Aryavarta trembled with the weight of the news. A Suryaputr had wedded two Suta women. The revelation spread like wildfire, igniting whispers in royal courts, markets, and temple halls. Some gasped in disbelief. Others murmured in contempt. A prince of Hastinapur, the eldest Pandava, had defied the very order upon which society stood.

Some called it an act of defiance. Others, an act of madness.

Yet, in the halls of Dwaraka, Krishna merely smiled—a knowing, gentle smile that spoke of the ever-turning wheel of cosmic play, of Dharma shifting, reshaping, and shattering old chains. He knew. This was inevitable.

But in the stone walls of Khandavaprastha, in the quiet chambers where the guardians of the Kuru lineage sat, Bhishma did not smile. The grandsire sat still, the weight of years pressing upon his broad shoulders. His hands, once wielders of celestial weapons, now rested heavily upon his lap. His breath was deep, slow, and burdened.

From the dimly lit corridor, Vidura approached. He had known where to find Bhishma, who was alone and staring into nothingness. His steps were light, yet his words carried weight, "What do you feel, Tatshree?"

A long sigh escaped Bhishma's lips, which seemed to carry the echoes of past generations. "For a moment, Vidura... I am sad." His voice was steady, but the sorrow beneath it could not be hidden.

Vidura did not interrupt. He knew that when Bhishma spoke, he spoke with the depth of a man who had seen empires rise and crumble, who had given his very soul to duty.

Bhishma continued, his fingers tracing the lines on his palm as if searching for answers, "I wanted Vasusena's wedding to be one of joy. To be one where his heart truly belongs. I wanted him to choose love, not obligation. But the way he married... I do not need to hear the full story to understand." He closed his eyes momentarily, "He must have done it to save them."

Vidura's gaze did not waver.

"Once again, that lad has sacrificed himself."

The words felt heavier than steel.

"Do I take pride in it... or do I weep for the suffering of my grandchild?" Bhishma whispered, "I do not know."

The chamber fell into silence. The flickering lamp cast long shadows as if the walls mourned the eldest Pandava's fate.

Then, Vidura's voice cut through the stillness, "Nothing about the caste?"

Bhishma let out a chuckle that held years of reflection, regret, and change, "For a moment, perhaps. It is difficult to erase the ink of tradition from one's soul." He looked at Vidura, his expression softer than ever, "But... because of you and Yuyutsu, I have begun to understand."

His voice was deep, carrying the wisdom of a lifetime, "Caste is nothing more than an artificial construct. A flawed, rusted tool that has dictated the worth of men and women stripped them of dignity, made slaves of some and kings of others—on no basis but birth."

Vidura inhaled, taking in the weight of those words.

Bhishma's lips curved into something between a smile and a sigh, "And yet, we follow it. We hold onto it, even when it has lost its meaning." He met Vidura's gaze, and his eyes carried hope for the first time in years, "This is why the Pandavas must rule Aryavarta, Vidura." The conviction in his voice was unshakable, "Let new thoughts take root. Let Dharma—not rusted traditions—sit upon the throne."

Vidura stared at him for a long moment before a small chuckle escaped his lips, "I never thought I would hear these words from you, Tatshree."

Bhishma nodded, his silvered hair gleaming in the dim light, "Remember, Vidura... it was Vasusena who taught me this."

Vidura stilled.

Bhishma continued, his voice laced with remembrance, "When he was the King of Hastinapur, when he ruled with wisdom beyond his years... it was then that I saw it." He exhaled, "I saw the chains that bound us. I saw what I had once ignored." He looked at Vidura, "Had I not seen him rule, I would have remained rusted, too."

A silence passed between them, not of sorrow but of understanding.

Vidura bowed slightly, then said, "I will send gifts to the newly wedded couple... on behalf of you and me."

Bhishma did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned towards the open window, where the night stretched endlessly. Somewhere beyond those palace walls, his grandchild had again chosen duty over desire. His heart ached. But for the first time in his long life, he did not let the pain blind him. He let it teach him.

