After their victory, Niyati withdrew into deep meditation, her stillness stretching across days, stirring concern in the hearts of her brothers. Under the ancient tree, she sat unmoving, her form a part of the earth itself, untouched by time. Though engaged in their duties, the Pandavas could not help but glance at her with quiet apprehension. They resolved that each night, one among them would stand guard, not out of fear of an external threat, but to ensure her well-being.

Yet, as the nights passed, an inexplicable transformation began to unfold. Whoever took the night watch by her side felt something shifting within. The silence surrounding her was not mere absence of sound; it was a profound void that cradled the soul, an embrace of stillness that altered them in ways they could not comprehend.

She was their sister, yet she became something more in her meditation. There was a presence about her beyond mortal bonds, not just kin, not just family. She seemed a mother to some, nurturing without words; to others, she was the essence of the ultimate, a force that transcended form and name. Whatever it was, it was undeniable.

At dawn, Kunti would often sit beside her, gazing at her daughter with awe and unease. She, who had always been the pillar of strength, was humbled by the energy radiating from Niyati. It was unlike anything she had ever felt. Ancient and untouched, power flowed around her, through her, as if she were the vessel of something far beyond mortal understanding.

Days turned into weeks, yet Niyati did not stir from her meditation.

Meanwhile, the Pandavas continued to reside in the abode of the humble Brahmana, immersing themselves in the sacred study of the Vedas. They offered reverence to sages, gave shelter to wandering ascetics, and lived in devotion. Those who came to their dwelling—holy men, scholars, seekers—would always find their gaze drawn to Niyati. Some knew some whispered among themselves, and others merely stood in quiet wonder, unable to look away from the still figure under the tree.

Then, a sage of great renown arrived on one such day—one rigid in his vows, a master of discipline. The moment he beheld Niyati, he stopped in his tracks, his gaze unwavering. Without a word, he approached her and sat at her feet, his posture one of deep reverence.

This startled the Pandavas, even Kunti, who was unaccustomed to seeing a sage bow to another in such a way. Gathering her composure, she addressed him, her voice steady but curious.

"O Rishi, your presence blesses our home. We would be honoured if you could share your experiences with us. Please enlighten us with your wisdom."

The sage, still lingering on Niyati, turned towards them and began to speak. He wove tales of distant lands, sacred and pure rivers, and cities built by kings of unparalleled might. He spoke of monarchs and sages, pilgrimages and penance, his words painting pictures of a world beyond their own.

And then, as his stories wove on, he spoke of something that gripped the Pandavas' attention—the wondrous self-choice of Yajnasena's daughter, the princess of Panchala. He spoke of the miraculous births of Dhrishtadyumna and Shikhandi. And, with a quiet intensity, he narrated the extraordinary tale of Krishnaa (Draupadi), who was born not from a mother's womb but from the sacred flames of a king's sacrifice.

The Pandavas listened with bated breath, their minds filled with wonder. When he had finished, Arjuna, unable to suppress his curiosity, stepped forward and asked, "O Rishi, the tale you have spoken stirs the heart and mind alike. Pray, tell us more. How did the sacrificial fire give birth to Dhrishtadyumna? How did Krishnaa emerge from the flames? How did Drupada's son come to master the art of war under the great Drona? And, tell us, what caused the rift between Drupada and Drona?"

The sage turned his gaze back to Niyati, a knowing smile on his lips. Then, his voice steady and timeless, he began his tale.

The Rishi says, "The revered Rishi Bharadvaja dwelled at the sacred source of the Ganga, where he lived a life of spiritual discipline. One day, he chanced upon the enchanting apsara Ghritachi bathing, and as the wind unexpectedly disrobed her, desire stirred within him. His semen fell, and from this unlikely union, Drona was born, destined to master the ancient Vedas.

As fate would have it, Drona's life became intertwined with that of Drupada, the son of King Prishata, with whom he shared a complicated history of friendship and rejection. Drona and Drupada studied together in their youth, but when Drupada ascended to the throne, he spurned Drona's offer of friendship, dealing a blow to his pride.

