That dawn, something was different. The wind carried whispers, the light held an unfamiliar glow, and the air felt thick with an unspoken secret. It was as if the five elements of the universe were conspiring, urging to reveal something long hidden.

Draupadi sat in the chamber where she attended her daily lessons with Gandhari, who Kunti and Aruni always accompanied. Yet today, her mind was adrift, her focus slipping away like grains of sand through her fingers. The words around her reached her ears but failed to settle in her thoughts. There was a restlessness within her, a sensation that refused to be ignored.

Gandhari, ever perceptive despite her sightless eyes, sensed the shift. Her voice was sharp yet not unkind, "What is happening today, Putri? Your mind is elsewhere. If something is urgent, you could have told us and left."

Draupadi hesitated, her fingers instinctively seeking the comfort of Kunti's hand. Her gaze flickered to Aruni before she turned back to Gandhari. Slowly, she reached out, holding the older woman's hands in hers, seeking warmth, seeking grounding, "No, Prathamamba... It's not that. It's just... I feel restless, as if something is about to happen. I can't explain it, but I wouldn't call it bad. It's like..." She trailed off, searching for the right words, but none could capture the strange weight in her chest.

The older women in the room understood. They had known such moments too well, too many times. A silent knowing passed between them—of instincts sharpened by experience, moments where the unseen future brushed against the present in fleeting, wordless warnings.

Gandhari's grip tightened around Draupadi's hands. Her voice, steady as the earth itself, carried the wisdom of years, pain, and choices that had shaped destinies, "Putri, listen to me. There will be times in life when such feelings will come unbidden. The heart will sense something before the mind can name it. When that happens, remain calm and stay composed. Do not let the unknown shake you. Because in such moments, the Divine is not merely showing us what is to come—He is asking us to choose."

She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in before continuing, "If we believe it is good, it will be good. If we fear it is bad, it will turn so. That is the test. That is the power of choice the Gods place in our hands."

Draupadi exhaled slowly, letting the wisdom wash over her like a tide. A small, weary smile formed on her lips as she nodded.

Yet, beneath the quiet reassurance, an unspoken truth lingered in that chamber. Because though Draupadi was the only one who had voiced her unease, she was not the only one who felt it.

Kunti, Aruni, Gandhari—they too sensed it. A shift. A ripple in the weave of fate. And there was no one to comfort them.

A Moment of Levity

As promised, Suryaputr Vasusena was preparing to leave. The golden rays of the morning sun seeped into his chamber, illuminating the fine silk draped around him. He had dressed with care—an attire befitting an honored guest, his ornaments gleaming, his posture regal yet relaxed.

Before him lay an array of carefully chosen wedding gifts, reflecting his thoughtfulness and affection. He inspected them one last time before wrapping them in soft fabric, a small, satisfied smile touching his lips.

Just then, Arjuna and Bhima strode in, carrying a set of documents for him to sign.

Arjuna's steps slowed as his gaze fell upon his elder brother. For a fleeting moment, he observed—the way Vasusena carried himself, the effortless radiance he exuded. A true Suryaputra, a son of the Sun itself. Arjuna had always known it, but sometimes, the sheer brilliance of his brother struck him anew.

But before he could speak, Bhima's booming voice filled the chamber, "Jyeshta, are you going somewhere?" Bhima's sharp eyes scanned the room, landing on the neatly wrapped gifts. His lips twitched mischievously.

Vasusena, calm as ever, replied, "Wedding."

At once, Bhima and Arjuna exchanged glances. And then, the teasing began.

Arjuna folded his arms and smirked, "Wedding? And here we see our Jyeshta dressed like a groom himself! Brata Bhima, do you see this? Look at that careful selection of gifts! Look at how he's dressed—this is not an ordinary guest but a man with intent!"

Bhima chuckled, cracking his knuckles playfully, "I see, I see! And here we thought Jyeshta was too busy for such matters. Tell us, Jyeshta, who is she? Which princess has caught the eye of Suryaputr Vasusena?"

Vasusena gave them a flat look, shaking his head.

But Bhima was relentless, "You don't have to hide it, Jyeshta! We'll find out soon enough. Just tell us—how does she look? Is she a warrior? Or a poet? Does she admire your generosity, or is it your radiant glow?"

