As the monsoons shift with the rhythm of the seasons, so too has something shifted within the walls of her world. It is subtle, like the first whisper of rain before the storm, yet undeniable. Draupadi has always known her husbands—their strengths, burdens, and silences. But now, she sees them differently.

They are more expressive and attuned to her presence in ways that feel unfamiliar, in ways they were not before.

She cannot say what brought about this change. Was it the weight of shared experiences? The trials they endured together? Or was it something else—something more profound and intrinsic to the nature of time?

She feels their gazes linger a little longer, their words softer, laced with an understanding she had once thought impossible. Their hands, once steady in war but hesitant in love, now reach for her with quiet reverence.

Is she in love with them?

Draupadi does not know. Love is not simple, nor has she ever been afforded the luxury to define it. But she does know this—her heart is not untouched.

She feels it most keenly in the quiet moments, in the gentleness of Nakula and Sahadeva. The youngest of the Pandavas is bound to her as her husband yet exists in a space that feels different from the others.

She leans back into the wooden swing in her chamber, allowing herself to be carried into memory—back to the first day she became their wife.

Back to the day when everything began.

The First Conversation

The chamber was bathed in the soft glow of oil lamps, their golden flames flickering as the night breeze drifted through the open windows. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, calming yet poignant as if the walls knew the weight of this moment.

Draupadi sat near the low table, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of an untouched water goblet. Across from her stood Nakula, his hands clasped behind his back, his face thoughtful, eyes unreadable. They had been married for weeks, yet this was the first time they were truly alone together—as husband and wife.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence between them was not tense, nor was it entirely comfortable. It was simply uncharted.

Finally, Nakula exhaled and stepped forward, his voice gentle but steady, "I have wondered many times, Yagnaseni, how this moment would unfold," he admitted, his lips curving slightly, "I imagined I would have something profound to say; but I find that words fail me."

Draupadi tilted her head slightly, studying him. He was beautiful, undeniably so—like a figure carved from divine hands, blessed with an elegance that seemed effortless. And yet, there was something more to him, something she had not seen until now.

"Then do not think of words," she said, "Speak as you would to someone you wish to know."

Nakula smiled, his eyes softening. He lowered himself to sit across from her, resting his arms on his knees. His posture was relaxed but deliberate as if offering a piece of himself.

"I am many things, Panchali," he began, "A warrior, a prince, a son, a brother. But do you know the role I value the most?"

She shook her head.

"A healer."

Draupadi's brows lifted slightly, not in surprise but in curiosity.

"I have always been drawn to healing, to the art of mending what is broken. Perhaps it is because I have seen too much destruction and loss. I have trained in Ayurveda under the finest sages and Sahadeva and continue learning its depths. The body, mind, and soul are all connected, and each wound, seen or unseen, tells a story."

He looked at her and, honestly, looked at her, "And you, Panchali, have many wounds, don't you?"

Draupadi stiffened, her fingers curling slightly. She was not used to being seen this way—not as a queen or a warrior's wife, but as a woman who carried her burdens.

She did not answer, but Nakula did not need her to, "I will not ask you to share them," he continued, "Not until you wish to. But I want you to know that I see you. I have always seen you, even before you became my wife."

Something in Draupadi's heart shifted. For the first time since her marriage, she did not think about why they had all agreed to this arrangement. She did not question fate or the cruel hand of the gods. She listened.

"I believe in balance, Panchali," Nakula went on, "In a relationship, in duty, in how we carry ourselves through this world. And if we are to forge something meaningful between us, I do not wish it to be bound by expectations alone."

She nodded slowly, absorbing his words, "Then what do you wish for it to be?"

Nakula smiled again, this time with something softer, something sincere, "A partnership."

Draupadi met his gaze, searching for any trace of falsehood and finding none.

"I would like you to learn with me," Nakula continued, "To study the healing arts alongside Sahadeva and me. You are already a woman of great wisdom, but knowledge of the body and its ailments, of remedies and their power—that is knowledge fit for a queen. And I believe you would wield it well."

Draupadi considered this the weight of his offer. It was not an imposition, nor was it an obligation. It was... an invitation—a path forward, not dictated by fate but by choice.

"You believe I would make a good healer?" she asked after a moment.

Nakula's eyes gleamed, "I believe you already are one. You hold people together, Panchali, in ways they do not even realize."