The Winds of Change

The news reached far and wide, echoing like a celestial decree through the lands. From the grand halls of Hastinapur to the distant corners of Aryavarta, tongues whispered and minds reeled—the Suryaputr had wed two daughters of the Suta lineage.

But the reaction was more than mere curiosity in Kashi, where the air was thick with the anticipation of the grand Swayamvar. It was a ripple that disturbed the ambitions of those who sought power.

Shakuni, draped in his dark robes, leaned forward with a slow smirk, yet his eyes betrayed intrigue, "A Suta woman? No—two Suta women? What, in the name of fate, could have possibly gone wrong?"

Suyodhana exhaled, his fingers drumming against the wooden armrest of his seat. He had already contemplated this outcome from every angle, and the answer in his mind was as clear as the steel of his mace, "A political wedding, Mamashree."

Vikarna, always seeking a reason beyond mere perception, frowned, "How can this be political, Brata? If it were, would Jyeshta not have chosen a princess? A royal bride? What advantage does he gain from wedding daughters of the Suta clan?"

Suyodhan's gaze was sharp, piercing through the feigned ignorance of his brothers. He leaned back, allowing a knowing smirk to tug at the corner of his lips, "You misunderstand, Vikarna. This is precisely why it is political. Anga is a Suta kingdom. The Suta lineage was born from the union of Kshatriyas and Brahmins. In practice, they remained confined to their kind—allowed into the courts as advisors, charioteers, storytellers, but never rulers in their own right."

He paused, letting his words settle before delivering the final blow, "But Vasusena—he has shattered that order. A Suryaputr, a former king, has taken them not as second or third wives like some overlooked privilege but as his main wives. This act alone elevates the Sutas beyond anything Aryavarta has ever witnessed. With a single vow at the altar, he has shifted the balance of power."

Duhsasana scoffed, waving dismissively, "People are just pawns, Brata. What can they do? They have no voice in matters of kings and thrones."

Suyodhan's gaze darkened. He turned to his brother, his voice carrying the weight of unsaid truths, "People are everything, Anuj. A kingdom is built upon their backs, and a ruler is nothing without their loyalty. Even the greatest of thrones can crumble if the people cease to bow. And Vasusena has ensured that the people of Anga, and beyond, will now rally behind him like never before."

A silence settled in the chamber, broken only by the distant sounds of the bustling city preparing for the Swayamvar.

Then, Shakuni chuckled, a slow, calculating sound, "You admire his move, don't you, Suyodhana?"

Suyodhana tilted his head, a wry smile playing on his lips, "I do. It was impressive." His fingers curled around the armrest, tightening into a fist, "But not for long. The game is still ours to play. Let him bask in the admiration of the weak. I have my destiny to fulfil." His gaze lifted to the towering palace of Kashi, where fate awaited him, "I will win the hand of Dhumavati. And soon, I shall establish myself as the one true king of Hastinapur."

His brothers nodded in fierce agreement, their ambitions burning brighter than ever beneath the weight of the unfolding game. The tide of fate was shifting, and they intended to steer it with their own hands.

Dharma Over Birthright

Vasusena stood at the threshold of the Hastinapur palace, the weight of countless gazes upon him. At his sides, Krodhini and Stambhinī trembled, their fingers clutching the ends of their bridal veils as if they could hide from the world's scrutiny. The courtyard was silent, yet heavy with unspoken words, with judgment woven into every breath drawn by those assembled.

The royal court stood in quiet shock. Maharaja Dritarashtra sat upon his throne, his advisors Kanika and Sanjaya flanking him, his queen Gandhari standing beside him, unreadable beneath her veil. Her hands clasped, Kunti stared at her eldest son, searching his face as if seeking an answer before even asking a question. Yuyutsu stood firm, his jaw set, while the Pandavas remained still—watching, waiting. Beside them, Draupadi stepped forward, holding the aarti plate in her hands, her expression unreadable.

