The next day, as dawn broke over the golden spires of Hastinapur, the Pandavas sat in their chambers, reading a letter sent by Bhishma. It bore the seal of the grandsire himself, an undeniable symbol of authority.

Vishwakarma, the divine architect, had agreed to build a kingdom in Khandavaprastha. Everything except the impenetrable Khandava forest had been cleared. It was time to construct something new—a land to call their own.

Aruni, beaming with hope, said, "Finally, things are falling into place. It would be wise for me to move ahead and prepare for your arrival."

Vasusena nodded, "Yuyutsu will accompany you, Kakishree. He will remain there until we join you."

Yuyutsu is always loyal and accepted without hesitation. But Nakula, his mind sharp with observation, interjected, "Are we speaking with Tatshree today? It has been months since Brata Suyodhana was married, and Jyeshta Vasusena has been managing the eastern territories from here. We must discuss the division before the Kauravas return and try to lay claim to Jyeshta's hard work."

Sahadeva, always the keen observer, nodded, "I agree with Nakula. We must speak with Tatshree. Brata Yuyutsu should be with us during the discussion before he departs with Kakashree."

Yuyutsu met Sahadeva's gaze and smiled. He understood why they wanted him there. The Mahadev in him understood far too well.

With their minds set, they went to Dritarashtra's royal chambers. Inside, the blind king sat with Gandhari and Sanjaya, deep in contemplation. Sanjaya, ever perceptive, noticed their arrival and murmured, "Maharaja, the Pandavas have arrived with their wives and Rajmata Kunti."

Dritarashtra straightened, "Let them in."

Sensing the weight in the air, Gandhari set aside her embroidery and stood beside her husband. She, too, knew what was to come.

Once inside, Vasusena stepped forward, his voice unwavering, "Tatshree, it is time we discuss the matter we left unresolved five years ago."

Dritarashtra stiffened. He had anticipated this moment but hoped it would never come. The truth was undeniable—Pandu's sons were excellent rulers. The past five years have proven that. Hastinapur flourished under their stewardship. Even the eastern provinces thrived under Vasusena's management; their wealth flowed into the capital. Dritarashtra had long accepted that his brother's sons were superior administrators. And yet, the thought of dividing the kingdom...

No. He would not allow it. With forced warmth, he smiled bitterly and said, "I do not think this is necessary, Putra. You are my Anuj Pandu's children. How can I let you go? Forget what happened five years ago. We have moved past it. We are all one family now. There will be no division."

The Pandavas exchanged glances. They understood his hesitation, but silence was not an option.

Arjuna, sharp as ever, stepped forward, "Then, Tatshree, are you willing to return Hastinapur to Jyeshta? He relinquished his right to the throne when your sons sought to burn us alive. If you wish for us to stay, shouldn't the kingdom be restored to him?"

Dritarashtra's grip tightened on his chair. A bitter smile ghosted his lips, "That is impossible, Arjuna. A king who forsakes his throne cannot reclaim it—unless he defeats the reigning monarch in battle. Vasusena has no interest in fighting me. Do you, Putra?"

Vasusena, ever composed, answered, "No, Tatshree. I do not."

Nakula, unwilling to let the conversation be derailed, spoke with measured sharpness, "Then why not give the throne to Brata Yudhishthira?"

Dritarashtra's grin widened, but it did not reach his eyes, "Putra Yudhishthira, is it Dharma to ask your Tatshree to forsake his throne for your ambition? Is it not Moha?"

Silence. The Pandavas knew Dritarashtra was playing with words, twisting Dharma to his advantage. They wanted to tell Yudhishthira not to answer. But, bound by truth, Yudhishthira replied with a heavy heart, "You are right, Tatshree."

Yuyutsu, who had watched the exchange unfold with quiet intensity, now stepped forward. His calm but cutting voice sliced through the tension, "With all due respect, Pitashree, is it not attachment that blinds one to justice? Is not Moha denying what is rightfully due simply because it serves one's interests?"