A silence settled between them once more, but it was not uncharted this time. It was filled with understanding, with something unspoken yet deeply felt.

Draupadi inhaled slowly, allowing herself to feel the foundation of something new beneath her feet for the first time—a bond, a partnership, and perhaps, one day, something even more significant.

Since that night, every day for a few hours, Nakula had begun teaching her Ayurveda. The knowledge of herbs and healing, of how the body spoke its language through pain and pulse, fascinated her in ways she had never expected. She had always been a woman of fire—of battles fought with words, will, and unyielding strength. But this... this was different. This was the art of restoration, of mending rather than breaking.

She was still in the early stages of learning, yet there was a quiet satisfaction in knowing that she could grasp a wounded hand and offer more than just comfort—she could provide healing. And perhaps, in some ways, that knowledge was healing her, too.

But amidst this newfound rhythm, her thoughts began to drift elsewhere.

To Sahadeva.

A Change in the Tides

Her last husband, the youngest of the Pandavas, yet in many ways, the most enigmatic.

He was different from his brothers. Pampered, yes—protected in ways that only the youngest could be. Yet his silence held depth; his gaze always carried meaning. Draupadi had spent enough time watching him to realize that Sahadeva rarely spoke without purpose. He was not just quiet; he was deliberate.

He truly listened in a way that made people forget he was even there. And when he did speak, his words were never wasted.

She had always wanted to ask him something. What was it like to know the future? To carry the knowledge of what was to come, to bear the weight of certainty in a world that thrived on chaos?

From Guru Brihaspati, Sahadeva learned astronomy and astrology, the intricate movements of celestial bodies, and the unseen strings that wove destiny into the fabric of existence. He also understood economics and civil administration, the mechanics of power, and how kingdoms rose and fell like tides drawn by the moon.

But did he know? Did he know, long before it happened, that she would become the wife of five men? That he would be one of them? That question had lingered in her mind for as long as she could remember.

And that night, as she sat in their shared chamber for the first time, she wondered if she would finally ask it. The air was heavy with moonlight and unsaid words. She was confused. Did she want to know? Did she genuinely wish to hear him say it—to confirm what she had long suspected?

Or would you know to change something irreversibly between them? Draupadi closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself. That night, she and Sahadeva spoke. She received the answer she sought.

The Seer and The Fire-Born

The cool breeze from the open window played with the silk drapes, carrying the scent of the garden's night-blooming flowers. The chamber was quiet, save for the distant echoes of the palace settling into the stillness of night. It had been a few days since her first night with Sahadeva, but the memory of their conversation lingered in Draupadi's mind.

She had waited, observed, and measured the weight of her curiosity against the flow of time. But tonight, she could wait no longer. She turned to him, her voice gentle yet resolute: "Did you know?"

Sahadeva, who had been calmly preparing a mixture of herbs at the low table near the bed, did not look up immediately. His fingers continued carefully grinding the leaves in a small stone mortar. "Know what?" he asked, his voice smooth and measured.

Draupadi studied him—his unwavering calm, the way he never rushed his words or actions. His restraint was unlike any of her other husbands. He did not fill silences; he listened to them as if they, too, held secrets only he could decipher.

She inhaled deeply, "Did you know that you would marry me? That we would all be bound together?"

This time, he did look up. His dark eyes, always so steady, held something more profound—unreadable. He set the mortar down with deliberate care and turned fully towards her. "No," he said hesitantly, "I did not."

Draupadi blinked. She had expected many answers—hesitation, avoidance, or even confirmation of what she had long suspected. But this? "You didn't?" she repeated as if testing the weight of his words.

Sahadeva shook his head, "I didn't. Because my sister was with us then." His voice was steady, but there was an unmistakable shift in the air between them.

Draupadi frowned, "Niyati?"

Sahadeva gave a slight nod, "Yes. When she was with us, my sight was different. It was as if..." He paused, searching for the right words, "As if she was a wall between me and what was to come. Around her, the threads of fate would blur, shift, and change. I could not see clearly because things were different with her. She made them different."

Draupadi absorbed this. She had heard of Sahadeva's abilities, the whispers that he knew things others did not, that he carried the burden of foresight. But this—this was unexpected.

"But now?" she asked softly.