Seeking revenge, Drona trained the Kuru princes in the art of warfare, and Arjuna, bound by a promise, vowed to avenge Drona's honour. The Pandavas ultimately defeated Drupada, and Drona, claiming his revenge, seized half of his kingdom.

However, Maharaja Vasusena intervened, thwarting Drona's attempt to curse him, and Rishi Bharadvaja himself appeared, cursing Drona instead. Though Drupada retained his throne, his humiliation never faded, leaving a burning desire for retaliation that would one day ignite conflict."

The Pandavas exchanged glances, sensing that Arjuna's vow had somehow played a role in these events. However, their more significant concern was for their eldest brother.

Yudhishthira, voicing their unspoken worry, asked, "Will Panduputr Vasusena face any troubles because of Drupada's children?"

The sage smiled gently and replied, "One cannot say for certain. However, Drupada harboured no ill will toward Vasusena or any of his brothers."

Hearing this, Kunti's worries eased, and with renewed curiosity, Sahadeva urged the Rishi to continue the tale.

King Drupada, burdened by sorrow and an unfulfilled desire, wandered across lands where Brahmanas resided, seeking sages of unparalleled wisdom and spiritual mastery. His heart ached for a son—a warrior strong enough to vanquish Drona, the source of his humiliation.

Consumed by grief, his mind constantly echoed with the thought, "I am cursed with offspring unworthy of their lineage."

He sighed, tormented by the sting of his past defeat, yet no Kshatriya power seemed enough to stand against Drona's unparalleled might.

One day, his search led him to the sacred banks of the Ganga, where an illustrious hermitage stood, home to Brahmanas of unwavering vows and profound learning. Among them were two revered sages—Yaja and Upayaja—descendants of the great Kashyapa, renowned for their asceticism and mastery over sacrificial rites. Recognizing their divine strength, Drupada humbled himself and served them with utmost devotion. Knowing the younger one, Upayaja, to be the more significant in spiritual prowess, Drupada worshipped him tirelessly, offering him every comfort, every word of reverence.

With folded hands, he implored, "O noble Brahmana Upayaja! If you perform a sacrifice that grants me a son mighty enough to slay Drona, I shall gift you ten crore cows and anything else your heart desires."

Upayaja, unmoved by wealth or desire, refused. Yet, Drupada did not waver; he continued his service, unwavering in his resolve. A year passed before Upayaja finally spoke, his voice calm yet decisive. "My elder brother Yaja, despite his knowledge, lacks the same strict purity of discipline. He has partaken in impure acts without scruple, yet he may agree to your request for this very reason. Approach him."

Drupada, though holding a lesser opinion of Yaja, did as advised. With great reverence, he offered, "O revered sage Yaja, I shall give you eighty thousand cows. Perform this sacrifice for me. My heart burns with enmity for Drona, a man who, despite his Brahmana birth, wields Kshatriya power far beyond our kind. His mastery over the Brahmastra has made him invincible, his arrows like a divine fire that consumes all. I am but a mere Kshatriya before his might. O Yaja, grant me a son who will be invincible, who will end Drona's reign!"

Yaja, swayed by Drupada's desperate plea and offerings, agreed. He began the sacred preparations, summoning the power of ancient rites. Though Upayaja desired no reward, he joined his brother in this grand ritual. The sacrificial flames roared to life, and their chants echoed through the heavens, promising the destruction of Drona.

As the fire blazed, Yaja turned to Queen Prishati. "O noble queen, approach now, for the moment of uniting has come."

But Prishati, adorned in divine scents, hesitated. "O great sage Yaja, I am not yet ready for the sacred act."

Yaja's gaze remained fixed upon the flames. "The offerings have been sanctified by Upayaja's incantations. Whether you come or delay, the purpose of this sacrifice shall be fulfilled." With that, he poured the sacred offerings into the fire.

In an instant, the flames roared higher, crackling with divine energy. From their depths emerged a radiant youth, his form terrible and godlike. His complexion burned like fire, his body encased in armor gleaming with celestial brilliance. A magnificent crown adorned his head, and he held a mighty sword, bow, and arrows in his hands.