A hush fell as she raised the lamp to Vasusena's brides. Krodhini and Stambhinī hesitated, their feet refusing to move forward, their eyes darting to Vasusena for guidance. Draupadi reached out, touching their hands gently, guiding them closer. Vasusena's eyes softened with gratitude, but he said nothing. Words were not needed at this moment.

Kunti stepped forward, her gaze lingering on her son before shifting to the two women he had chosen. Then, with a serene smile, she blessed her hands, "Patirekādaśī Bhava (may your husband be your sole support and companion)."

A blessing not of mere obligation but of recognition. Krodhini and Stambhinī lowered their heads, their hearts swelling. For the first time since their union, they felt truly accepted.

Dritarashtra and Gandhari followed, their voices solemn. "Akṣayyaṃ Prajābhava (may your family and progeny be prosperous and eternal)."

The moment should have been one of relief, yet the weight of the court remained heavy upon them. Vasusena had expected resistance, but it was Kanika who first expressed it.

"Suryaputr," Kanika began, his voice smooth yet cutting, "why such a marriage? Why Suta women? The entire Aryavarta whispers that you did this to save them. I must say, Brahmarshi Pandu's lineage is... unique. A woman married to five, though it is written in the Vedas, is not a regular norm. Now, a Devputra, a Kshatriya, marries Suta women as his main wives. Constantly pushing the boundaries of what is traditional and what is permissible. Tell me, Rajkumar Vasusena, are these your choices, or do unseen hands guide you? Perhaps Rajkumari Niyati?"

The insinuation was clear, the disrespect woven into every syllable. The court stiffened. The Pandavas' anger was visible—Arjuna's fingers twitched towards his bow, and Bhima clenched his fists. But it was Yuyutsu who stepped forward, his voice like steel, "A Brahmāṇaḥ Kṣatriyo Viśaḥ, A Śūdraḥ Parantapaḥ, Kṛṇvanto Viśvamāryam, Jāyate Śreṣṭha Udāhṛtaḥ."

His words rang out, cutting through the tension, "Mantri Kanika, you are a Brahmin. You know the meaning: all humans are equal before the divine. The one who follows Dharma, who performs good deeds, is the most beloved and exalted in the eyes of the gods."

He stepped forward, his gaze locked onto Kanika's: "My sister Draupadi married five for Dharma. My Jyeshta married a Suta woman for Dharma. I do not believe the gods would have any qualms with this. Therefore, neither should you."

Kanika paled, stepping back, but Dritarashtra raised a hand, "Enough," he commanded, his voice heavy. Then, turning to Vasusena, he said, "You have taken upon yourself a great responsibility, Vasusena. But understand this—I do not want the Kuru lineage to be carried forward by Suta women. Take a princess, any princess, as your first wife, and then enjoy the bliss of your three marriages as you see fit."

The words hung in the air like a curse. Krodhini and Stambhinī stiffened, their faces paling. Even Gandhari, silent thus far, turned her face away in quiet shame. The Pandavas said nothing, yet the fury simmering beneath their silence was palpable.

Vasusena stepped forward, his amber eyes burning with an intensity that silenced the murmurs around him. The sacred fire of his marriage had barely dimmed, and already, his union was being measured, weighed, and deemed unworthy. He had expected resistance, but hearing it from the throne of Hastinapur itself did not anger him; it steeled him.

He folded his arms and looked directly at Dritarashtra, "Tatshree, Dhanyavaad, for thinking about me," he began, his voice steady. Still, the undercurrent of something unshakable lay beneath, "But if I may ask—what is the true essence of a lineage? Is it measured by the purity of blood or by the purity of deeds? By the accident of birth or by the choices one makes?"

A hush fell over the court.

"If the worth of a dynasty was only in its blood, then why does Aryavarta revere Bharata Maharaj, who did not pass his kingdom to his sons? Why does it honour Kakashree Vidura, a man of unparalleled wisdom whose birth was refused to be acknowledged as a royal? If lineage alone could ensure greatness, then why does history forget the names of kings born in golden chambers while remembering the sages, the warriors, the revolutionaries who carved their names with their deeds?"

