Kashi—where the Ganga flowed with the whispers of ages past, where the ghats bore witness to warriors sharpening their swords and poets weaving their verses into eternity. The city was a luminous jewel in Aryavarta's crown, its temples rising like flames against the sky, its streets alive with the ceaseless rhythm of commerce, prayer, and politics. But beneath the incense-laden air and the opulence of its palaces, Kashi was a land of power—where ambition was not merely harboured but wielded like a weapon.

Inside the grand palace, far from the moonlit ghats, Suyodhana rested in his chambers, surrounded by his brothers and Ashwatthama. The air was thick with strategy and laughter, with plans whispered over goblets of sura as loyalties were reaffirmed in the flickering torchlight. But the mirth stilled when the heavy doors parted.

Dhumavati entered with measured grace, her anklets barely whispering against the polished floor, yet her presence commanded attention. In her hands, an invitation—its golden seal unbroken, its purpose unmistakable.

Duhsasana was the first to speak, his tone laced with curiosity, "What is it, Bhabhishree?"

Dhumavati's gaze remained locked onto Suyodhana as she unfolded the parchment, "A Swayamvar invitation," she declared, her voice steady, "Rajkumari Durshrita of Kalinga seeks a husband." She took a step closer, tilting her head ever so slightly, "I told you, Arya—gather strong men around you. This is your chance. Go to Kalinga. Win her hand."

A brief silence followed, and then Chitrasena smirked, "Bhabhishree, you must be the only wife in Aryavarta urging her husband to take another."

The chamber erupted in laughter, but Dhumavati remained unmoved. She met their amusement with a quiet, knowing look before speaking again, her words deliberate, "I know my Arya's heart," she said, her voice laced with something more profound than mere confidence, "No matter whom he marries or how many wives he takes, his true obsession will never change. His desires are not bound to flesh and beauty." Her gaze flickered to Suyodhana, "His heart beats for power. For Hastinapur. For an empire that will bear his name."

Silence.

Ashwatthama's fingers curled over the hilt of his sword, a flicker of admiration crossing his face. The brothers, once amused, now regarded their Bhabhishree with newfound reverence.

Then, a slow, indulgent chuckle.

Suyodhana rose, his shadow stretching long in the dimly lit chamber, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. He stepped toward Dhumavati, unhurried, his presence towering. "Intriguing," he murmured, "Even after all these months, you remain an enigma to me, Dhumavati." His voice dropped lower, deliberate, "You are right. No queen will ever bind me. No wife will ever hold my soul." His lips curled into a smirk, "But you... you continue to surprise me."

Dhumavati's lips curved, a quiet triumph dancing in her eyes.

As the brothers admired their Brata and Bhabhishree, Suyodhana finally turned to the invitation, his fingers tracing the golden seal. The game of power had taken another turn, and Kalinga now stood on the board.

And in the heart of Kashi, the fire of ambition burned ever brighter.

The Swayamvar of Kalinga

The road to Kalinga stretched like an ancient serpent winding through the heart of Aryavarta, its soil steeped in history and blood. For Suyodhana and his kin, this journey was not merely one of distance—it was a return to a kingdom that had once whispered dark truths into their ears. A year had passed since they had first stepped into Kalinga's embrace, learning the Niti of ruthlessness, the art of bending fate with one's will. And now, they were back—not as students, but as contenders.

Kalinga stood like a fortress of unyielding grandeur; a kingdom forged not only in steel but in the blessings of Mahadev himself. Its towering walls bore carvings of ancient conquests, its banners billowing in the coastal winds like the tongues of Agni. The palace, an imposing black stone and gold structure, loomed over the city with an air of silent authority. At its heart lay the Swayamvar hall—an open-air pavilion where fate would be decided, not by might or skill, but by the will of a single woman.

The royal court gathered in ceremonial splendour as the sun dipped toward the horizon. At the centre of it all stood Maharaja Suvajara, a man whose presence was as formidable as the legends surrounding him. It was said that long ago, he had performed penance so severe that even the heavens trembled. Moved by his devotion, Mahadev had granted him a boon—no harm would ever come to him within the lands of Kalinga, nor would any enemy rise from within his bloodline. His reign would remain unchallenged, his lineage unbroken.

His queen, Rani Parnasa, stood by his side, a woman as fluid and untamed as the river she was named after. The ocean tides whispered of her divine origins, and it was said that her presence blessed the land with fertility and abundance. Their son, Rajkumar Śrutāydha, stood tall with his father, his eyes mirroring the unshakable resolve of their lineage. But tonight, their daughter, Rajkumari Durshrita, held the fate of many in her hands. Draped in silken robes the colour of twilight, Durshrita stepped forward, her gaze scanning the assembly of princes, warriors, and noblemen who had gathered to seek her hand.