He ascended a chariot of divine craftsmanship with a deafening roar, ready for war. The Panchalas, awestruck, cried out in jubilation, "Blessed are we!" The skies trembled as a celestial voice proclaimed, "This prince has been born for Drona's destruction. He shall bring glory to the Panchalas and relieve the king's sorrow."

Drupada's heart swelled with triumph, his long-held anguish dissolving into hope. His son, the destined avenger, had arrived.

The Pandavas sat in stunned silence, the gravity of the revelation weighing upon them. To think that a being was summoned from the fire itself with a singular purpose—to kill their revered Guru—was unfathomable. Their minds swirled with questions, but none felt the burden of this knowledge more than Arjuna. His heart clenched at the thought of such an inescapable destiny. The fire-born warrior's fate was sealed, irrevocable, unchangeable. No matter what path he chose, no matter what he desired, he was bound to be the instrument of Dronacharya's end.

As the weight of the revelation hung in the air, Sahadeva finally found his voice. His sharp mind sought clarity amidst the storm.

"O Rishi," he asked, his tone measured but curious, "King Drupada already has a son. We have all heard of him. Why, then, did he need another? Could he not entrust his revenge to his own flesh and blood?"

A knowing smile played on the sage's lips as he uttered a single name: "Shikhandi."

The name resonated like an echo from the past, carrying the weight of an untold story. The Pandavas leaned in as the sage wove the tale of Drupada's firstborn, a tale of fate, defiance, and an identity forged by the will of the gods.

King Drupada, once childless, sought Lord Shiva's blessings. His desire was simple yet fervent—he longed for a son who would be the instrument of his revenge. The great god listened but granted him a prophecy instead.

"A daughter will be born to you," Shiva had decreed. "And in due time, she will become a man."

When the child was born, Drupada and his queen raised her as a boy, concealing the truth from the world. The child, Shikhandi, was groomed as a warrior, taught the art of war, and prepared for the destiny foretold by Shiva himself. But destiny is never without trials.

As Shikhandi reached marriageable age, Drupada betrothed him to the daughter of Hiranyavarman, the mighty king of Dasharna. But fate does not stay hidden for long. The new bride soon discovered the truth, and the whispers of deception reached Hiranyavarman's ears. Enraged, the King of Dasharna prepared for war, demanding the truth from Drupada.

Bound by pride and the burden of his secret, Drupada stood firm. "My child is a man," he declared.

Yet Shikhandi, burdened by the dishonor befalling his family, chose exile over deceit. He left his father's palace and wandered into a forest shrouded in fear, a place where mortals dared not tread. It was the dwelling of a Yaksha named Stunakarna, a being of immense power and mystery.

The Yaksha, moved by Shikhandi's despair, listened to his tale and offered a solution. "I will exchange my form with yours," he said. "For a time, you shall have what you seek."

Grateful, Shikhandi accepted. And so, when he returned to his father's court, he was no longer a woman raised as a man—he was, in body and soul, a man.

Drupada wasted no time in summoning Hiranyavarman's envoys. They came with doubt but left with certainty, and peace was restored between the two kingdoms.

But fate, once altered, is never left untouched. The consequences were swift and severe when the great lord Kubera visited the Yaksha's domain and found Stunakarna absent.

"You did not greet me," Kubera thundered. "For this insult, the change you have wrought shall be eternal."

The Yaksha, now trapped in the form he had given away, pleaded for mercy. Kubera, though just, was not unkind.

"You shall regain your true self," he decreed, "but only when Shikhandi's purpose in this world is fulfilled."

The sage's voice grew solemn as he reached the crux of the tale. "Thus, Shikhandi was born as a complete man. However, Raja Drupada enmity with Dronacharya ran deeper than the wounds of war. He did not seek mere warriors—he sought instruments of divine justice." The Pandavas listened in awe as the sage's voice took on a reverence unlike before.

"And so, Drupada did not stop with Shikhandi." He let his words hang for a moment before revealing the final truth.

"The Yagna bore him another child. A daughter whose destiny was intertwined with greatness itself." He smiled, his eyes gleaming with something beyond mere wisdom.

"Yagnaseni - Krishnaa." A single name that carried the weight of prophecy, of fire, of unyielding fate.

"What about her?" Arjuna asked, his voice steady but laced with curiosity. "Is she also born to slay someone?"