Dritarashtra remained silent, his fingers tightening around his throne.

Vasusena's voice did not waver, "I am Vasusena, the son of Rajmata Kunti, Brahmarshi Pandu and a Suryaputr. I'm the son of Radha and Adhiratha. I was abducted at birth, raised in love, and forged in fire. I have lived as an outcast, as a prince, as a king, as a warrior, and as a brother. I have fought for those cast aside; today, I fight again. If Dharma does not see caste, if the Gods do not, then why should man? If I am to have a queen, it will not be because of the whims of society but because she stands beside me as an equal."

His gaze swept the assembly, "I will take no wife for status. I will take no wife for duty. I have chosen Krodhini and Stambhinī, and they have chosen me. That is all that matters."

Silence.

Krodhini and Stambhinī looked at him, their eyes wide, their hearts overwhelmed. Draupadi exhaled, a flicker of admiration in her gaze. The Pandavas did not speak, but neither did they object. Yuyutsu stood tall, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles.

Dritarashtra sighed, leaning back into his throne. The weight of Vasusena's words bore upon him, and yet, he could not refute them.

For the first time, Gandhari turned toward her husband and said softly, "A lineage is not destroyed by birth, Maharaj. It is destroyed by injustice. Vasusena has chosen Dharma. Let that be enough."

The unspoken verdict hung in the air. The matter was settled. Vasusena had spoken, and the weight of his truth was immovable. But outside the halls of Hastinapur, the world had already begun to turn. The ripples of this marriage were only beginning to reach the shores of Aryavarta, and far beyond the palace walls, forces stirred—some in admiration, some in quiet rage, and some in the shadows, where daggers are drawn in silence.

The Swayamvar

The city of Kashi, an ancient jewel of Aryavarta, stood in its divine grandeur, its towering spires kissing the sky, its sacred ghats reflecting the eternal dance of fire and water. Temples of Mahadev lined the holy Ganga, their bells resonating with chants that merged with the murmuring river as if the gods themselves whispered to the city. Streets adorned with perfumed garlands and golden torches shimmered under the sun's embrace while the fragrance of sandalwood and camphor lingered in the air. The town had long been a beacon of wisdom, warfare, and wealth, a confluence of Dharma and destiny, and today, it bore witness to an event that could alter the fate of kingdoms—the Swayamvar of Rajkumari Dhumavati, the eldest daughter of King Subahu.

Beyond the city's bustling heart, the grand Swayamvar arena was prepared in the expansive royal courtyard—a vast pavilion draped in silk and embroidered banners, each bearing the sigils of the attending kings and princes. The golden dais, adorned with intricate carvings of celestial beings and entwining lotuses, stood at the far end, where the princess would choose. Rows upon rows of seats carved from sandalwood and ivory were filled with noble warriors and monarchs, their jewelled crowns glinting under the midday sun. The air crackled with anticipation, for the suitors gathered here were not mere contenders for the princess's hand—they were rulers and warriors, each bearing the weight of their dynasties and the hunger for power.

Among the assembled royalty stood the mighty heirs of their realms: from Avanti, the valiant Vinda and Anuvinda; from Bahlika, the venerable Somadatta and his fierce son Bhurishrava; from Kalinga, the formidable Śrutāydha; from Kāmboja, the indomitable Sudakshina; from Kosala, the noble Brihadbala; from Chedi, the infamous Śiśupāla, whose scorn for the Yadavas was no secret; from Magadha, Jayatsena, the son of the late emperor Jarāsandha; from Madra, the seasoned warrior Salya; from Pragjyotisha, the elephant-riding general, Bhagadatta; and the distant Sindhu and Sauvira, the ruthless Jayadratha among other Kings and princes. Each is a monarch in his own right, each seeking an alliance that would tip the scales of power.