Sahadeva exhaled, his gaze shifting briefly to the window, where the moon hung heavy in the sky, "Now, it is different."

"How?"

He looked back at her, his expression unreadable, "Because I can sense things now, Draupadi. I do not always know the exact events, but I can feel when something is coming—good or bad. I can see how people's fates weave together, even if I do not always know where they will end."

His words sent a quiet shiver down her spine, "You can sense things?"

He smiled, "I can read the stars, the movements of planets, the pulse of time itself. And I can read people, too."

She narrowed her eyes slightly, "What do you mean?"

Sahadeva tilted his head slightly, considering, "People are like constellations," he said finally, "Their emotions and choices form patterns, and those patterns tell stories. I do not always know what will happen, but I can see where the tides are turning. I can see when someone carries burdens they do not speak of. I can hear you, Draupadi."

She felt her breath hitch slightly, "You hear me?"

His gaze did not waver, "I hear the weight you carry, the questions you do not ask. I hear the uncertainty in your silence, the echoes of your past live that whisper through you even now."

Draupadi swallowed. She had never met someone who spoke of her this way—as if she was more than just herself as if she was a story unfolding, one that he could read but not yet predict.

After a long pause, she asked, "And what do you hear of my future?"

For the first time, Sahadeva hesitated.

He did not speak for a long moment, his fingers tracing idle patterns against the stone of the mortar. Then, in a softer voice, he said, "It will not be as others expect. Your path is not ordinary, Panchali. It is neither just that of a wife nor just that of a queen. It is something else—something greater."

Draupadi's fingers curled into the silk of her robe, "Something greater?"

Sahadeva nodded, "Your role will shape history, not just within this lifetime, but beyond. There are burdens only you will carry, decisions only you will make. And yes, there will be pain. But there will also be purpose."

Draupadi exhaled slowly.

She had always known—always felt—that she was not meant for an ordinary life. But hearing it from Sahadeva in this quiet space, with only the stars as witnesses, made it more real.

She looked at him then, this husband of hers who spoke little but understood much. "And you?" she asked, "What is your role in all of this?"

Sahadeva smiled faintly, a smile tinged with something she could not name. "I am here to bear witness," he said, "To remind you of what you already know when you doubt it. And when the time comes, to carry the burdens too heavy for you alone."

The weight of his words settled between them, unspoken but understood. Tonight, a bond had been forged—not one of passion or duty but of something more profound, something unbreakable.

The Unspoken Burden

Draupadi sat on the swing, her fingers tracing the polished wood as her thoughts wandered. The days in Hastinapur had been unlike anything she had envisioned. She was learning, absorbing, and settling into this new life. Every brother had opened a part of themselves to her—Yudhishthira, who spoke of law and governance; Bhima, who found solace in food and care; Nakula, who taught her the art of healing; and Sahadeva, who unravelled the mysteries of time itself.

But amidst it all, one brother still remained distant—Arjuna. Since his confession, he listened to her, answered her, and confessed his jealousy. His raw and unfiltered words made her feel something she hadn't before.

She realised she was growing fond of them all for who they were. Yet, lurking beneath the warmth was an unnamed fear—a shadow of something yet to come.

"Draupadi... Draupadi?"

The voice pulled her from her thoughts. She turned and found Vasusena standing before her, his face calm yet his eyes watchful. "Jyeshta," she greeted with a soft smile.

"You seemed lost in thought," he observed, "Is everything alright?"

She exhaled, a small smile playing on her lips, "Just thinking about life."

Vasusena chuckled, "Life? Such a weighty thought for a peaceful afternoon."

She tilted slightly, watching him, "For some reason, I can share these things with you. With you and Yuyutsu, I feel... as if I have brothers I never had, not even in Panchala."

His expression softened, "Because that is what you are to us. Our sister."

Draupadi smirked, shifting the topic, "I see that everyone has swings in their chambers now. That was meant for me, wasn't it?"

Vasusena's serene smile answered for him, "We learned of your attachment to them, so we made them part of our home."

Draupadi leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming with mischief, "Then perhaps it is time we get you married."

Vasusena choked on his drinking water, coughing and turning sharply toward her, "M-Marriage?"

At that moment, the rest of the Pandavas entered the chamber, catching the last words of the conversation. "Whose marriage, Panchali?" Sahadeva asked, amusement flickering in his eyes.