A stillness settled over the gathering. The air seemed to pause in reverence as Niyati slowly opened her eyes. Her gaze was serene yet profound as she answered, "To slay Adharma, Brata Partha."

A shiver ran through the Pandavas and Kunti as if her words carried the weight of destiny itself. They instinctively rose to their feet, offering their respects to the Rishi, before moving toward Niyati.

Sensing the moment's gravity and remembering the warmth of care, Nakula rushed toward the abode. He returned swiftly, carrying the Sharbat that Yuyutsu had lovingly prepared for her during their time in Varnavat.

With a gentle smile, Niyati accepted the offering but, before taking a sip, turned toward the Rishi and extended it to him. Her gesture spoke of reverence beyond words.

The Rishi, his eyes brimming with something unspoken—an emotion felt by all yet understood by none—simply shook his head and said, "No, Mata. You, please have it. I am content just seeing you."

Nakula furrowed his brows slightly and corrected with a smile, "Mata? O noble Rishi, she is our sister."

The Rishi returned the smile, his expression untouched by the mortal distinctions of relationships. "I am a celibate. I see Mata in every woman."

Niyati did not argue; she simply inclined her head in quiet acceptance. She sipped the Sharbat, savouring its cool relief before settling with the others.

She looked at the Rishi, her eyes filled with patient curiosity. "Please continue, O Rishi. Tell us more about Krishnaa."

Rishi continues, "The sacred fire roared, its golden tongues stretching toward the heavens like whispering secrets to the gods. The air was thick with the scent of clarified butter and sacred herbs, and the chants of the Brahmanas wove a tapestry of power, reverberating through the very fabric of existence. The sky itself seemed to tremble in anticipation.

Then, from the heart of the flames, she emerged."

He looks at the five Pandavas and says, "A young maiden arose from the center of the altar, her presence like the first bloom of night amidst a sky of flickering embers. Her skin was dark—deep and rich like the earth after the first monsoon rains, like the hue of storm-kissed clouds. Her waist, slender and perfectly sculpted, resembled the very altar from which she was born, a divine offering to the world.

Her eyes, vast and mysterious as the petals of lotuses, held within them the echoes of unspoken destinies. They shimmered with wisdom beyond her years, as if the cosmos had woven secrets into their depths. Her hair cascaded in curls of dark blue, glistening like midnight waves under a silver moon.

A divine fragrance enveloped her—not just any perfume, but the scent of blue lotuses, ethereal and intoxicating, wafting through the air for miles. It was as if nature bowed in her presence, offering its sweetest perfume in reverence.

She was not merely beautiful. She was a beauty incarnate, a goddess walking the mortal plane. No woman—no being—on earth could rival her radiance."

And then, as if the heavens themselves wished to declare her purpose, an invisible voice resounded through the air: "Supreme among women, this beauty of the dark complexion will destroy the Kshatriyas. This one with the beautiful waist will fulfil the gods' will in time. From her will arise terrible fear among the warriors of the earth."

A tremor passed through the crowd, a mix of awe, reverence, and an unspoken fear of destiny unfurling before their eyes. Then, as if breaking from a trance, the people of Panchala roared like a pride of lions, their voices thundering across the land, shaking the earth beneath their feet. The ground itself seemed to struggle under the weight of their overwhelming joy.

Queen Prishati's heart swelled as she beheld the divine twins. Stepping forward, she turned to the great sage Yaja and pleaded, "Let these two know no one but me as their mother."

The sage nodded in agreement, smiling at her devotion and wishing to honour King Drupada's desires.

The Brahmanas, their work complete, bestowed names upon the children. "Because of his great courage and the brilliance from which he was born, let this son of Drupada be called Dhrishtadyumna."

"Because she is dark in complexion yet radiant as the gods, let her be called Krishnaa."

Thus, were the divine twins, children of fire, bound by fate, destined to shape history.

Far away, the winds carried the fragrance of blue lotuses, and the world shivered in silent recognition—change had come.

The Unspoken Truth

The sage had departed, his blessings lingering like an unseen whisper. But though his presence had faded, something else remained—a heavy and unspoken silence.