The grand pavilion of the palace was filled with nobles, warriors, and kings, all waiting in anticipation. Among them stood Suyodhana, his presence commanding, his confidence unshaken. His wife, Dhumavati, stood beside him—serene and unreadable. His brothers and friend Ashwatthama flanked him, watching the event unfold with interest.

Then, the moment arrived.

Suvajara and his wife, Rani Parnasa, stepped forward, their regal presence silencing the court. The queen, her very essence tied to the river she was named after, moved with the grace of flowing water. A sacred flame burned between them as the king spoke, his voice deep and unwavering, "This is a Swayamvar of free will. My daughter shall choose her husband, and her choice shall be final."

A murmur rippled through the court, some nodding in approval, others exchanging wary glances. But Suyodhana? He smirked. A woman's choice? He had never been at the mercy of one.

Then, Rajkumari Durshrita stepped forward. She was draped in silk woven with gold, her eyes sharp and unreadable. She held the garland in her hands—the symbol of her decision. Her gaze moved over the assembled suitors. She walked past kings, princes, warriors—each one hopeful, each one holding their breath.

Then, she reached Suyodhana. For a moment, time-stretched. She held his gaze. Strong, unwavering. A flicker of something unreadable crossed her face. Then—she looked at Dhumavati.

And she walked past him. The hall fell into a stunned silence. Suyodhan's smirk faltered. She rejected him.

Ashwatthama stiffened beside him while Dusshasan inhaled sharply. The Kuru brothers exchanged looks, unsure whether to speak. Dhumavati, however, only smiled—a knowing, almost amused curve of her lips.

And then, Suyodhana chuckled. Low, dark, dangerous. Before anyone could react, he moved. In one swift motion, he seized Durshrita's wrist, stopping her in her tracks.

A gasp echoed through the court.

"You are mine, Durshrita. " His voice was calm, but it carried the weight of thunder before a storm: "No woman walks away from me."

Her eyes blazed with fury, "This is my Swayamvar! You have no right—"

"Right?" He pulled her closer, "I do not ask for what is already mine."

The Fall of the Kuru Princes

The moment Suyodhana seized Durshrita's wrist, Kalinga erupted into chaos. Warriors moved like a storm had descended, and the sharp ring of drawn steel filled the air.

Śrutāydha, Durshrita's brother, was the first to attack. His sword, wreathed in flickering golden light, sliced through the air toward Suyodhan's arm. But Duhsasana met him mid-strike, their weapons clashing with a deafening clang.

"Do you think we are helpless in foreign lands?" Duhsasana snarled, his grip tightening as he pushed back.

"You are in Kalinga," Śrutāydha growled, "And Kalinga is war."

At his signal, the Kalinga warriors surged forward; their battle cries drowning out the gasps of the gathered court.

The hundred Kaurava brothers drew their weapons without hesitation. Maces, swords, spears—steel flashed like lightning as they formed a defensive wall around their brother. The floor cracked under their footwork, the marble bathed in the flickering glow of torches and rage.

The first wave struck.

Kalinga warriors came in organized ranks, their spears seeking gaps between the Kuru brothers' defences. Duhsasana shattered one spear with his bare fist before caving a man's skull with his mace. Vikarna followed suit, his blade cutting down another who dared step too close.

But Kalinga was not alone. A deep, earth-shaking laughter echoed through the chamber.

And then—Jarāsandha stepped in. The King of Magadha, his very presence like a dark omen, walked through the fray with the calm of a man who had already seen his victory.

His eyes locked onto Suyodhana, "Your arrogance has cost you, Yuvraj of Hastinapur." His voice was ice, "And now, you will learn what humbling means."

Before Suyodhana could react, Jarāsandha moved. His massive gada (mace) tore through the air, aimed directly at Suyodhan's ribs. The Kuru crown prince barely managed to twist away, but the sheer force of the strike sent him crashing into a marble pillar, shattering it upon impact.

The battlefield tilted. Suyodhan's vision blurred. Blood dripped down his forehead. But the fire in his eyes remained, "Anujo—" His voice was sharp, dangerous, "Kill them all."

The Kauravas roared as one, unleashing their fury. Duhsasana mace crushed a warrior's ribcage, sending him flying. Chitrasena wielded a spear, impaling two men at once before tearing it free. Vikarna moved like a shadow, cutting down those who tried to flank them.

But Kalinga was vast. For every warrior they felled, three more took their place.

Then came the Astras.

A warrior raised his hands, invoking the Agneyastra, a spear of flame that twisted through the air toward Duhsasana. But Suyodhana intercepted it with his counter—Varun Astra, a wave of water swallowing the fire before they could touch his brother.