Dritarashtra tensed, "You speak as if I am unjust."

Yuyutsu did not waver, "A just king does not fear division, Maharaja. A just king does not cling to a throne when he knows his nephews have upheld Hastinapur's prosperity in his name. A just king does not wait for his son to return before making decisions for the kingdom."

Dritarashtra's lips pressed into a thin line, "You assume much, Yuyutsu."

Yuyutsu did not relent, "I assume nothing, Pitashree. I see. I see that this hesitation is not about family or unity. It is about power—and not yours—your son's. You will not divide the kingdom because you do not yet know what Yuvraj Suyodhana wants."

A sharp silence followed. Gandhari inhaled sharply. Kunti turned her gaze away. The Pandavas watched, each of them holding their breath.

Dritarashtra's hands clenched into fists. His voice was cold when he finally spoke, "You speak out of turn, Yuyutsu."

Yuyutsu held his ground, "Perhaps, Pitashree. But I do not speak falsely."

The air was thick with tension. Then, after what felt like an eternity, Dritarashtra exhaled heavily, "I will announce my decision when Suyodhana returns. Until then, this discussion is over."

A decision postponed was a decision denied. But Yuyutsu did not fight further. He had planted the seed. And that, for now, was enough. As the Pandavas left the chamber, their hearts were heavy, and their path uncertain. But one truth remained—Hastinapur could not be their home forever.

The time for waiting was over. The time to build had begun.

The Veil of Power and Desire

In Kashi, under the golden glow of oil lamps, Suyodhana reveled in the warmth of his newfound marital bliss with Dhumavati. She was fire and silk, sharp wit and whispers, a queen who carried herself with the regal authority of her lineage. But Suyodhan's ever-seeking and ambitious gaze was not content with just one crown. His eyes had already settled upon His wife's younger sister—Dhanumati.

The thought was not merely born of desire; it was strategy. To wed both sisters was to secure Kashi's unbreakable alliance. Two daughters of Kashi in Hastinapur meant the kingdom's unwavering loyalty, an iron link in the chain of his empire-to-be. And so, without hesitation, he sought the hand of Dhanumati from his father-in-law, King Subahu.

The old king hesitated. His hands trembled slightly as he gripped the royal staff, his eyes searching for the right words. "Jamata," he said, "let me speak to Dhanumati and hear her will before I give you my answer."

Suyodhana wished to command, to demand, to make the old man yield. But before his words could form, he felt a sharp gaze upon him. Dhumavati's eyes met his, unwavering, piercing through the mask of diplomacy he wore.

That night, when silence had settled upon the palace, Dhumavati approached him in their chamber. The flickering flames cast restless shadows on the walls as she stood before him, adorned in deep crimson, her presence both intoxicating and ominous.

"I know what you desire," she said, her voice a whisper edged with steel, "You seek to bind Kashi to you with unshakable chains. You wish to make my Madhyabhagini your wife."

Suyodhana did not deny it. Instead, he held her gaze, waiting for her to continue.

A slow smile curved on Dhumavati's lips—one that did not reach her eyes, "Do not."

His brows furrowed, "You think I should not strengthen my hold over Kashi? You, who are bound to me, would refuse me this advantage?"

Dhumavati's laughter was low, almost musical, but laced with something else—something cold, "I speak not from sentiment nor foolish notions of love. I speak from wisdom, Arya. You desire power, but power is not taken by weaving too many chains. A cage too tightly woven suffocates the one who builds it."

Suyodhana listened, intrigued but wary.

"Dhanumati is not like me," she continued, "She is soft-hearted, a flower waiting to be plucked. What use is a flower in a battlefield? What use is a woman who will weep and plead when you need steel? Kashi is yours, Arya. Pitashree has already bound himself to your will. You do not need another wife to hold him."

Suyodhana considered her words, "And what would you have me do instead?"