Kunti's gaze swept over her five sons, her heart tightening. They stood still, their minds lost elsewhere, their breaths slow, their eyes unfocused. She could see it—not just as a queen, but as a mother.

Something had stirred within them. Something powerful.

And she knew its name - Krishnaa.

The fire-born princess of Panchala had already woven herself into their thoughts. She did not need words, nor did she need to be present. The very mention of her name had ignited something in them—a quiet storm, a pull they did not yet understand.

But Kunti was not the only one observing.

Niyati, silent yet intent, watched the queen-mother with an unreadable expression. Something was sharp in her eyes as if she were weighing Kunti's thoughts. It was as if she wished to see how a mother would shape the destiny looming over her sons.

And then—she chuckled.

Soft. Yet piercing.

It was like a gust of wind that shattered their trance. The five brothers blinked, shaking off the daze that had seized them, their gazes snapping toward Niyati.

Realization struck Arjuna like lightning. His heart pounded as he turned toward her, his voice urgent. "Why is Guru Drona teaching Rajkumar Dhrishtadyumna? He is his death."

Niyati's gaze did not waver. She spoke with a quiet knowing, her words echoing like the voice of time itself. "Because Guru Drona has already fulfilled his vengeance against Raja Drupada. He knows his friend's wish. He knows that destiny is not a thing that bends—it does not yield or break. It is inevitable. And so, he does what he must—not to stop fate, but to ensure his name is remembered in its course."

Yudhishthira's brows furrowed. "Ensure his name? How?"

A slow, knowing smile played on Niyati's lips. "You may find it hard to believe, but Guru Drona is a man of flaws. And his greatest flaw? Arrogance."

Her voice dropped, turning sharper. "Did you know? Guru Drona was never a disciple of Bhagwan Parashurama. He never earned his knowledge through years of devotion. He did not bow at the feet of his master, nor did he endure trials to prove his worth. No—he went to Parashurama and asked for knowledge as charity. And the great Parashurama, bound by his own generosity, gave it.

Yes, Drona is a formidable Guru. But knowledge given without devotion is never whole. And arrogance taints even the mightiest."

A shadow crossed Arjuna's face, and he leaned forward, his voice edged with challenge. "Why is it wrong to take pride in one's achievements?"

Niyati did not hesitate. Her voice was like steel cloaked in silk. "Remember these words, Pandu Putro. Let them carve themselves into your soul.

No matter how beautiful a person may be, without the purity of character, that beauty will decay into ugliness. If one has never known hunger, one can never understand the essence of food. If wealth is not used for a righteous cause, it becomes a curse. If courage does not reside in the heart, then even the knowledge of a thousand weapons is useless. If one cannot extend a hand to another, one's life is meaningless. If there is no devotion to the Supreme, then all prayers and rituals are empty.

If words do not carry truth, then silence is far more powerful.

Life is barren if love does not flow through one's heart.

And if wisdom does not guide knowledge, no matter how much one learns—even if the world calls him Dharmaraj—it is all for nothing.

But above all..."

Her voice dropped lower, colder, yet it filled every inch of space around them, "...if you lack humility, then no knowledge, power, name, or destiny can save you.

The greatest fool in the world is the arrogant one.

Arrogance and ingenuity cannot coexist.

When a man allows pride to blind him, fate does not merely humble him—it shatters him.

The mightiest trees are felled by the storm, while the blades of grass remain untouched.

The river that flows freely nourishes the earth, but the stagnant pool—filled with pride—rots and decays. The moment a man believes he is above all that he is untouchable, the heavens themselves move to remind him of his insignificance."

Silence.

But her eyes gleamed with something fierce. A truth deeper than words. A prophecy yet to unfold. "If you ever become arrogant of what you are, if pride blinds you even for a moment, then and there—fate will ensure you fall.

And when you fall, you will not fall like a warrior. You will fall like a man who never truly understood his place."

A strange sensation passed through the Pandavas.

Something stirred in their hearts—something unspoken, something powerful. It was not just a lesson. It was a warning. Fate whispering through her lips was a shadow of what was yet to come.

And in that moment, they knew—this was not mere conversation.

This was Niyati (destiny) speaking to them.