Jarāsandha smirked, "You have strength, but strength alone does not win wars."

With a single motion, he hurled his mace again, aiming at Dhumavati. Suyodhana moved faster than I thought. He threw himself before her, intercepting the blow, but the force sent him skidding back.

Blood dripped down his chin. His breath was ragged. But his grip on his mace only tightened, "You think you can break me?" he spat.

"No," Jarāsandha mused, lifting his weapon again, "I think I can shatter you."

And then—the tide shifted.

With Jarāsandha leading them, the Kalinga forces pressed in from all sides. Śrutāydha's blade slashed across Vikarna's shoulder, forcing him to his knees. A spear tore through one of the younger Kauravas, his cry of pain swallowed by the battle. Duhsasana staggered as three warriors grabbed him at once, pulling him down.

Suyodhana knew then—that this battle was lost, "Fall back!" he roared.

But there was no escape. The walls of Kalinga closed around them, its warriors unrelenting. One by one, the Kuru princes were subdued, their weapons torn from their hands, their strength overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

And Ashwatthama? He was gone. Suyodhana saw him—the son of Drona, slipping through the chaos, retreating into the shadows.

"You coward!" Suyodhana snarled.

But it was too late. Iron chains wrapped around his wrists, pulling him down. The last thing he saw before darkness took him—was Durshrita's unflinching gaze. He had tried to claim her. And now, she had claimed his defeat.

The Chains

The dungeon beneath Kalinga's palace was vast, a cold expanse of stone and iron meant to break the spirits of those who dared challenge its might. The air was thick with the scent of blood and dampness, the flickering torches casting elongated shadows against the walls. The hundred Kauravas lay scattered across the floor, their bodies battered, their pride wounded deeper than their flesh.

Yet, amidst the suffering, a lone figure moved—steady, unwavering.

Dhumavati.

Once regal, her saree bore the stains of battle and captivity. But her eyes burned with defiance, an unshaken strength that even chains could not bind. With hands steady despite exhaustion, she gathered water from the small stone trough in the cell, wetting the torn edges of her pallu before pressing it against Dusshasan's wounded forehead.

"Bhabhishree..." he murmured, his voice hoarse from pain, his gaze flickering with gratitude and shame.

"Quiet, Dusshasan," she chided gently, "Rest. The war is not yet over."

She moved through the brothers one by one, washing away the dried blood, wiping their faces, and tending to their bruises. The chains around their wrists clanked with each movement, a cruel reminder of their defeat.

But none of them saw chains when they looked at her. In the suffocating darkness of the prison, Dhumavati was light itself.

Even Suyodhana, his back against the cold wall, his breath heavy with the weight of his wounds, watched her in silence. There was pain in his eyes, but beyond the pain, there was something rarer—a quiet, aching reverence.

She was not just a wife. She was a warrior of the spirit, a queen of unshaken resolve.

And so, with effort, he spoke, "I, as your husband, give you a boon," he rasped, his voice carrying through the chamber. The brothers, despite their suffering, turned to listen.

"From this day forth, you will not be known as Dhumavati. That name does not suit you. You shine in this darkness like the sun itself. And so, you shall be known as... Bhanumati."

The name hung in the air, its weight settling deep in their hearts. Dhumavati—now Bhanumati—paused, her gaze locking onto Suyodhan's. Her lips trembled into a small smile for the first time since their capture.

"Suyodhanapriya Bhanumati," she whispered, testing the name on her tongue. It felt... right.

Then, without hesitation, she moved to his side and embraced him. He winced, but he did not pull away. His head rested against her shoulder for the briefest moment, the iron of his pride yielding to the warmth of her presence. She pressed a damp cloth to his wound, gently wiping away the dried blood.

"You will not fall, Arya," she murmured, "Not while I stand beside you."

A sharp voice broke the silence. "Brata... what of Rajkumari Durshrita?" It was Abhaya, one of the youngest Kauravas, his eyes narrowed in curiosity and exhaustion.

Suyodhana opened his eyes, his grip on his own pain tightening, "She will be mine," he declared, voice unwavering. A claim, a promise, a warning. But then, as if the weight of something far more critical settled upon him, he turned his gaze to Bhanumati. "However," he continued, his voice softer, "she will never take your place."

She smiled, not out of pride nor possession, but of something more profound—unshaken certainty.

The hundred Kauravas watched this exchange with quiet admiration. Their defeat had taken much, but this—this unshaken bond between their Brata and Bhabhishree—was something even chains could not break.

Throne of Restless Shadows

The golden pillars of Hastinapur's court stood tall, but the air within was thick with the taste of impending war.