"Jyeshta's," she replied teasingly.

The brothers grinned, ready to tease, but Vasusena's voice cut through the moment like steel, "No."

The air shifted. His once calm expression grew heavy with something unspoken. He turned to Draupadi, his voice steady yet firm, "You know why I have refused marriage. What is this, Panchali? Did Mata send you? If so, I will speak to her. But you should stop this."

Draupadi's teasing expression faded, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"But why, Jyeshta?" Yudhishthira asked gently, "Why deny yourself something so natural? A companion, a family of your own—"

"I have a family," Vasusena interrupted, "You are my family. Draupadi is my sister. Do you think I lack anything? What would a marriage change for me?"

"It would give you someone who is yours," Bhima said, his voice uncharacteristically measured, "Someone to walk beside you."

Vasusena shook his head, "My path does not allow for it. You all speak of companionship, but how much of that have you truly had?"

His gaze shifted to Draupadi. His voice, though calm, carried an edge neither of them had expected, "You are married to five. You bear the weight of five different hearts and five different duties. Tell me, have you ever truly had one person just for you?"

A thick silence followed his words, and almost immediately, something flickered in Vasusena's eyes—guilt. He had not meant it as a wound, yet he knew it had landed like one.

Draupadi, however, did not look away. She inhaled slowly and spoke, her voice measured but firm, "No, Jyeshta. I haven't."

He closed his eyes briefly as if bracing for her anger, but when she continued, her voice held neither bitterness nor resentment—only truth.

"Once, I resented it. I questioned, and I fought against it. But now? Now, I am looking at it for what it is." She exhaled, "I have not had one person just for me, but five who care for me in ways I never imagined. I have five who stand beside me, five who share my burdens, and five who have made space for me in their world. Maybe love isn't about possession. Maybe it is about presence."

She studied him, her gaze steady, "And you? You, who have given so much—who have you allowed to stand beside you?"

Vasusena turned away slightly, his jaw tightening, "You speak as if I have a choice."

He looked at his brothers, then back at her, "I'm cursed," he said finally. His voice was quieter now, stripped of its earlier fire. "Not once, but twice. The first is from a Brahmin who said I will die in a battle. The second, from Bhudevi herself—the very earth that bore me. My chariot will sink into her embrace when I need to fight."

The room was heavy with his words, "You speak of marriage, but tell me, Panchali—what woman should be made a widow before her time?"

Yudhishthira stepped forward, "Anyone can die in battle, Jyeshta."

Vasusena exhaled sharply, "You say that because you do not know when your time will come. I do."

"But, you also don't know when your time will come. Then why fear it? That curse didn't mention anything about which battle you are going to die. In between, what if fate changes?" Nakula asked, "What if your life is meant to be more than just war?"

Draupadi, listening carefully, finally spoke again, "You think you are cursed, Jyeshta. But you forget—you are also blessed."

He turned to her, eyes questioning.

"You care for a woman as a mother and a sister like no one else I have ever seen. You protect, stand guard, and give without expecting anything in return. You see women not as burdens, duties, or people." She stepped forward, voice unwavering, "Who better to be a husband than the man who deeply understands care?"

Silence stretched between them. Vasusena's hands curled into fists, then slowly relaxed. He closed his eyes for a long moment before finally exhaling, "Hesitant agreement isn't the same as conviction, Panchali," he murmured.

She smiled, "It is a start."

Sensing the shift, Bhima grinned, "So, we should start looking for brides, then?"

Vasusena shot him a sharp look, "Don't you dare?"

Yuyutsu smirked, "Too late. I believe Panchali is already making plans."

Draupadi clasped her hands together playfully, "Oh, indeed. A grand Swayamvar, perhaps?"

Vasusena groaned, rubbing his forehead, "By Suryadev, what have I agreed to?"

Arjuna chuckled, "Something long overdue, Jyeshta."

Vasusena sighed, looking at them all before shaking his head in reluctant amusement, "If my fate is to suffer, then at least let it be at the hands of my family."

And for the first time in a long time, laughter filled the chamber of the eldest Pandava.

A Jest Too Deep

The golden glow of dusk settled over Dwaraka, casting long, soft shadows through the lattice windows of Rukmini's chamber. Fresh flowers lingered in the air, mingling with the delicate fragrance of sandalwood and saffron. The waves of the distant sea hummed a gentle lullaby as if whispering secrets only the wind could understand.