Dhumavati stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper, "Do not seek another wife. Seek a sharper sword, a deadlier ally. Win men, not women. Gather those who do not weep and do not hesitate to burn down a kingdom to see their enemies fall. Kashi is already yours. Instead, turn your gaze where true threats lie."

Suyodhana remained silent, absorbing her words. He had always known Dhumavati was different. She did not speak of virtue or righteousness, plead for fairness or kindness, or understand power as he did—not as a right but as a conquest.

After a long pause, he nodded, "Very well. I will not ask for Dhanumati for myself."

Dhumavati smiled, satisfied. She had planted the seed, and the fruit of her words had ripened. But the palace walls were not silent, nor were the winds that carried dread whispers. Someone else had heard the conversation—Dhanumati herself.

She had come to say no to her brother-in-law, to beg him to release her from the chains of politics and power. But now, she knew—if she stayed even a moment longer, fate would change, not for herself but for her land, people, and the blood in her veins.

And so, she ran.

She ran as if the very fires of Yama were chasing her as if the night itself were swallowing her whole. The palace corridors blurred past her, the golden torches illuminating her desperate flight. Her silken robes snagged on thorns; her anklets shattered as her feet found the cold stone of the palace courtyard. The guards saw the princess running, her hair wild, her breath ragged.

"Rajkumari Dhanumati is fleeing!" they cried their voices like alarms in the night. The message flew through the palace like wildfire, reaching the ears of King Subahu, who rose from his throne in alarm. But before he could act, another force had already set its hounds upon her—Suyodhan's men.

The Kaurava prince stood still, watching the chaos unfold, his mind as sharp as a blade. His dark eyes found his wife's, and Dhumavati met his gaze with an amused smirk.

"I told you already," she said, her voice a sweet poison, "My Bhagini is not one to be taken easily."

Suyodhan's face twisted in fury, but there was no time for anger. He turned to his brothers and barked, "Find her! Bring her back! Alive."

The Kauravas scattered into the night like wolves on the hunt.

The Chase Through the Forest

Dhanumati did not stop. The grand gates of Kashi loomed ahead, but she knew the city would not offer her refuge. Not now. Not when the walls whispered treachery when every corridor had ears that belonged to her enemies. So, she turned away from the kingdom of her birth and fled into the dark embrace of the forests beyond.

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and crushed leaves. The moon barely pierced the dense canopy above, but she did not stop. Her heartbeat was a war drum in her chest. Her breath was fire. And then—a voice. A presence.

"Rajkumari!"

She turned and saw him—Sudhanva, her Tatshree, her Pitashree's sworn ally, a warrior who had once tasted defeat at the hands of Arjuna. His eyes gleamed like embers in the dark. He did not ask why she ran. He did not need to.

"Get her!" he commanded, and behind him, half of Kashi's army surged forward like a tidal wave.

Dhanumati stumbled, the reality of her helplessness sinking into her bones. She had fled from one cage only to fall into another.

But fate was not done with her yet.

Before Sudhanva could reach her, another figure stepped into the moonlight—a man standing alone, tall as a pillar of iron. His gaze was unwavering, his presence a silent storm. He had come to the Ganga for peace, for solitude. But the gods had other plans.

Dhrishtadyumna, the prince of Panchala. His eyes met hers, and in that moment, she knew—this was her only hope.

"Help me," she gasped. "Please."

He did not ask why. He did not need to.

Sudhanva smirked, "Step aside, Panchala Rajkumar. This is not your concern."

Dhrishtadyumna did not move. His hand found the hilt of his sword, "When a woman seeks refuge, it becomes the concern of every warrior who holds honour in his heart."

Sudhanva laughed, drawing his blade, "Then you will die with honour."

And the war began.

Steel clashed against steel, the silence of the forest shattered by the symphony of war. Dhrishtadyumna fought like a force of nature, his blade carving a path through the soldiers of Kashi. Blood splattered the ground, the scent of iron thick in the air.

Dhanumati stood behind him, her breath caught in her throat, watching the man who had chosen to stand against an army for her sake.

Sudhanva snarled in frustration, "Fool! You cannot fight all of us alone!"

Dhrishtadyumna wiped the blood from his cheek and smirked, "Who said I am alone?"

And then, a war horn sounded from the shadows of the trees.

Panchala had come.

Chariots rumbled through the forest, warriors emerging from the dark like vengeful spirits. They had followed their prince, sensing battle in the air. The tides turned in an instant. The hunted became the hunters. Kashi's forces wavered.

Sudhanva roared in frustration, but he was no match for the prince of Panchala. In a final strike, Dhrishtadyumna's blade found its mark, and Sudhanva fell, his body crumpling into the mud and breathing to keep himself alive.

The remaining soldiers threw down their weapons. And just like that, half of Kashi was no longer Kashi's.

Dhrishtadyumna turned to Dhanumati, his expression unreadable, "You are safe now."

She looked at him, this man who had waged war for her, and for the first time in her life, she felt what it meant to be free. But the war was not over yet. Because Kashi would not forget. Because Suyodhana would not forgive.

A Union of Destiny

Dhrishtadyumna carried her into the healer's tent, his steps steady but his mind heavy with concern. He placed her gently on the cushions and sat beside her, watching as her face remained streaked with dried tears and sorrow.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice softer than usual and laced with genuine curiosity. Looking at you, I can tell you are of royal lineage. What brings you here, alone, at this hour?"

Dhanumati could not hold back any longer. A fresh wave of anguish washed over her, her sobs racking her fragile form. The sound of her pain unsettled him, making him shift uneasily. He was a warrior, trained to face death, but the suffering of a woman—especially one so broken—was something he had never learned how to battle.

Through gasps and shuddering breaths, she told him her story. When she was done, she lifted her eyes to him and scrutinized his expression, "And you, Rajkumar? Why are you here?"

Dhrishtadyumna exhaled, leaning back slightly, "My father, Maharaj Drupada, ordered me to visit the sacred Tirthas." A slight smirk tugged at his lips as he added, "I never expected that in the process, I would end up conquering half of Kashi."

There was a silence between them, a pause where reality settled in. Then, turning towards her, he asked, "What about you, Rajkumari? Do you have any place to go, or would you like me to escort you somewhere safe?"

Dhanumati lowered her gaze. Her fingers trembled as they clutched the fabric of her attire, "I have no one, Rajkumar Dhrishtadyumna," she whispered, her voice carrying the weight of isolation, "I cannot return home. Pitashree will never accept me now. If I do return... I will be forced to marry one of the Kauravas. That is a fate worse than death." She hesitated, glancing at him before continuing, "Can you take me to an ashram? At least there, I can live with dignity."

Dhrishtadyumna was taken aback. A princess choosing renunciation over royalty? It was rare but not unheard of. Aryavarta still remembered the tale of Princess Amba—her unyielding will and her suicide. He understood.

His voice softened, "What do you wish to do, Rajkumari? What are you good at?"

She blinked in surprise, "Why does that matter?"

"Because," he said, "your fate should not be mere survival. You should carve your path."

A flicker of something—perhaps hope—passed through her weary eyes, "Everyone thinks I am nothing more than a delicate flower waiting to wither. But I have spent my days lost in the pages of our library. I have studied economics, Rajkumar. If given a chance, I wish to become one of the greatest finance ministers of Aryavarta."

Dhrishtadyumna raised a brow, then smirked, "A finance minister?"

His mockery was like a blade slicing through her fragile courage. She stiffened, her wounded pride flaring. "Ah, so you too believe that a woman is incapable, Rajkumar?"

His chuckle was unexpected, light yet tinged with something more profound, "No. I am not that kind of man," he replied, shaking his head, "I know women's pain, especially when my sister is Draupadi." His voice faltered for a fraction of a second, his mind briefly touching upon another name he could not say aloud: Shikhandi.

He met her gaze with an intensity that was not in jest. "If you wish to be a finance minister, I will support you, Rajkumari. But there is a condition."

Her brows furrowed, "What condition?"

"You must marry me."

Dhanumati's breath caught in her throat. "Marriage?" She studied his face, searching for deception, but found none, "Are you serious, Rajkumar?"

Dhrishtadyumna's smirk vanished, replaced by solemnity, "No kingdom will appoint a woman as their finance minister. That is the truth of Aryavarta. And yet, that is your dream." He exhaled, "Because of you, unknowingly, I have conquered half of Kashi. That land now belongs to Panchala. As its princess, you hold great importance. I cannot simply let you leave unclaimed and unprotected."

He leaned forward slightly, his following words slow and deliberate: "If you can govern the half of Kashi that now belongs to Panchala and prove yourself capable of ruling under my father's reign, marriage will not be necessary. I will grant you your position, your freedom, your dream."

He rose, his presence commanding yet not unkind, "Think it over, Rajkumari. You have until tomorrow."

With that, he left the tent, instructing the guards to watch over her well. Yet, Dhrishtadyumna watched as Dhanumati sat motionless, her eyes unfocused, the weight of his words pressing upon her like a storm cloud ready to burst. The flickering lamps cast shifting shadows across her delicate yet resolute features. He knew that what he had offered was not an easy path, nor one that any princess of Aryavarta would have envisioned for herself. But he had seen the fire in her—one hidden beneath fear and uncertainty.

On the other side, Dhanumati's breath trembled. She could still hear the cries of battle, the clang of metal upon metal, and the sound of her heartbeat hammering in her chest as she ran for her life. Her Pitashree's face was filled with indecision. Her sister's chilling words. Suyodhan's unrelenting pursuit. And now, this man before her—Dhrishtadyumna, the warrior prince of Panchal, the brother of the legendary Draupadi—offering her a fate she had never foreseen.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to think clearly, "I must decide by morning," she whispered.

Her mind raced. Marriage? To a stranger? A man she had just met on the battlefield where her kin had been vanquished? The idea was absurd. And yet, the alternative—a life in an ashram, living in the shadows, forever a fugitive—was no better. Was this indeed her only path to reclaiming her agency? To prove that she was more than a pawn in the hands of men?

Sleep eluded her. She sat in the tent, her hands clenched into fists. Her nails dug into her palm, grounding her in reality. She had dreamt of power, of wielding the knowledge she had acquired in the royal libraries of Kashi. She had learned the intricate art of governance, taxation, and trade—not because it was expected of her, but because she had willed herself to be more than a mere ornament in a court full of men who believed women had no place in the matters of the state.

And now she was being given a chance. It was a brutal, unconventional chance, but a chance nonetheless. The sound of footsteps outside startled her. She turned swiftly, her pulse quickening. The flap of the tent shifted, revealing Dhrishtadyumna, his expression unreadable.

"You are awake," he noted, "I thought you might be."

She did not respond.

He stepped forward and folded his arms, "What frightens you more, Rajkumari? The thought of marriage? Or the thought of standing alone?"

Dhanumati met his gaze with a sharp intensity. "Neither," she said, her voice steady, "What frightens me is the possibility that I may never be given the chance to prove myself."

Dhrishtadyumna smirked, "Then you have already answered your dilemma."

She took a deep breath. "I do not want to be a queen for its sake, Rajkumar. I do not want to sit beside a throne and be reduced to an empty title."

"Then do not be." His voice was firm, "You think I offered marriage because I wished to possess you? No. I offered you a seat at the table. I offered you a means to ensure that the men of Aryavarta recognize your voice. Would they listen otherwise?"

Dhanumati considered his words. He was not wrong.

"If I refuse?" she challenged.

"Then you walk away, and the world will swallow you whole," he answered plainly, "You will be lost, Rajkumari. There will be no songs sung of you, no power in your grasp. You will be a shadow, and shadows do not rule."

