and had seen miracles, yet the air now carried an energy he could not grasp entirely.

The night was unlike any other. The air of Indraprastha trembled with an unseen force as if the cosmos was preparing to witness a moment of destiny. The moon, usually radiant in its silvery glow, seemed subdued, its light flickering in anticipation. The stars twinkled erratically, whispering among themselves about the arrival of a being beyond mortal comprehension.

Krishna stood against the backdrop of the storm-wrought sky, his peacock feather trembling in the unnatural winds. His smile had vanished. The moment was too grave for his usual mirth.

Yuyutsu, the mortal shell of Mahadev, stood beside him. But tonight, he was not just Mahamahim of Indraprastha; he was Rudra, the Destroyer who bore the burden of cosmic balance. His fingers twitched at his side as if restraining an unseen power.

Krishna broke the silence first. "Do you feel it, Mahadev? The weight of what is to come?"

Yuyutsu's jaw tightened. "I have felt it since I set foot in this form. This war is not just a battle of men, Krishna. It is a curse that will stain the very soil of Aryavarta."

Krishna nodded. "That is why your Rudra-avatar is descending. Virupaksha must be born."

Yuyutsu exhaled sharply. "It is not enough."

Krishna arched a brow. "Not enough?"

Yuyutsu turned, his eyes flashing with something ancient, something that had seen the rise and fall of countless Yugas. "This war is the final purge of Dvapara Yuga. But it must be such a purge, such a fire of destruction, that even Asur Kali, the lord of Kaliyug, trembles before taking his first step."

Krishna's smile was grim. "And what do you propose?"

Yuyutsu's voice was like distant thunder. "We do it thoroughly. No half-measures, no mercy. From my side, I will see that every trace of unrighteousness, every remnant of darkness, is burned away. We must not just win the war, Krishna. We must end an age."

Krishna's eyes gleamed in the dying light. "So, you will cleanse the path for Kaliyug's dawn?"

Yuyutsu's lips curled into a smirk, but it held no joy. "That is my duty. To give the mortals of Kaliyug a clean start. To ensure that it will have to claw its way back into existence when darkness rises again. I will make it suffer for every step it takes."

Krishna chuckled, shaking his head. "Mahadev, even in your mercy, there is destruction."

Yuyutsu's eyes burned with a divine light. "Because my mercy is not given freely, Narayan. It is earned."

Krishna looked up at the heavens. "Then let Virupaksha be born. Let him be your hand in this war. Let the gods bear witness. Dvapara will not fade quietly."

And somewhere, in the vast expanse beyond mortal comprehension, the forces of the universe shifted. The storm that had threatened to unleash itself... bowed to a more terrific storm yet to come.

A final cry rang out from the chamber, piercing like a war horn through the night. The very palace trembled as a new force entered the world.

Śrutakīrti had been born.

Outside, the winds fell silent, and the storm receded. The stars aligned in an unnatural formation as if paying homage to the new soul.

Arjuna, breathless, gazed down at his son. The child did not cry aimlessly like others. His dark, deep, and endless eyes locked onto Arjuna's, and for a moment, it was as if father and son recognized each other from lifetimes past.

Krishna smiled knowingly as he stepped forward. "Welcome, little one," he murmured. "The world has been waiting for you."

And in the distance, unseen but ever-present, the gods watched. The time of destiny had begun.

The Birth of Sharvisha

The air in Indraprastha was thick with celebration. The joyous echoes of Arjuna and Draupadi's newborn son had barely begun to settle when a new wave of energy surged through the city. But this was no ordinary shift. This was the cosmos itself responding.

Suddenly, a piercing cry echoed through the corridors of the palace. It wasn't of a child the sound of Niyati's labour pains beginning. Yet, her pain was unlike anything mortal. The very fabric of existence trembled. Time itself faltered, yet every being continued to breathe. The skies darkened and brightened simultaneously as if the universe could not decide what form it must take.

The midwives rushed to take Niyati inside, but two figures stood before them before they could enter the chamber.

Krishna and Yuyutsu.

Krishna raised his hand, asserting his authority and stopping them. Kunti, seeing this, stepped forward. "Krishna, let us come in," she urged.

Even Satyabhama, usually one to let Krishna handle matters of destiny, pressed forward. "Yes, Arya, we must be there."

But Krishna shook his head. "No," he said with finality. "This birth is different. Only Brata Yuyutsu and I will handle it."

Without another word, Krishna and Yuyutsu took Niyati inside, shutting the doors behind them. No one objected further. The weight of divine will was too strong. Inside the chamber, Niyati writhed in pain, her hands gripping the sheets beneath her. But it was not just physical pain; her agony rippled through existence itself.

Indraprastha was no longer the same. The palace, city, and land shone with a blinding, ethereal light. It was not the sun's glow or the moon's softness. It was something beyond mortal comprehension.

Outside, the confusion among the gathered Pandavas and queens was growing. But before anyone could question further, the sky itself parted. One by one, celestial beings descended, and the air became thick with divinity.

Standing at the forefront, Yudhishthira prepared to welcome them, but Indradev raised a hand. "No, Yudhishthira," Indradev's voice was firm yet reverent. "We are not here to offer respect. We are here to witness the birth of Devi Niyati and Mahamahim Yuyutsu's child."