Krishna sat at ease on a divan, his dark, moonless form a striking contrast against the opulence of the chamber. Rukmini, ever attentive, moved gracefully about the room, her fingers weaving through His silken hair, her maidservants quietly tending to Him. She had mastered the art of understanding His moods, for He was not merely her husband—He was her world, her very breath.

But today, something was different. Krishna's eyes, filled with an unreadable mirth, lingered on her longer than usual. A playful smirk played at His lips, and before she could decipher its intent, He spoke, "Rukmini," He mused, tilting His head slightly, "I often wonder... why did you choose Me?"

She paused, her hands stilling for the briefest moment.

"Once, so many kings—handsome, wealthy, noble—sought your hand. Kings of great renown, warriors of unquestionable valour. Even your father and brother had chosen one for you—Śiśupāla." Krishna's voice held no bitterness, only the lilt of amusement, "And yet, you cast them all aside for Me. For one who once abandoned His kingdom, fleeing to the sea in fear of Jarāsandha. For one who holds no wealth, grand empire, or worldly riches. Tell me, dear Queen, was wisdom truly guiding your choice?"

Rukmini's fingers clenched the edge of her garment. She could feel the teasing in His tone, but something was beneath it—something that pricked at her heart like the sharp edge of a dagger.

Krishna leaned forward, his dark eyes gleaming, "A man and a woman should be equals, matched in wealth, power, beauty... but you?" He laughed softly, "You married a beggar, one glorified by paupers and ascetics. What fate is this for the daughter of Vidarbha? What honour?"

A hush fell upon the chamber. The air grew heavy, thick with something unspoken. The teasing words that had spilt so effortlessly from Krishna's lips had settled like stones upon Rukmini's chest.

She stared at Him, her lower lip trembling. Did He indeed mean this? Did He regret taking her as His wife? Had she—who had once defied kingdoms, forsaken her own family, risked everything for Him—been nothing more than a passing conquest?

Her heart, once steadfast as the mountains, wavered. And then, it shattered. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision as her breath hitched in her throat. She wanted to speak, protest, and remind Him of all that had been, but the weight of her sorrow stole her words. A sob, raw and quiet, escaped her lips before she could stop it.

Then, like a flame smothered by the wind, she crumbled. Her body trembled, her mind overcome with pain, and before she could hold herself upright, darkness closed in, and she collapsed onto the marble floor.

A stunned silence followed.

Krishna's smirk faded. His eyes, once alight with mirth, widened in alarm. In an instant, he was beside her, lifting her gently into his arms, his fingers tracing the damp trails of tears upon her cheeks. "Oh, my beloved," he murmured, his voice filled with regret, "How deeply have I wounded you?"

His thumb caressed her face, willing her back to Him, willing her to see that His words had been only jest. But jest had turned to agony, and agony had turned to something more profound. Slowly, Rukmini's eyes fluttered open. Krishna let out a breath. He hadn't realized He was holding.

"I know your heart," he whispered, "I know you are wholly mine, just as I am yours. I only wished to see your lotus face adorned with a frown, to tease you as lovers do. It was never my intent to hurt you."

Rukmini inhaled shakily. Though His voice was soft, her pain was not so quickly quelled. Still, she steadied herself and, with a voice laced with lingering sorrow yet unshaken devotion, replied, "Perhaps... what You say is true, Arya."

Krishna blinked.

Rukmini sat up, gathering herself, "Perhaps we are not equaling. Perhaps I did reach beyond my station, beyond the worth of any mortal woman, when I chose You." She unwaveringly met his gaze, "For no one can ever be Your equal. No king, no god, no being in the three worlds."

Her voice grew steadier, "You speak of having nothing, of being glorified by paupers, but You forget, my Lord—You are the world's wealth. Kings rise and fall by your will. The three great deities—Brahma, Vishnu, and Mahadeva—bow to you. And I? I am but a woman who was given the right to stand beside you by some fortune beyond my comprehension."

Krishna smiled then, not in jest, but in something softer. In something real. "Rukmini...", he murmured, his fingers tracing the outline of her hand.

She continued firmly in voice, "You may not hold the riches of this world, but you hold its very essence. And if I could choose a thousand lifetimes over a thousand paths to walk, I would choose only the one that leads to you."

Krishna gazed at her, the depth of her love washing over him like the endless tide. How could He have doubted, even for a moment, the woman's strength before Him? With infinite tenderness, He cupped her face in His hands, "It was never doubt, my love. Only my mischief." His smile turned wistful, "I merely wished to test the strength of your heart, though I see now... there was never any need."

He exhaled, the weight of His jest pressing upon Him, "Those who seek me for wealth, pleasure, and power are lost in Maya, blinded by illusion. But you... you sought me when the world would have denied you that right. You chose me when kings and warriors lined at your feet. And for that, you are the most beloved of all my queens."

A warmth bloomed in Rukmini's chest, pushing away the cold ache of a moment ago. Krishna pressed a kiss to her forehead, and this time, when she looked into His eyes, there was only love—a love deeper than jest, a love that had endured and would endure until the end of time itself.

The Seeds of Darkness

The forests of Kalinga whispered with an eerie silence. The towering trees stood like mute sentinels, their gnarled branches stretching outward like the claws of lurking demons. This was no ordinary woodland—no gentle sanctuary where sages meditated upon the truths of existence. No, this was a land tainted with something far darker. The air was thick with malice, humming with unspoken curses, as if the very roots of the trees had fed upon the hatred of generations.

And in the heart of this ominous wilderness, one hundred sons of Hastinapur's King trained in the black arts of war, vengeance, and destruction.

Under the watchful eye of the ancient and enigmatic Guru Shukracharya, along with his Brahmin prodigy, their minds were tempered not just with battle craft but with the Nīti of shadows—the knowledge of manipulation, of dominion over the weak, of power acquired through cunning rather than righteousness.

They were warriors already, molded by Guru Drona's rigorous discipline, their swords sharpened, their bodies honed for war. But here, in the depths of Kalinga, they were learning something far more dangerous.

They were learning the art of controlling the mind—how to channel hatred, master fear, and wield anger not as a weakness but as an instrument of absolute destruction.

Yet, even Shukracharya knew the truth—these sons of Maharani Gandhari, however skilled, would never truly master their emotions. He watched them fail, time and time again, consumed by the very flames they sought to control. And yet, he let them burn. For their suffering and failures, the seeds of something greater took root.

But there was one among them who burned the fiercest.

Suyodhana - the incarnate of Asur Kali.

Even as a child, his hatred had been a living thing. A beast, restless, insatiable. He had loathed the sons of Pandu from the moment they first entered Hastinapur, loathed the way they were adored, the way the world bent at their feet and time had only deepened his enmity. He had endured insults, humiliations, and losses—he had watched Yudhishthira claim the position of crown prince that should have been his, had watched Bhima laugh as he broke his bones, had watched Arjuna bask in the glow of his victories.

And worst of all—Vasusena.

Vasusena, the one whose very presence haunted his nights, whose unwavering sense of justice made his blood boil. Vasusena, the one man in Aryavarta who could look him in the eye and strip away the illusions he had carefully built around himself.

He clenched his fists.

No.

He would not lose. Not to Bhima's brute strength. Not to Arjuna's arrogance. Not to Vasusena's so-called righteousness.

And that was why he came without question when Shukracharya summoned him alone. The ancient Guru sat beneath an ancient banyan tree, his face weathered by centuries, his gaze hollow and all-knowing.

"Suyodhana," he murmured, his voice like the wind through a forgotten crypt, "The time has come for your greatest test."

Suyodhana knelt, pressing his forehead to the ground, "Command me, Gurudeva."

Shukracharya's lips curled into something that might have been a smile—or a sneer, "You must leave this place and build a hut far from your kin. For one month, you will live as an ascetic, away from the love of your brothers, away from the voices that feed your rage."

Suyodhana frowned, "Why, Gurudeva?"

"Because Rishi Durvasa will pass through these forests soon," a flicker of unease passed through Suyodhan's mind.

Durvasa—the sage is known for his unpredictable wrath and curses that could ruin entire dynasties. He had heard of kings reduced to beggars, warriors left powerless, and entire bloodlines obliterated by a single misplaced word in the presence of that terrible Rishi.

"Endure his presence," Shukracharya continued, his eyes dark with significance. "Serve him. Please him. If you succeed, he may grant you a boon."

Suyodhan's breath quickened, "And what boon should I ask for?"

Shukracharya's smile faded, "That is your test."

Suyodhana bowed, though his mind burned with unspoken thoughts. He withdrew into solitude, setting up a hermitage deep in the forest. And then, one day, the moment arrived.

Rishi Durvasa arrived.

Suyodhana had expected a tempest, a storm in human form. He had expected wrath, fire, and destruction incarnate. But what he saw instead was something far more terrifying.

A man draped in saintly robes with eyes that had seen the birth and death of stars. A man whose silence spoke louder than the screams of battle. A man who carried the weight of the universe on his frail shoulders.

For days, Suyodhana served him without question. He washed his feet, fetched water from the cold streams, and cooked humble meals with his own hands. He slept outside, keeping vigil, ensuring that the sage was undisturbed. He bore the harsh words, the scathing remarks, and the endless tests of patience with a forced smile. He swallowed his pride, his rage, and his hatred.

And then, one night, when the fire crackled low, and the forest was deathly still, Durvasa finally spoke, "You have served well, Rajkumar," he said, his voice as heavy as the sky before a monsoon, "Speak. What is it that you desire?"

The moment had come.

Suyodhana knelt, pressing his forehead to the cold, hard earth. "I seek mantras," he said, "three thousand mantras to shatter mountains, silence the gods, and command the very elements—mantras that will make me invincible."

Durvasa was silent. The night stretched on, vast and endless. Slowly, the Rishi nodded, "So be it."

The air around them trembled, and the trees shuddered. Then the knowledge poured into him—like molten fire, liquid thunder, and the weight of eternity pressing into his soul. Suyodhana gasped, his mind alight with the power he had long craved.

As Rishi Durvasa prepared to depart, the air around him grew still as if the very elements paused to listen. Deep as the cosmic void, his ancient eyes turned toward the young Kuru prince, who stood basking in the intoxicating weight of his newfound power. There was something unreadable in the sage's gaze—a knowing, a foreboding that stretched beyond mortal comprehension.

"Suyodhana," he intoned, his voice carrying the weight of centuries, "I know why you have asked for these mantras. I see the fire in your heart, the storm that brews within your soul. Power has been granted to you, but let me remind you—no mantra, boon, or force in the cosmos exists beyond the reach of Dharma."

Suyodhana stiffened but said nothing. Durvasa took a step closer, his frail form looming impossibly tall in the moonlight. "These mantras," he continued, "are like a double-edged sword. If wielded with righteousness, they shall become your greatest shield. But should you use them to serve Adharma, they will twist into a curse from which even the gods cannot rescue you." His voice dropped to a whisper, yet it echoed through the night, embedding itself into the marrow of Suyodhan's bones, "A curse from which one cannot recover."

The forest seemed to hold its breath. Even the rustling leaves stilled as if unwilling to disturb the moment. Something flickered in Suyodhan's chest for a fleeting instant—an unease, a shadow of doubt creeping at the edges of his consciousness. But then, just as quickly, it was gone. The weight of the divine mantras, the knowledge that coursed through his veins like molten gold, was far too exhilarating.

A slow, deliberate smile spread across his face, "I shall remember your words, Rishivar." He bowed, pressing his hands together in reverence, but the gleam in his eyes remained untouched by humility.

Durvasa held his gaze for a moment longer, searching for something within the prince's soul. Then, with an unreadable expression, he turned away.

The moment the sage vanished into the darkness, Suyodhana exhaled, his lips curling into a triumphant smirk. Let the Rishi speak of Dharma and curses. Power was power. And now, it belonged to him.

Straightening his shoulders, he strode back toward the encampment, where his brothers and the Asura Guru awaited. He felt the earth tremble beneath him with every step—not in fear, but in acknowledgement.

For the first time, he truly believed it. The world was his to conquer. When he returned, Shukracharya was waiting.

"What did you receive?" the Guru asked.

Suyodhan's lips twisted into a grin. "These mantras grant strength, grant victory. They bestow siddhis such as Jalastambha, Agnistambha... They can halt even the celestial armies. They bend the forces of nature to my will."

His eyes gleamed with something unholy, "With these... I will break Bhima."

Shukracharya looked at him for the first time—not with a teacher's gaze but with the satisfaction of a sculptor admiring his final masterpiece.

Suyodhana is ready.