Among them, clad in royal silks of deep indigo, his golden ornaments reflecting his regal stature, stood Suyodhana, the prince of Hastinapur. His sharp gaze swept over the gathering like a hawk surveying its prey. At his side stood his 99 brothers, his uncle Shakuni, and the ever-loyal Ashwatthama—waited with veiled expressions, observing the movements of their rivals.

Then, Jayadratha, the king of Sindhu, strode towards Suyodhana, his dark eyes gleaming with an amusement that carried an undercurrent of arrogance. The moment he reached the prince, he stretched out his arms and embraced him, a display of camaraderie wrapped in calculated showmanship.

Suyodhana allowed the gesture, but his expression did not change. Leaning slightly, he whispered, his voice laced with a silk-like smoothness that barely concealed the steel beneath, "Even after marrying my sister Duhsala, you are here to win the hand of Rajkumari Dhumavati?"

Though spoken with practised calm, the words carried a sharp edge, a reminder that though they stood as allies, there were lines that even comrades should not dare to cross.

Jayadratha smirked, his demeanour unwavering. He leaned back slightly, his fingers absently adjusting the cuff of his regal tunic as he replied, "Everyone is here to make alliances, Yuvraj Suyodhana. Aren't you here for the same?" He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before adding with a careless shrug, "And regarding Duhsala... she is happy with what I give her. Why worry about her then?"

The words were spoken lightly, yet they carried an undercurrent of challenge, an unspoken dismissal of familial sentiment. A fleeting tension passed through the assembly. The Kaurava brothers, who had always seen their sister content in her marriage, found themselves momentarily silenced, their expressions unreadable.

Suyodhan's lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. He did not press further, for the game of diplomacy was not fought with swords but carefully placed words. He could not openly contest the matter of Duhsala—not in a gathering where power plays were being made with every breath. Instead, he turned his gaze towards the golden dais where the princess would soon make her entrance.

A Swayamvar of Shadows and Strategy

As the ceremonial drums sounded, King Subahu rose from his seat, his presence regal and commanding. The sacred fire blazed beside him, its flames licking the air like tongues of divination. With a reverence befitting the occasion, he performed the Yagna, calling upon the gods to bless this event with wisdom and fairness. The incense curled in thick tendrils around him, carrying his prayers to the heavens.

Once the rituals concluded, the gathered royalty turned their attention to the raised dais, where the princess was to appear.

And then, she came.

Princess Dhumavati—her name itself evoking the intensity of an unbridled storm—descended the marble steps, each movement blending elegance and quiet command. She was a vision of celestial grace, her dusky skin glowing under the grand hall's oil lamps. Draped in silks the colour of midnight, woven with golden embroidery that caught the light like fireflies in the dark, she moved with the poise of a tigress surveying her territory. Kohl-lined eyes, sharp and discerning, swept across the assembled royals, and the flicker of a smirk played on her lips as if she knew she was the storm they sought to claim yet would never tame.



She took her place beside her father, her gaze unwavering, her demeanour that of a queen in the making.

King Subahu, surveying the eager faces before him, finally spoke, his voice steady as the Ganga itself, "My Putri Dhumavati will not be won by mere strength, wealth, or lineage alone. Aryavarta is at the precipice of a new era, where rulers must be more than warriors—they must be shadows in the dark, minds sharper than blades, hearts unfaltering in resolve. Thus, this Swayamvar shall test not only might, but wisdom—an intelligence that sees beyond morality and immorality, for in the world of kings, righteousness is a shifting tide."

A murmur spread through the gathering. This was no simple Gada yuddha, no mere test of brute force. The princes and kings exchanged cautious glances, their hands tightening over the arms of their seats.

"The contest," Raja Subahu continued, "is the Trial of the Veil."

A gasp rippled through the assembly. The Trial of the Veil is an ancient challenge designed for rulers who wished to test the darkness in their souls. It is a game of deception, illusion, and ruthless strategy, where the price of failure is not just defeat but disgrace.



Before them stood a great curtain of silk suspended between two pillars, behind which stood an unknown number of warriors—silent, unseen, yet lethal. The task was simple in words yet perilous in execution: the contestants had to identify which among them was a true warrior, an assassin, or an illusion—a figment conjured by the sorcerers of Kashi.

If one chose wrongly and called an illusion a warrior, they would be declared unfit to rule, unable to discern truth from mirage. If they mistook an assassin for a warrior, they would be deemed a fool who allowed a dagger too close. And if they chose rightly, they would prove their worth not just as rulers but as ones who understood the veiled nature of power itself.

The kings and princes approached the veil individually, attempting to outmaneuver the deception. Vinda and Anuvindya of Avanti fell first, mistaking an illusion for a warrior. The laughter of the court burned their ears as they retreated in disgrace. Bhurishrava, wise and cautious, made his move but hesitated between an assassin and a true warrior; his indecision was his downfall. Śrutāydha of Kalinga, confident yet careless, trusted his instincts—and was undone by the mirage. Jayadratha smirked, playing his usual arrogant game, but the Trial of the Veil was not one to be swayed by pride. He, too, faltered.

One by one, kings fell like pieces on a cosmic chessboard, undone by the very thing they sought to master—perception.

Then came Suyodhana.

He walked to the veil, his steps steady, his mind unclouded by hesitation. He did not glance at his competitors nor the murmuring crowd. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, studied the silhouettes behind the curtain. He did not simply see; he observed. He noted the shift in shadows, the cadence of breath that escaped the veil's fabric, and the slight but telling variance in how the figures stood. He attuned himself to the silence, the absence of movement where there should have been weight, and the subtle yet distinct heartbeat that betrayed the presence of a living, breathing warrior amidst phantoms.

Suyodhana exhaled slowly, his mind filtering out deception, cutting through the illusion with the precision of a sword striking true. He lifted his hand and pointed.

"The true warrior stands here," he declared.

The curtain was drawn. And he was right.

A hush fell over the court. Then, a roar of approval. King Subahu nodded in acknowledgement. The Trial of the Veil had been conquered by one who saw beyond illusion, beyond mere appearances—by a prince who understood the essence of power itself.

With measured steps, Princess Dhumavati rose and walked to where Suyodhana stood. At that moment, it was not a woman surrendering to a victor but an empress acknowledging a king. She lifted the garland, the scent of roses and sandalwood mingling with the charged air, and placed it around his neck.

The Swayamvar was decided. Suyodhana had won.

As the gathered rulers processed the outcome, some in admiration, others in silent fury, one thing was undeniable—Aryavarta had just witnessed the rise of a force to be reckoned with.

A Kingdom on the Brink

The evening sun cast a golden hue over Aryavarta as the news of Yuvraj Suyodhan's triumph in Kashi spread like wildfire. From opulent courts to humble dwellings, whispers of the victorious prince and his enigmatic conquest of the Trial of the Veil reached every corner of the land. The messengers, adorned in the royal insignia of Kashi, galloped through Hastinapur's grand gates, their horses kicking up dust clouds as they made their way to the royal court.

Inside the magnificent Sabha, where decisions shaped the kingdom's fate, Maharaja Dritarashtra sat on his ivory throne, his face illuminated with unrestrained joy. A rare, unguarded smile broke across his lips as the news was formally announced. His blind eyes could not see the grand halls of Hastinapur lit up in jubilation, but he could feel the air thick with celebration.

"Sanjaya," he said, his voice brimming with pride, "send numerous gifts, the finest jewelry, and my heartfelt blessings to Kashi. Let Aryavarta know that the new bride of the Kuru lineage is most welcome. I am so happy today! Finally, the Yuvrani of Hastinapur is coming." He paused momentarily before commanding, "Ensure that the entire city rejoices in this auspicious occasion. Distribute gold coins among the people, summon the Brahmins to perform sacred rites, and declare a grand feast for all."