The realization struck them that this was no ordinary birth. Even as evening fell, the city remained aglow, as if dawn had arrived early. The impossible had become real. And then, from the radiant sky, two celestial figures descended.

Surya and Chandra.

The Pandavas watched in awe as Vasusena, Suryaputr, stepped forward, folding his hands. "Pitashree," he whispered in reverence.

Surya's eyes softened as he looked upon his grandsons. With a warm yet powerful presence, he blessed them all. But when his gaze shifted, it landed upon Krodhini and Stambhinī. His voice, though calm, held an unshakable authority. "Do not boil in jealousy. It will only burn you in return and turn you to ashes."

The two queens lowered their heads, unable to meet his gaze. Vasusena stood silent, but his father turned to him. "I am proud of you." His words carried the weight of the heavens. "The man you are now this is who you must always be. Do not stray from this path, Vasusena. If you do..." his voice turned grave, "...I cannot save you."

Vasusena smiled, not with arrogance but with quiet resolve. "I will never go away from my family."

Inside the chamber, Niyati's body trembled, her screams shaking the walls of existence. Yuyutsu met Krishna's eyes. His voice was low and urgent. "Now, Narayan."

Krishna nodded, stepping forward. He placed his hand on Niyati's womb, his very essence, his avatars, his divinity, his existence flowing into her. At the same time, Yuyutsu placed his hand, his cosmic Para Shiva energy merging with Krishna's. Together, they fortified her body, allowing it to contain the immense force of Vishnu, Shiva, and Shakti's child.

The celestial beings outside held their breath. And then A single, mighty cry shattered the silence. The air stilled. The cosmos paused. The child had arrived.

Yuyutsu, his hands steady despite the magnitude of the moment, lifted the newborn. His breath caught in his throat.

A girl.

His heart swelled as he held her close, gently kissing her forehead. His voice, though deep, held wonder. "I have been a father to a daughter before... but this time, it feels surreal."

Krishna, stepping forward, smiled. "She is my favourite."

Yuyutsu chuckled despite himself. "How many favourites do you have, Narayana?"

Krishna's eyes twinkled. "Many," he admitted. "But this one... she is my heart."

Niyati, exhausted but glowing with divine energy, gazed at them. Her voice was soft yet powerful. "Being a mother is surreal." She closed her eyes briefly as if letting the truth sink in. "Dhanyavaad, for allowing me to embrace this."

Then, with a solemnity that shook even the gods, she continued, "Though I cannot always stay with her and her lineage, I, Niyati, will always bless them. With strength and courage. With righteousness. With intelligence that will outsmart all, and strategies that will outrun any enemy."

Krishna and Yuyutsu, standing side by side, exchanged a look. Simultaneously, they murmured, "Ah, another blessing. Probably the second... and the best."

Krishna lifted the newborn in his arms. "I am always with you, little one. Always with your lineage. I will always hear you and reply. I love you for eternity, my child."

Yuyutsu took her back, cradling her with infinite tenderness. "I, Shiva, will always be with you. In your darkest moments, I will protect you. I will ensure you never falter from the truth. I will be your Guru, and your lineage will be under the wing of many Gurus. Until eternity, I will be for your children."

When Krishna and Yuyutsu stepped out of the chamber, the entire court of Indraprastha fell into stunned silence. The baby in their arms was unlike anything they had ever seen. Her skin held the glow of a thousand stars, yet her eyes reflected the unfathomable depths of the cosmos. A gentle aura of both fierce power and divine grace surrounded her. It was as if the Goddess herself had descended into mortal form.

Arjuna stepped forward first. He blinked and then laughed. "It's a girl!" He looked between Krishna and Yuyutsu. "Now, I'm confused. Shall I be called Mamashree or Kakashree?"

Vasusena smirked. "I will be her favourite, Arjuna. I will ensure neither her Mata nor her Pita ever scolds her."

Bhima folded his arms, grinning. "I will crush anyone who comes near her. And I will teach her how to wield a mace."

Yudhishthira, ever the composed one, smiled warmly. "We must give her the best name."

Krishna and Yuyutsu, still holding the divine child between them, spoke in unison: "She will be known as Sharvisha." At that moment, as her name echoed through the heavens, even the cosmos bowed in reverence.

Note:

The tale of Mandapala is rooted in the original scriptures. However, Niyati's questioning of the events and the responses of the Pandavas is a creative liberty I have taken to enrich the narrative.

Similarly, the scriptures document Arjuna's receiving a boon from Indra and Krishna's request to Indra. These elements remain faithful to the ancient texts.

On the other hand, Virupaksha's birth as Arjuna and Draupadi's son is a creative addition, as is Niyati and Yuyutsu's birth of a daughter. However, this divine girl and her lineage will shape the very course of Kaliyug, altering its destiny in ways yet to be revealed.

This concludes the Adi Parva. As we move forward, the journey into Sabha Parva begins with the upcoming 100th chapter.

Thank you for walking this path with me so far. May this journey continue, leading us deeper into the grand epic.

Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya.