The courtyard of Dwaraka shimmered under the golden hue of the setting sun. The air was filled with children's laughter, their joyous voices echoing across the vast palace grounds. In the midst of them, Niyati moved with an almost unnatural ease. She was Fate itself, descended into this realm, yet here she was, spinning and laughing like any other mortal woman, her anklets ringing in harmony with the delighted squeals of Krishna's children.

Krishna sat at a distance, leaning against a marble pillar, his eyes fixed upon her. His gaze was unreadable, neither joy nor sorrow completely dominating his divine features. Something was unsettling about how she was changing—shifting the fabric of the grand narrative he had meticulously woven. This was not a story of mercy, not anymore. It was a war of balance, and it demanded endings.

But Niyati... was giving too many chances.

To those who did not deserve them.

To those who were meant to perish.

To those meant to be erased before Kali Yuga could begin anew.

She had heard the cries of the celestial beings, their concerns about the impending Yuga of darkness. And yet, here she was, softening the edges of destiny. What was she trying to do? What was she hoping to achieve?

The sound of anklets ceased. Krishna did not have to look up to see that she was nearby. He could feel her presence like the shifting of time itself.

"Now what happened?" Niyati's voice was teasing yet gentle, "What have I done now?"

Krishna exhaled sharply, chuckling, "How do you know it has anything to do with you?"

She folded her arms, tilting her head, "Because if it were something beyond my interference, you would not have this emotion. You are confused, Brata. You are troubled."

There was silence. Krishna did not deny it.

Her expression softened, and for the first time, something akin to concern was in her eyes, "Am I giving you too much pain and stress?"

He shook his head. "I am happy you are here, Niyati." His voice was barely above a whisper, "But the fair chance you are offering to the Asuras troubles me. Suyodhana should have received the boon from Rishi Durvasa, but not the warning."

Niyati sighed, closing her eyes as though she had expected this.

Krishna continued, his voice carrying the weight of inevitability, "Suyodhana is Kali. Do not forget that. He should be ended here. Therefore..." He turned to her, his divine gaze piercing her soul, "You know everything, Niyati. Then why?"

There was no hesitation in her answer, "Because I do not want anyone to say anything to you."

Krishna frowned, "Do you think I would mind?"

"You wouldn't," she admitted, "but I would."

A shadow crossed his face, an emotion rare to him—concern, "Niyati..."

She took a deep breath, her expression unreadable. "Kali Yuga will blame you for many things, Brata. They will rewrite stories in your name. They will question your actions, twist your motives, and raise doubts about your righteousness. But I refuse to let them say that you were unfair, that you did not give me a chance, that you were the one who forced the narrative."

She turned to him fully now, her presence commanding the moment, "I am giving every man, every Asura, every being the right to choose. Whether Suyodhana listens to those warnings or not is his decision. Based on his choice, I—Niyati—will weave his destiny."

Krishna looked at her then honestly and with an emotion he had never quite endured before, "You do not need to—"

She cut him off with a shake of her head, "I don't know if I will ever be born as a mortal, Brata. I don't know if I will be remembered once this Yuga ends. Do you realize that? When the last of Dvapara fades into the whispers of time, not even the celestial beings who have performed penance for eons will recall that I existed."

Her voice did not waver, but something unshakably raw was in it.

She smiled, the kind of smile that did not quite reach her eyes, "The only two who will remember me in this entire universe are you and Mahadeva. Then, let me play my role to the fullest. Let me answer everything. Let me be the one who takes your entire pain. Let me be the one the world blames."

Krishna inhaled sharply, "Niyati..."

She stepped closer, her gaze unwavering, "That is how I will complete this. I assure you, I will not stop anyone once they have chosen their path. But I must let them know the consequences before they take that step."

There was nothing more to say.

Krishna watched her, his mind churning with thoughts he could not yet shape into words. And then, understanding beyond time, he reached out, pulling her into his embrace.

For a moment, there was silence. A silence that carried the weight of the cosmos. The Fate of the world had been sealed long ago. But even now, it was being rewritten—by a woman who would never be remembered but who would bear the burden of it all.

Perhaps that was her destiny after all.

A Mark in Time

The meeting with Dritarashtra and Sanjaya had stretched longer than expected, winding through laws, politics, and governance. Vasusena had spoken with calm authority, his words laced with wisdom beyond his years. The weight of responsibility sat heavily on his shoulders, yet he bore it with unwavering grace.

But as he stepped out of the royal chambers, something pulled him away from the endless matters of the kingdom. A figure from his past stood at the threshold of Dritarashtra's hall—a man whose presence struck Vasusena like a blade through the chest.

Adhiratha.

For a moment, time stilled. The murmurs of courtiers, the rustling of garments, the distant sound of footsteps—all faded into nothingness.

Adhiratha stood there, slightly hunched with age but still carrying the strength of the charioteer he once was. His hair had grown greyer, his skin lined with years of toil. Yet, those eyes—the same eyes that had once looked upon Vasusena with endless love—held an uncertainty, a hesitation, as though he was unsure if he should take a step forward.

The distance between them felt heavier than the weight of the crown Vasusena never wore. Then, without thought, without hesitation, Vasusena moved.

All formalities, all the burdens of statehood, were abandoned at that moment. He strode forward, his golden armour glinting under the fading sunlight, and before Adhiratha could even react, he bent down—his forehead touching the dust-ridden feet of the man who had once lifted him from a river and claimed him as his own.

The halls of Hastinapur bore witness to the gesture, and a few onlookers whispered in hushed voices.

Adhiratha gasped, his body stiffening at first. Then, as realization dawned, he trembled. Calloused from years of holding reins, his hands clutched Vasusena's shoulders, pulling him into a fierce embrace.

"Putra..." The word came out as a whisper, a broken prayer that carried years of longing.

Vasusena stood still, letting himself be held. It was warm—familiar, aching, and deeply missed. The scent of the earth clung to Adhiratha's clothes, bringing with its memories of childhood, of simpler times when the weight of the world had not yet settled on his soul.

When they finally pulled apart, Adhiratha's face was streaked with tears. He wiped them hurriedly as though ashamed of his emotions in the presence of royal eyes. But Vasusena—Vasusena saw only his father, not a charioteer, not a subject, but the man who had raised him.

"Pitashree," Vasusena said gently, his voice carrying the same reverence he would offer to the gods. "How are you? How is Radha Mata?"

Adhiratha released a shaky breath, holding onto his son's hands, "I am well, Putra. Now that I have seen you, I am well." His voice wavered before he added, "Your Radha Mata and your Anujo... they are also well. But—" He faltered, his fingers tightening slightly around Vasusena's, "I am sorry, Putra. I was not with you when you endured so much. I should have—"

"No, Pitashree," Vasusena cut him off, his voice firm but kind, "Do not say that. I have never once blamed you. You gave me a home, you gave me love, and you gave me an identity that I wear with pride. Whenever someone calls me 'Radheya,' my heart swells with happiness."

Adhiratha's lips quivered. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words never came. Instead, he just held Vasusena's hands tighter, his grip carrying the unspoken weight of a father's love—one that had endured in silence for far too long.

Finally, Adhiratha composed himself, "Putra, I have come today to meet the King. But if you have time, would you come to our home?" He hesitated before adding, "We are staying in Hastinapur for a while."

Vasusena noticed the pause in his words. His sharp eyes caught the flicker of something unsaid.

"Pitashree," Vasusena said softly, "you should not ask me like that. The honour is mine. You must come with me instead." His voice was warm, "Let me serve you as a son should. Radha Mata would scold me endlessly if she heard I let you leave without even offering you a meal."

Adhiratha chuckled through tears, "Ah, your mother would certainly not spare you." Then, after a pause, he added, "There is another reason I wanted to meet you. Do you remember Krodhini and Stambhinī?"

Vasusena's expression shifted at the mention of those names.

Krodhini and Stambhinī.

They were his friends—his equals, rivals, and companions in mischief and play. The two fiery souls who had never treated him as an outsider, who had challenged him in ways no one else had. He could still remember the laughter, the arguments, the races they had run together under the scorching sun.

"They are to be married tomorrow," Adhiratha continued, "We are here for their wedding." He looked at Vasusena, searching his expression, "Would you come, Putra? It has been years, but they would be happy to see you. And your Radha Mata..." He sighed, "She longs to see her son."

A silence settled between them. For a moment, Vasusena remained still, letting the words sink in. Then, slowly, a smile crept onto his lips. A genuine, heartfelt smile that had not been burdened by war, responsibility, or duty.

"Pitashree, there is no need to ask," he said with quiet conviction, "I will come. Tomorrow, at this time?"

Adhiratha nodded, relief washing over him, "Tomorrow."

Vasusena held his father's hand a moment longer, then clasped it firmly, "Then it is a promise of a Suryaputr."

As Adhiratha turned and walked away, Vasusena watched him go, his heart heavy yet strangely light. He had made a choice—a simple one, an innocent one—born out of love, out of longing, out of a past that still held its echoes in his soul.

Yet, far away, unseen by mortal eyes, Niyati sat, watching. A single thread, woven into the grand tapestry of fate, had shifted. And with it, the path ahead would change.

This was not merely a reunion. Not merely a son embracing his father. This was a mark. A turning point. A new beginning. And from this choice, destiny would carve its following path, one that none—not even Vasusena himself—could foresee.

The Sons of Darkness

The training grounds of Kalinga bore no resemblance to the polished halls of Hastinapura or the disciplined gurukuls of Aryavarta. Here, the air reeked of blood and steel, of sweat and ambition, of an unrestrained hunger that thrived in the shadows of morality.

For four years, the hundred sons of Gandhari, under the tutelage of a nameless Brahmin—one whose existence was known only to those who sought knowledge beyond righteousness—had been steeped in a philosophy that no dharmic teacher would ever impart.

Here, they had learned how to shatter bonds of loyalty and twist words into weapons sharper than swords. They had been taught the art of betrayal, how to make enemies fight amongst themselves, and how to break a man without raising a blade.

They had studied war not as a matter of duty but as a craft of conquest.

They had mastered the dark Nīti—an ideology where power alone was the absolute truth, where the weak existed only to serve, and where the concept of fairness was nothing more than a delusion of the feeble-minded.

And now, their education was complete.

The nameless Guru, clad in tattered saffron robes that belied the depths of his knowledge, stepped into the centre of the chamber. His gaze swept across his disciples—no longer boys but men carved from ambition and the fires of ruthless wisdom.

A silence stretched before he spoke, his voice like a whisper laced with venom, "Four years have passed."

The hundred brothers stood still. Even the restless ones, like Duhsasana, did not fidget. There was a weight in those words—a finality. The Guru continued, his eyes glinting in the dim torchlight, "Four years ago, you abandoned the illusions of dharma and embraced the truth of power. Four years ago, you discarded hesitation, mercy, and foolish notions of fairness. And now, your training has reached its end."

A pause, "It is time for you to return to the world."

A smirk played on Suyodhan's lips. He stepped forward, his golden eyes reflecting the darkness that had taken root within him. He bowed, not out of devotion, but out of respect for the knowledge he had gained, "Gurudeva," he said, his voice smooth, confident, "You have given us wisdom beyond measure. You have shown us the path of true kingship, of how to break our enemies before they ever rise. But before we depart, we must offer you something in return."

He straightened, his gaze unwavering, "Tell us—what Gurudakshina may we give you?"

The Brahmin opened his mouth to respond, but the chamber doors creaked open before a single syllable could escape.

Two figures stepped in.

The first—Shakuni, his presence as serpentine as ever, his every step a silent ripple in the fabric of fate. His smirk was knowing, his eyes unreadable.

The second is Shukracharya, the master of the Asuras. A presence was darker and heavier as if the air bent beneath his knowledge. The Guru, for all his wisdom, stepped back instinctively. Even he knew when greater forces entered the room.

Shakuni's smirk deepened, "Suyodhana," he said, his voice dripping with intrigue, "you asked for a worthy Gurudakshina. Then listen carefully, for a rare opportunity has presented itself."

Suyodhana arched a brow, "Mamashree, what do you mean?"

Shukracharya stepped forward, his words slow, deliberate, "Marry the daughter of Kashi—Dhumavati."

Suyodhan's amusement did not waver, but his curiosity sharpened, "Is there a reason for this, Acharya?"

Shakuni let out a small chuckle, shaking his head, "Suyodhana, you should not ask such questions," he said, "Power is never taken; it is seized. And this marriage? It is a claim."

A murmur rippled through the chamber. The proposal was unexpected. The hundred Kuru princes exchanged glances, uncertain. Even Ashwatthama, always composed, furrowed his brows.

Suyodhana, however, did not react immediately. He leaned forward slightly, his golden eyes narrowing as he studied Shukracharya.

Shukracharya's gaze held steady. A quiet power emanated from him as he began to speak, "Kasi—" he paused, allowing the weight of the name to settle, "A land where the very air breathes of Mahadeva's presence. A kingdom steeped in blood, power, and divine favour. But do you know the history of this land you may one day call your own?"

Suyodhana remained silent, listening.

"Kasi was once ruled by an Asura named Kshemaka, who fell to the Panchala prince Dividosa. The kingdom then passed from ruler to ruler—Haryasva, Sudeva—until it came under the sway of the Kuru kings.

Then came Senabindu, also known as DharmaAmbara—a king who was not merely a warrior but a man of dharma. His wife, Swargandhini, was the daughter of Hotravahana, king of the Srinjaya tribe of Panchala. DharmaAmbara had three daughters—Amba, Ambika, and Ambalika. And you know their fates well."

Suyodhan's jaw tightened.

Shukracharya's voice grew heavier, "Bhishma took them. Ambika and Ambalika became queens of your Pitamah Vichitravirya. But Amba, who had given her heart to the Salwa king, refused to be bound. She defied the Kuru house, and when she could not reclaim her destiny, she chose death—only to return as the fire that would one day consume Bhishma."

The chamber grew colder. The past was never truly gone—it lingered like the embers of an unquenched fire. "But Kasi did not forget," Shukracharya continued, "and fate continued its play.

DharmaAmbara was attacked by your Kakashree Pandu during his military campaign. Though Pandu defeated him, he returned to the kingdom out of misplaced virtue. Senabindu, DharmaAmbara son, continued the lineage. His daughter, Gandini, married a Vrishini prince, Svaphalka. His other daughters were wedded to Magadha and the Vrishnis.

Then came Kasiraja, Senabindu's son. He had two heirs—Sudhanva and Subahu. Sudhanva sided with Jarāsandha. Subahu, discontent with his brother's allegiance, abandoned the throne and sought refuge in Hastinapur while you all trained under Guru Drona.

But he was not meant for courts and councils—he left, choosing penance in the Himalayas.

And then, history repeated itself. When your Jyeshta, Vasusena, ascended as King of Hastinapur, he sent Arjuna to claim Kasi. Arjuna's victory was decisive. Kasiraja and Sudhanva fell. A part of Kasi came under Hastinapur's rule. When Subahu returned, the remaining kingdom portion was given to him."

Shukracharya's eyes gleamed as he leaned forward, "And now, he has three daughters. Of them, Dhumavati is the eldest. Suyodhana, take her hand. Bind Kasi to you—not with war, but with alliance. The city of Mahadeva is not just land; it is power. If you can claim it, no force in Aryavarta will ignore your presence."

Silence.

Then, Shakuni chuckled, "Do you understand, my dear nephew?" he said, his voice laced with dark amusement, "Wars are not only fought with swords. A single marriage can win a kingdom, while a thousand arrows may not."

Suyodhana exhaled slowly, his mind absorbing every thread of this intricate game. He had been taught well—by the shadows, the whispers of power, the lessons no dharmic teacher would dare impart.

His lips curled into a smirk, "A move well played, Mamashree," he murmured, "You set the board with precision."

He met Shukracharya's gaze, and his decision was made, "Kasi will be mine."

His voice rang with finality, "The sons of Hastinapur will ride to Kasi."

A hundred warriors straightened their backs, their hands tightening on their weapons. Ashwatthama stepped forward, his expression unreadable, "Then let us leave without delay."

Suyodhana turned, his golden eyes burning with the promise of conquest. A storm brewed in his heart—not of mere ambition, but of something far more profound, something beyond the grasp of mortal schemes. He would claim Kasi. He would claim power.

And as he and his brothers departed, the night seemed to stir. Shadows stretched, whispering to one another in hushed tones as if bearing witness to a moment the world had long awaited.

Behind them, standing still like an unmoving sentinel, Shukracharya watched. A smirk curled at the corners of his lips—subtle, knowing, victorious. This was no ordinary union. This was no simple game of politics.

The world saw Dhumavati as a princess of Kasi. But Shukracharya knew better.

She was not just the daughter of Subahu.

She was Alakshmi.

The elder sister of Mata Lakshmi. She who arose alongside her during the great churning of the cosmic ocean. The embodiment of misfortune, the harbinger of inauspiciousness. A force unacknowledged, yet one that wielded immense power in the cosmic balance.

She was fated to be Kali's wife. Not just a name—Kali, the Asura who would walk the end of this Yuga. This was no mere marriage. This was the binding of chaos to its rightful place. A turning of the wheel that none could stop.

The mortal Brahmin, clad in simple robes yet carrying the weight of wisdom in his eyes, stepped forward. He had watched. He had listened. And now, he spoke, "Gurudeva," the Brahmin said, his voice careful, knowing, "I see the thoughts running through your mind. But Dhumavati is also a manifestation of Mata Parvati. She belongs to the Ten Mahavidyas, revered in Tantra."

Shukracharya did not look at him immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch, the moment lingers, before turning his head slightly—just enough for his smirk to widen. "Yes," he admitted, his voice smooth and almost indulgent, "She is a Mahavidya. But tell me, Brahmin—do any married women worship her?"

The Brahmin faltered.

Shukracharya's eyes gleamed, "No, they do not. They fear and avoid her, for she is the forsaken widow. She is only worshipped in the cremation grounds, where the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest. Yes, she is a part of Parvati. But do not forget—she is also Alakshmi. And Alakshmi was never meant to wed any ordinary man. She is meant for the one who will bring the end of this age. The wife of Asura Kali."

The Brahmin's breath caught. His fingers curled into his robes.

Shukracharya chuckled—a low, ominous sound that carried the weight of inevitability, "Do you truly think she will accept anyone else?"

The question did not need an answer. A gust of wind swept through the chamber, snuffing out a lone flame and plunging a corner of the hall into darkness. A momentary omen. A whisper of what was to come.

Far beyond this place, beyond the sight of mortals, beyond the boundaries of time itself, a presence watched.

Niyati.

Fate itself.

She did not intervene. She did not warn, nor did she guide.

She only watched, her unseen fingers threading the loom of destiny, weaving strands of fire and shadow into a pattern none could yet decipher.

For this was no ordinary marriage.

This was the shifting of an age.

And the path that had been chosen—knowingly or unknowingly—would lead the Kuru lineage to a future even the gods dared not predict.

Note –

After extensive research, I have taken creative liberty with Vasusena—Karna's marriage.

It is well known that Vasusena was the Asura Sahastrakavacha in his past life. However, his wife is not mentioned in the texts available today, just as the names of Vasusena's wives are absent in the current versions of Vyasa's Mahabharata.

While searching, I came across a discussion on Quora where it was suggested that one of Sahastrakavacha's wives was Krodhini. Krodhini is revered as the embodiment of pride and the thirst for blood in soldiers. However, Krodhini is never worshipped alone—she is always invoked alongside Stambhinī, who represents valour and the resolute spirit of a warrior. These two forces are inseparable, embodying the duality of a soldier's spirit—fury and fearlessness, destruction and duty.

Thus, in my retelling, I have considered Vasusena's wives, Krodhini and Stambhinī, assuming they have been reincarnated alongside their husband, Sahastrakavacha.

Similarly, I have reinterpreted Dhumavati's identity. The Vyasa Mahabharata available today does not mention the names of Duryodhana's wives. However, according to Madhvacharya, Duryodhana's wives were none other than the consorts of Asura Kali—Alakshmi and Durukti.

Another name for Alakshmi is Dhumavati.

This revelation intrigued me, as many historical interpretations may have softened her identity, replacing her name with Bhanumati—a name more palatable to traditional narratives, especially among married women. But in my vision, I choose to stay closer to the ancient, esoteric identity of Duryodhana's wife, aligning her with Dhumavati, the widow goddess, the inauspicious force, and the elder sister of Lakshmi herself.

By taking these creative liberties, I aim to weave a narrative that remains true to the deeper cosmic threads while offering a fresh perspective on the characters whose stories have long been overshadowed or altered through time.