Arjuna tapped his chin, pondering, "Or is it the chariot skills? Maybe she saw you ride into battle and decided, 'This man—this is the man I must marry!'"

Bhima grinned, "Ah! Perhaps she was mesmerized by his archery skills! Wait, wait—maybe she fell for that noble heart of his. That's always dangerous, Arjuna. You know how women admire a man with a heart as vast as the ocean."

Arjuna sighed dramatically, "Indeed, Brata Bhima. And look at the care he's put into these gifts! Surely, this is not the act of an ordinary wedding guest. Oh no—this is a suitor, a man of great affection, ensuring his bride receives nothing but the best."

Bhima smirked, "Jyeshta, tell us—should we start preparing for our sister-in-law's arrival?"

Vasusena let out a deep breath, shaking his head at their antics. He knew better than to fuel their mischief, but a part of him enjoyed this rare, carefree moment with his brothers. At last, he spoke, his voice even, "I am going to meet my foster parents."

The room fell silent for a beat. Bhima and Arjuna's teasing expressions softened slightly, a flicker of understanding passing between them.

But before the moment could turn too serious, Vasusena continued with a small, knowing smile, "And, I am also attending the wedding of my childhood friends—Krodhini and Stambhinī."

Silence.

Then—Bhima groaned loudly, slapping his forehead, "So, all this teasing for nothing?! You let us continue, and you weren't even getting married?!"

Arjuna rolled his eyes, exhaling in relief, "Unbelievable! Here we thought our Jyeshta had finally met his match, and instead, he's just being a dutiful Putr and friend again."

Bhima crossed his arms, "You should have stopped us earlier! Now we've wasted all that effort."

Vasusena chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement, "You two were entertaining. Why would I stop you?"

Arjuna sighed, shaking his head, "Jyeshta, you are impossible."

Bhima groaned again but then patted Vasusena's shoulder, "Go, go. Give our regards to your parents and your friends. But don't be surprised if we get our revenge for this."

Vasusena smirked, "I'll be waiting."

And with that, the brothers' laughter echoed in the chamber, a rare and precious moment before fate would weave its next challenge.

The Weight of Longing

Vasusena had arrived.

The house was bustling with people—family, friends, well-wishers. Laughter and chatter filled the air, but everything stilled when Suryaputr Vasusena entered their midst. The former King and the current prince of Hastinapur stood at their doorstep.

A hushed silence spread like wildfire. Some lowered their gazes, others whispered in uncertain voices. There was admiration but also something else—a hesitant distance. He was not just Vasusena, the boy they had once known. He was something far more significant now.

Vasusena noticed. The stiffness, the awkwardness, the fear. But he did what he had always done—he smiled. A warm, gentle smile that sought to erase the invisible wall between them.

His heart, however, searched for only one person. Where is she? Where is my Mata? And then he saw her.

Radha Mata.

She stood at a distance, engrossed in conversation, unaware of his presence. She looked the same, yet different. Her hair had more strands of silver, her frame slightly frailer, but her presence—his first home, love, and protector—was unchanged. Something tightened in his chest.

Radha suddenly paused as if sensing something and turned. Her eyes met his. For a moment, time ceased.

Vasusena took slow steps forward, but before he could even bow for her blessings, Radha broke into a run. And then—she embraced him. A mother's embrace, raw and unrestrained, as if she feared he might vanish if she let go. She clutched him tightly, her entire body trembling, tears spilling freely from her eyes—years of separation, longing, and unspoken words dissolved in that moment.

Vasusena stilled. A lump formed in his throat, and his vision blurred. He had not wept in years. But now—a single tear traced down his cheek.

"Putra..." Her voice was choked, breaking under the weight of emotions too heavy to bear. She pulled back slightly, cupping his face, drinking in every feature, "I thought... I thought I had lost you forever."

Vasusena swallowed, trying to steady himself, "Mata..." For the first time in years, his voice held the fragility of a child longing for his Radha Mata's warmth.

She shook her head, her fingers tightening over his hands, "Look at you... Look how much you've grown. You were just a child when you left... They took you when you were barely ten, Vasusena. And now, look at you—so grand, so radiant... my son."

Vasusena took a deep breath, steadying himself, though his hands still trembled within hers, "Mata, I never forgot you. Not for a single day. I never stopped thinking about you, about Pitashree..." He paused, his gaze searching hers, "I missed you."

Radha caressed his face, her fingers lingering over his forehead as if reassuring herself that he was honest, "And do you think we did not? Do you think we stopped waiting for you?"

Her voice cracked, and anger flashed through her tears for the first time, "Why did you never return, Vasusena? Not once. Did you think we wouldn't have welcomed you back? Did you think I wouldn't have embraced you like this?"

Vasusena's lips parted, but the words refused to form. How could he explain?

How could he tell her that the moment Pitamah took him away, his world had been rewritten? That he had spent years shaping himself into the prince he was expected to be? That he had carried the burden of proving himself worthy—not as Radha's son, but as Vasusena of Hastinapur? How could he tell her that a part of him feared returning, feared that the moment he stepped back into this humble abode, he would break?

Instead, he whispered, "I was afraid, Mata... that if I saw you again, I wouldn't be able to leave."

Radha closed her eyes, exhaling shakily. She understood—she had always understood. She pulled him back into an embrace, cradling his head against her shoulder like she did when he was a child, "Then don't leave, Putra. Not yet. Stay. At least for today."

Vasusena nodded, his arms tightening around her, "For today, I am your Radheya, not Vasusena." And for the first time in years—he truly felt like he was.

Radheya placed the gifts before Krodhini and Stambhinī's parents, bowing low, not as a prince but as a son offering his respects, "Would it be possible for me to meet them now, or should I wait?" he asked with a soft smile, his voice carrying the warmth of familiarity.

Radha placed a gentle hand on his shoulder—a touch that carried years of love, longing, and quiet sorrow, "Not now, Radheya," she said, her voice steady, though her eyes drank in the sight of him like a mother who feared he might disappear again, "They are in the Gauri Puja. You will have to wait for some time."

Radheya nodded, his smile unwavering. He had waited years to return to this home, and a little more time would not matter. But doing nothing had never been his nature. So, he walked to his father, Adhiratha, and began assisting him with the wedding preparations.

There was no hesitation. Here stood the former King of Hastinapur, a prince by birth and war, a warrior feared across Aryavarta—yet he knelt beside his father, lifting decorations, arranging ceremonial items, ensuring every detail was perfect. And just like that, the past and present blurred.

The boy who had once run through these streets, his feet bare, his laughter ringing, was here again. To them, he had never changed.

He was still theirs—the golden boy of the Sutas.

Then, the wait began to stretch—a moment, a few minutes, an hour, then another. The guests started glancing at the entrance, their smiles fading into frowns, their whispers shifting from excitement to unease.

The bridegroom's family should have arrived. But they did not. Then—a messenger. His face was pale as if he had swallowed the very weight of the news he bore. His voice quivered, "The bridegroom's family will not be attending."

Silence.

"They have married their sons into the household of a Brahmin."

Silence shattered. Gasps. Cries.

The sound of grief crashing like waves upon a broken shore. The mothers of the brides fell to the floor, wailing. Their joy, dreams, and dignity were ripped from them in front of all.

Radha and Adhiratha stood frozen—the weight of too many years of quiet suffering pressing down upon them again. And Vasusena? For the first time in years, his blood burned. His fingers clenched into fists. His breath deepened. His heart raged, "How dare they?"

He took a step forward and then another: "Let me go to them." His voice was thunderous, low, and dangerous. "Let me demand their answer. How dare they cancel the wedding at the last moment? How dare they not think about a girl's life? Who are they to play with a woman's emotions?"

His steps were swift, his entire being moving with the force of a storm. He would not let this stand. But before he could cross the door—a hand gripped his wrist, "Pitashree?" His voice softened in surprise.

Adhiratha stood firm. His father—his gentle, patient, quiet father—stood firm, "No, Putra."

The words were not just a command. They carried the weight of a thousand broken dreams, "This is regular in Suta marriages."

Vasusena stopped, "Regular?" His golden eyes burned. His heart ached, "What do you mean, regular?" he demanded, "Pitashree, Suta is not some lower caste!"

His voice cracked with something more profound than anger—something raw, something old: "The Sutas are born of Kshatriya men and Brahmin women. The very blood of kings and sages flows through you all! How can you all be considered anything less?"

Adhiratha did not answer. Because what answer was left to give?

"Even if people look down on us," Vasusena continued, his voice shaking with an emotion he refused to name, "no one—no one—has the right to play with a woman's life! If they did not want this marriage, they should have spoken earlier! But to humiliate a family at the last moment? To abandon a girl on her wedding day? Is this the justice of Aryavarta?"

Adhiratha sighed, his gaze filled with something far older than resignation, "I know, Putra," he said at last, "I know all of this. But we cannot change it today. Right now, my friend needs me. Stay back, Putra. Let this pass."

Vasusena wanted to scream.

But before he could— A sound pierced the air. A woman's scream. Then another. The murmurs turned into panic. A frantic voice broke through the noise—"Both Krodhini and Stambhinī... they are preparing for self-immolation!"

Vasusena stopped breathing. His feet moved before his mind could catch up. He ran. He ran like the wind carried him. For the first time, he saw them after ages.

Krodhini. Stambhinī.

Their faces were streaked with tears. Their hands trembling. Draped in wedding silks, standing before the sacred fire—not for a union, but for an end. And at that moment, something inside Vasusena shattered.

Something he had never felt before. But at this moment, in this pain, he knew he had to save them. Not just from death. But from a world that had already killed them.

Beyond the Flames

"No!" The voice that thundered through the air was not just a sound. It was a force, a command, a plea, a war cry. Vasusena ran, his breath ragged, his golden armor catching the sunlight like the wrath of Surya himself, "Stop!" The fire blazed high, the sacred flames hungry, licking the air, waiting to consume.

Vasusena stopped just before them, his chest rising and falling with urgency. He raised both hands in surrender, his voice raw, "Please... don't."

Silence.

Krodhini turned first. Her lips curled into a bitter smile, "Why not, Rajkumar?" she asked, her voice sharp, her grief honed into the edge of a blade.

"What should we live for? A woman whose bridegroom abandons her is as good as dead. We are just ending what society has already declared. Isn't it better this way?" Stambhinī whispered, her voice breaking, "At least we will leave with dignity rather than shame."

The words sliced through him.

Vasusena took a step forward, "Dignity?" His voice wavered, but not with weakness, rage, sorrow, or disbelief, "You think your dignity is tied to a man who abandoned you? You think life loses its meaning because an arrogant fool decided he was too blind to see your worth?"

Krodhini laughed—not out of joy, not out of agony, not out of fury, not out of knowing. "Oh, Rajkumar," she whispered, "You are a man. You speak of life because no one will ever take yours away for something as trivial as rejection."

Vasusena flinched.

"You say a woman's life is worth more than a marriage," Stambhinī said, her voice harder now, "Then tell me—where in Aryavarta does a woman abandoned on her wedding day get a second chance?"

Krodhini's voice dropped lower, quieter, and more dangerous, "Do you know what happens to women like us, Rajkumar?"

He clenched his fists. He knew.

"We become whispers," Krodhini continued, her voice a blade gliding through the air, "We become dishonor. We become stories mothers tell their daughters to remind them to be careful. We will be shamed, Rajkumar. We become the warnings of what happens when a woman is unwanted."

Vasusena's throat burned. He wanted to tell them they were wrong, but they weren't. He knew. And so, had she?

"Amba," Stambhinī said softly. That name hung in the air like a ghost. Vasusena's breath hitched.

"She was the princess of Kashi," Krodhini said, her voice filled with the sorrow of a woman who had memorized the wounds of another, "Abducted by Mahamahim Bhishma, thrown aside by her betrothed, then discarded again by Bhishma himself and rejected, abandoned, insulted. Begging for justice. And when no one listened? She burned."

The fire before them crackled as if remembering, "She burned, Rajkumar. She chose the flames because the world gave her nothing else."

Vasusena closed his eyes for a moment. Amba. A woman with a fire too intense for the world. A woman was destroyed because men refused to see her as a person. And now—history was repeating.

He opened his eyes, "No."

Krodhini and Stambhinī frowned.

"No!" Vasusena said, "I will not let the world do this to you.

"And what will you do, Rajkumar?" Stambhinī's voice shook with fury, "Will you go to the groom's family and fight them? Will you drag them here and force them to marry us? Will you give a speech about justice to a society that does not care?"

Vasusena exhaled. He had never been a man of empty words. "No," he said.

And then he looked at them—honestly looked at them. At two women who deserved more than this fate. At two lives that the world had already prepared to throw away. At Krodhini and Stambhinī, whom he had known since childhood, who had once laughed under the same sun, whose hands had once held his in play. And then—he said it, "I will marry you."

Silence.

The fire burned. Krodhini's breath hitched, "What?" Stambhinī whispered.

Vasusena knelt. Not as a prince. Not as a warrior. But as a man who would not let the world decide their fate, "If marriage is what gives you back your dignity, then let it be mine to restore."

Krodhini took a step back, "You don't mean that."

Vasusena looked up at her, his golden eyes steady, unwavering, filled with something more profound than a promise, "I do."

"But—" Stambhinī's voice cracked, "Two women—"

"Who decided a man cannot marry two women?" Vasusena asked, "Who decided a woman's worth is only in who accepts her?"

No answer.

Because there wasn't one, "You are not ashamed," Vasusena said softly. "You are not dishonor. Your names won't be whispering to be forgotten."

He reached out, his hand steady and open, "You are Krodhini. You are Stambhinī. You are warriors who will live in a world that tries to break you. And I will not let it succeed."

Krodhini fell to her knees. Stambhinī covered her mouth, sobbing. The fire before them roared, no longer waiting to devour but to witness.

And then—the realization struck them.

Krodhini's breath hitched. Stambhinī's fingers curled into trembling fists. They looked at him—indeed, looked at him, "Who... are you?" Krodhini's voice was barely above the wind. The question hung between them, fragile yet powerful, like the thread of fate itself.

Vasusena met their gaze, his heart hammering. He took a slow breath before answering, "I am your Mitr, Radheya."

Silence.

The fire crackled, sending embers into the sky like forgotten prayers. Krodhini gasped. Stambhinī's lips parted, but no words came.

Radheya.

The boy they had laughed with, the boy who had once trained with them, fought beside them and shared dreams of a future that had never come to be. But the man before them was no mere childhood friend.

Krodhini's fingers clutched her chest as realization sank deep, "No..." Her voice was barely audible, "You are not just Radheya." She took a step back, "You are Vasusena."

Stambhinī's hands trembled as she wiped tears, "The former King of Hastinapur... The Suryaputr... The eldest Pandava." A gust of wind howled around them as if the universe acknowledged the weight of those words.

They stumbled backwards, shaken, "We... We cannot," Krodhini murmured.

Vasusena's brows furrowed, "Why?"

Stambhinī's voice trembled, but her resolve did not, "Because you are a Kshatriya. A prince. You are Suryadev's Putr."

Vasusena exhaled sharply, "And that is a reason to reject life? That is a reason to throw yourselves into the fire?" He took another step forward, his eyes burning like molten gold, "Please... embrace this fate instead. Choose life."

But Stambhinī met his gaze with equal fire, "Do you love us, Rajkumar Vasusena?"

The question hit him like an arrow, "What?"

"Do you love us?" she repeated, her voice raw, stripped of all pretence.

Vasusena faltered, "No... I do not love you in the way you mean."

Krodhini's breath shuddered, "Then why?" Her voice broke on the last word, "Why would you marry daughters of the Suta clan? A man like you—one of the greatest warriors, a prince of Hastinapur, a Kshatriya by blood—why would you do this?"

His jaw clenched. This wasn't just about them. This was about the nameless women of Aryavarta, who were used, forgotten, and cast aside.

His breath was steady when he finally spoke, "I am not marrying you out of pity." His voice was measured, unyielding, "I am not marrying you to defy the laws of Aryavarta. I am marrying you because no woman should have to choose death over dishonor."

His words sank into them like stones into a river.

But Krodhini still pressed forward, her voice breaking, "If you save us... what about the others? Hundreds and thousands of women across Aryavarta suffer the same fate. Abandoned at the altar. Shunned after the war. Sold, cast aside, forgotten. Will you marry them all, Rajkumar Vasusena?"

A heavy silence followed. Her words were a sword, cutting through all illusions.

Vasusena swallowed. Could he? Could one man undo centuries of injustice with a single act? No. He was not a fool. But he looked into their eyes—eyes that had accepted death as their only escape. And he knew.

"No, I cannot marry them all," he admitted. His voice was soft now but still resolute, "But here, today, I can change this fate. I can save you."

Something inside them cracked. Krodhini gasped, a sob escaping her lips. Stambhinī's knees buckled, her trembling fingers clutching her veil.

Vasusena stepped closer, his voice no longer that of a prince or a warrior but of the boy they once knew, "Krodhini... Stambhinī... You once called me your Mitr." His voice was thick with unspoken memories, "Can you not trust me again? Not as a prince. Not as a Suryaputr. But as Radheya?"

Tears streamed down their faces. The fire behind them continued to burn, but it no longer called to them.

And in that moment, they chose. They chose life. They chose him.

A Prince's Unlikely Choice

The sacred fire crackled, its golden tongues of flame licking the night air as if whispering secrets to the heavens. The sky bore silent witness, the gods themselves watching what no one had ever dared to imagine.

A Suryaputr marrying a Suta woman. Not one, but two.

Vasusena, the son of the Sun, the eldest Pandava, the former King of Hastinapur, sat before the flames, his expression unreadable. On either side of him, Krodhini and Stambhinī sat in solemn silence, their veils trembling with every breath they took.

This was a marriage that defied Dharma itself.

As per Dharma, a man's first wife should be of his varna. If he chose more, they could only be of a caste beneath the first. A king would wed a Kshatriya woman first. A Brahmin would marry a woman of wisdom and virtue. A merchant would wed from his kin.

But this?

A Deva-Putra, a prince of royal blood, was marrying not a celestial maiden, a Kshatriya princess, or even a Brahmin's daughter. He was marrying Sutas—daughters of mixed legacy- the social order's third rung.

It was unheard of. Unacceptable.

The news spread like wildfire.

From the wedding altar, where the murmurs of disbelief swelled, it spilt onto the streets. From the streets, it ran to the gates of the palace. And from there, it surged into the heart of the royal chambers.

The first to react was Kunti.

She had barely sat down for her evening prayers when the words struck her like an arrow to the chest, "What?" she whispered, her voice trembling, "A Suta? Why?"

A shroud of silence fell over the chamber. The five brothers stood still, grappling with the weight of what they had just heard. Arjuna and Bhima exchanged a glance. It couldn't be.

Arjuna spoke first, his voice laced with uncertainty, "This morning, Jyeshta said he was going to meet his foster parents... and also visit the wedding of his childhood friends."

Bhima's brows furrowed, "Then how..."

Kunti, still seated, shook her head in disbelief. The world around her spun: "He went to his Mitr's wedding... then why is he the one getting married?"

She clutched the nearest pillar for support, her breath unsteadied. Draupadi rushed forward, gently touching her shoulder, "Mata... please, compose yourself."

Kunti turned sharply, eyes burning with desperation, "Krishnaa, how can I? A Suta? My son—my Vasusena, my firstborn—is marrying outside the order of Dharma itself! Why?"

With his fists clenched, Bhima growled under his breath, "Why indeed?"

Yuyutsu finally broke the silence, "Brata Bhima," he said, calm but firm, "neither Mahadeva nor Narayana distinguishes between caste or birth. To them, a soul is weighed only by its karma." His gaze swept across the room, "Jyeshta has made a choice. If he has married them, then he has his reasons. Why do you doubt him without hearing his side?"

Bhima opened his mouth to retort, but Yuyutsu's words had cut too deep. Doubt? No. This wasn't doubt. This was fear.

Yudhishthira, sitting beside Kunti, took her trembling hands in his own. His voice was soft, but there was something heavy in his words, "Yuyutsu... this is not about doubting him." He exhaled, his expression weary, "You know better than anyone—Jyeshta is the one who has sacrificed the most for us. He has never, not once, chosen his happiness over duty." His voice wavered, "We have always wanted him to find joy. To marry for love. To choose someone who brings him peace. But this?"

He looked at his brothers, Mata and Draupadi, "Did he love them?"

Silence.

Because they all knew the answer, he would have told them if Vasusena had loved these women. If Vasusena had chosen this marriage for his heart, he would have spoken of it before.

Then why?

What had compelled the son of the Suryadev, prince of the Kuru dynasty... To marry two Suta women? The question hung heavy in the air, unanswered.