As Dritarashtra's words echoed through the court, the Pandavas exchanged glances. Their thoughts drifted to the stark contrast in their Tatshree's demeanor—how different it was from when their Jyeshta had married. Then, there had been no celebrations, no gifts sent in honour. The silence of the past loomed heavy in their hearts. But Vasusena, ever composed, smiled at them as if he had long made peace with these inequities.

Sanjaya bowed and then hesitated before speaking. "Maharaja, the letter also bears another message. Yuvraj Suyodhana wishes to remain in Kashi with his ninety-nine brothers and dear friend, Ashwatthama. He will not be returning to Hastinapur soon."

The court fell into a momentary hush. Gandhari, who had remained quiet until now, spoke with motherly concern, "But why? What keeps him from returning to his home?"

"The letter does not state a reason, Maharani," Sanjaya replied, his voice carefully measured.

Dritarashtra let out a slow sigh before responding, "It is fine. Let my son enjoy the days of his newly wedded bliss. Do not question his choices. But, Sanjaya, do not delay in sending our blessings. Make sure they reach Kashi without fail."

As the royal court dispersed, the Pandavas walked together, their minds uneasy. Nakula was the first to voice his thoughts, "Why does Brata Suyodhana wish to remain away from Hastinapur? This is not normal. Four years ago, all one hundred Kauravas left under the pretext of gaining knowledge. Now, he has won Rajkumari Dhumavati's hand, yet he still does not wish to return. This cannot be mere coincidence."

Yuyutsu answered, his voice laced with quiet certainty, "For four years, they were in Kalinga, learning the arts of deception—the same 'knowledge' that helped him win the Trial of the Veil. My spies tell me he has also received a boon from Rishi Durvasa, though we do not yet know what it entails."

"A boon?" Bhima's brows furrowed in suspicion.

"Yes, Brata," Yuyutsu continued, "And I believe he will use it against you more than anyone else. I know you possess great strength but never underestimate your enemy. Let this be your first lesson if nothing else, and always be prepared. Hone your skills further, for the days ahead will not be easy."

Bhima's fists clenched, not in anger, but in determination. Standing beside him, Arjuna exhaled sharply, "It is time we remind Tatshree about the division of the kingdom. It has been four years. We have upheld our duty, cared for the people, and maintained Hastinapur's affairs. But now, with Tatshree proclaiming Bhabhishree Dhumavati as Yuvrani, it is time to address this matter again."

Yudhishthira, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke, "Let us not speak of division. It is Adharma to split the land of our ancestors."

Draupadi, who had been listening, finally broke her silence, "I disagree, Arya. Four years ago, Tatshree was willing to do so. He only hesitated because he feared that Hastinapur might be left vulnerable in the absence of his Putro. But now? Now, Brata Suyodhana has found his strength and alliances. If we do not take steps to build our own, we will be left defenceless when the time comes."

A voice, calm yet firm, joined the conversation. It was Krodhini, her dark eyes unwavering as she stepped forward, followed closely by Stambhinī, "We know we are not of your lineage," Krodhini began, "but we understand Dharma. And with that understanding, we wish to share our thoughts."

Draupadi turned to them and said, "Never think less of yourself. You are part of this family now, Bhagini. Your wisdom holds weight."

Encouraged, Krodhini continued, "The truth is, righteousness does not lie in blindly following tradition. Why should time alter its validity if the division was once deemed necessary? Is Dharma so fickle that it shifts with convenience?"

Stambhinī added, her voice steady, "A ruler's foremost duty is to his people. You may hesitate to demand your share, but remember—your hesitation does not just affect you. It affects those who look to you for leadership. A kingdom is not merely land but the trust of its people. They will question your ability to lead if you do not act."

Silence followed their words, their weight sinking into the hearts of those present.

Draupadi looked at Yudhishthira and said, "The time for patience has passed, Arya. Now is the time for action."

The conversation lingered in the air, unspoken yet understood. The storm was brewing, and its first winds had begun to stir.