Silence stretched between them.

As the first light of dawn crept into the sky, Dhanumati stepped out of the tent. Her back was straight, her gaze unwavering as she approached Dhrishtadyumna, who stood near his horse, speaking with his soldiers.

She stopped a few feet from him, "I accept."

The soldiers' murmurs ceased. Dhrishtadyumna turned to her, his expression mildly amused, but beneath it, respect gleamed in his eyes.

"You accept?" he repeated, "Which part?"

She lifted her chin, "I will marry you. But, I will rule the half of Kashi under Panchal's reign. And I will prove I am worthy of the power I seek."

A slow smirk spread across his lips, "Ah, quite a strategic way of accepting life. On that note, we have an accord, Rajkumari Dhanumati."

Dhrishtadyumna wasted no time. As soon as Dhanumati had given her answer, he sent word to his father, King Drupada, informing him of the developments—the conquest of half of Kashi, the princess's decision to rule under Panchala's reign, and the inevitable shift in Aryavarta's balance of power.

By the time the letter reached Kampilya, the news had already spread across the land. Kings, sages, and warriors whispered of the unprecedented event—a woman, not merely a queen, but a ruler in her own right, governing a significant territory without the usual bonds of marriage or alliance.

Shikhandi read his brother's words carefully, his heart swelling with pride. He turned to his father, King Drupada, who was deep in thought, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his throne.

"I am happy, Putra Shikhandi," Drupada finally said, his voice firm yet contemplative. Things are changing in Aryavarta. The laws of men are shifting, even if only slightly. I am glad that Dhrishtadyumna did not just fight for conquest but for dignity. And the choice he gave the princess—it is transformative. He did not bind her to a throne through marriage but through her will."

Shikhandi nodded, his eyes reflecting a rare softness, "When Amba threw herself into the pyre, she cried to Mahadev, demanding that he create a world where women would not be shackled by fate. And today, from my household, I see that change begin."

He exhaled, conviction hardening in his tone, "Pitashree, we must ride to Kashi soon. They must be wed. I know Rajkumari Dhanumati wishes to rule, but their bond will be sanctified if Dhrishtadyumna stays by her side for a few days. Mahadev will bless their union, and my brother will always support her when she needs it."

Drupada considered his words carefully before nodding, "You speak wisely, Putra." The word carried a reverence only Shikhandi could understand.

"I will send word to Draupadi as well. She must know of this; if she can, she should come with the Pandavas. This wedding must be a union of two souls and a statement to Aryavarta itself," With that, Drupada rose and walked towards the royal court, already preparing for the grand arrangements to come.

In the Shadows of Kashi

But while one kingdom rejoiced, another seethed.

Suyodhana stood amidst the wreckage of his chamber, his breath coming in ragged bursts of fury. Broken vases lay in shattered pieces across the marble floor, overturned furniture bore the weight of his wrath, and the walls bore cracks where his fists had landed.

His eyes burned with an anger that could consume empires, "Did you not say she was nothing but a delicate flower?" he hissed, turning sharply toward Dhumavati, "Did you not say she would wither without roots?"

His voice rose, raw and venomous, "Look at her now! Your bhagini has survived and taken what was meant to be mine! The other half of Kashi—my Kashi—now bows to Panchala. And do you know what that means?"

Dhumavati took a step back, her throat drying. She had seen him furious before, but never this livid.

Suyodhan's hands curled into fists, "Half of the Kashi will stand with the Pandavas. First Panchala, then Dwaraka, the Eastern Kingdoms... And though Anga is not yet theirs, Vasusena has won their hearts. And now—now—they have Kashi as well."

His fury became unbearable, erupting in a roar as he struck the palace walls with sheer force. The stone cracked, dust falling like ash. Servants scurried out of sight, their faces pale with fear.

Shakuni stepped forward, his usual smirk replaced with cautious calculation, "Suyodhana, control yourself."

"How can I?" Suyodhana spat. His voice was hoarse, his body trembling with rage, "The Pandavas win again! They counter every move we make. They claim every piece of land we desire. And now they do not even need to wield a sword—because they conquer through the hearts of men, while I—while we—are left behind!"

He exhaled sharply, his chest heaving. The fire in his heart refused to be extinguished. He would not let this stand. Through gritted teeth, he vowed, "This is not over."

The Threads of Destiny

Niyati stood on the ethereal plane, her eyes glimmering as she watched the events of Aryavarta unfold below her. The tides of time were shifting, and with them, the very foundations of dharma. A slow, knowing smile graced her lips—this was the change she had long foreseen, the one she had woven into the fabric of destiny itself.

As the mortal realm stirred with whispers of a woman ruling in Kashi, Niyati turned to the sage she had entrusted with the chronicles of time. Her voice was resolute, "Ved Vyasa," she commanded, "record this moment. Let the people of Kaliyug know that in Dvapara, women were rulers, warriors, and shapers of fate. Let not their stories be forgotten in the sands of time."

A voice, light yet brimming with divine mischief, interrupted her.

Seated nearby, Krishna leaned back, a pot of makhan in hand, his fingers gleaming with the rich butter as he indulged in his favourite delight. He looked at her, a playful twinkle in his eyes, "I must say, I am pleased with this turn of events," he mused between bites.

Niyati arched a brow, watching his antics, "Really? I thought you would launch into your grand discourse on time and karma again."

Krishna smirked, licking a trace of makhan from his fingers, "Oh, come now! I'm not as predictable as you assume me to be."

She folded her arms, her gaze unwavering.

"Alright, alright," he chuckled, raising a hand in surrender, "There are moments when I insist on the sanctity of fate. But this... this is beautiful, Niyati."

She exhaled softly, her smile deepening, "I did nothing, Brata. You know that. It was Amba who chose her path. I only reminded her to think beyond her agony to consider the future. And when she sought her boon from Mahadev, he granted it. The fire that burned in her has now lit the way for another.

Dhanumati was always meant to be the wife of Dhrishtadyumna. But she marries for the sake of her honour. Dhrishtadyumna may have won half of Kashi this time, but she willed herself to rule it. She chose to walk this path."

Krishna regarded her with the wisdom of countless ages reflected in his gaze. He set down his pot of butter and leaned forward, his expression soft yet piercing, "But it was you, Niyati, who planted the seed," he said, his voice quiet yet powerful, "People may not remember you, but I do. It was you who made Amba see beyond pain, just as it was you who stirred the thoughts of Dhanumati. She will not just rule but ignite a spark that will guide countless women for generations. She will be the dawn of a new age."

Niyati closed her eyes momentarily, letting his words settle into her soul, "I only hope," she whispered, "that Dhanumati weaves a narrative strong enough to uplift the women of her time and the ones yet to come."

Krishna smiled, his eyes holding the weight of time itself, "She will."

Note: -

The authentic manuscripts record Dhrishtadyumna's marriage to a princess, the cousin sister of Duryodhana's wife. He won her hand in battle by defeating Sudhanva.

In this retelling, I have taken the creative liberty to expand the narrative, portraying Dhanumati as one of Subahu's three daughters—the second sister in this version.

Historically, Dhanumati is mentioned only in passing, known merely as one of Dhrishtadyumna's wives, with little recorded about her. The only time she is referenced is upon the death of her son in the Kurukshetra war.

I have merged these two narratives to enrich her presence and give her a rightful place in the unfolding saga, weaving new depth into her character.

Her rule over half of Kashi (As per authentic scripts, Sudhanva rules other half of the Kashi) is not from an original addition but from my core idea that if Niyati exists to shape destiny, then change must manifest. From the beginning, one of the underlying thoughts has been ensuring that women are given their due respect. Thus, this storyline emerged as a natural extension of that vision.