Dritarashtra sat upon the great throne of the Kurus, his hands gripping the armrests as if the stone itself could offer him answers. His breathing was slow and controlled, yet the tension in his face betrayed the chaos inside.

Across the vast hall, Gandhari stood unmoving, her presence burning like a dying star. Her covered eyes—though blind—seemed to bore into the silence, demanding it to break.

Then it came.

"A hundred sons. Taken."

Her voice was quiet, yet it carried through the court like the first tremor of an earthquake.

"A hundred Kuru princes—my sons—thrown into the dungeons of Kalinga!"

Her fists clenched, her nails digging into her palms, but she did not falter, "And tell me, Maharaj," her voice hardened, dripping with something dangerously close to accusation, "What do you intend to do?"

Dritarashtra inhaled, his fingers curling into fists against the cold stone of the throne, "I am king, not a warrior," he murmured.

"And I am their Mata!" Gandhari's voice snapped like a whip, "Tell me, Arya, when have you ever been their king? When have you led them to wisdom? And now, when they need you most, you sit motionless while Jarāsandha and Suvajara tighten their noose!"

The courtiers froze at the storm raging within their queen. They had never seen her like this.

Dritarashtra exhaled sharply, "Do you think I do not feel their pain?" His voice, though not loud, rumbled like distant thunder, "Do you think my blindness shields me from my son's agony? I hear the chains in my dreams, Gandhari! But what am I to do? I am a king without an army mighty enough to fight them!"

Silence.

Then, Gandhari straightened, "There is an army," she said coldly, "And they are bound to you by blood."

Dritarashtra's expression darkened, "You mean the Pandavas."

"Who else?" Gandhari shot back, "Bhima alone wields the strength to crush Jarāsandha's ribs! Vasusena and Arjuna's arrows can pierce Kalinga's defences before their warriors even blink! They are the only ones who can bring our sons back!"

Dritarashtra was silent for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded, "Let's go to Pandu's palace."

By the time Dritarashtra and Gandhari arrived, the Pandavas were already waiting. The air was thick with expectation.

Vasusena surrounded by his brothers, his regal form untouched by the tension around him. But his eyes—his eyes were unreadable. Bhima stood beside him, his arms crossed over his massive chest. His muscles coiled like a storm waiting to be unleashed. His fingers twitched—ready for war, eager for blood. Arjuna leaned against a pillar, his bow slung over his shoulder. His gaze flickered between his parents' figures, burning with quiet fire.

The hall, though grand, was silent.

Then, Gandhari stepped forward, "My sons have been captured," she said.

Bhima scoffed, "Your sons," he repeated, voice thick with contempt, "They have always believed themselves to be above consequence. And now, Maharani, they learn otherwise."

Gandhari did not flinch, "I do not deny their mistakes," she said, voice even, "I do not ask for Suyodhan's pride to be saved. I ask for my sons' lives."

Bhima's jaw clenched, "Do they deserve it?"

A sharp silence fell.

Dritarashtra's hands tightened on his staff, "They are your Anujo, Bhima," he said, his voice heavy with an authority he rarely wielded.

Bhima let out a slow, dangerous chuckle, "Anujo?" he repeated, his lips curling, "Did Suyodhana remember that when he tried to abduct a woman against her will?"

The words hit the hall like a thunderclap.

Gandhari exhaled, slow and controlled, "I did not come here to argue morality, Bhima," she said, "I came here because blood calls to blood. I came here as a Mata."

The hall was deathly silent.

Yudhishthira exhaled, "Bhima," he said, his voice calm, measured.

Bhima turned, his eyes flashing.

"You would help them?" Yudhishthira studied his brother carefully. "I would ensure that our blood does not rot in a foreign prison," he said, "I would ensure that this kingdom does not let our Anujo be dragged through the streets of Kalinga like beggars."

Bhima's hands fisted at his sides. He wanted to refuse but tried to remind them that Suyodhana had never extended the same mercy. But in the depths of his rage, a voice whispered. And what of the others? The ninety-nine who did not make the choice?

The Unbreakable Vow

The room of Hastinapur stood heavy with silence, thick as an impending storm. Tension crackled in the air, a battlefield where words would cut sharper than swords.

Arjuna stepped forward, his jaw rigid, his voice like tempered steel, "On one condition, Tatshree."

A challenge. A demand.

Dritarashtra's grip on his staff tightened, his knuckles bone-white. He could sense the shift, the power slipping through his fingers, "Condition?" he asked, his voice slow, wary, "What condition?"

Arjuna did not hesitate, "Swear upon our lineage that when we bring your sons back alive, you will divide this kingdom—equally. No deceit. No treachery. A land rightfully shared between Pandavas and Kauravas."

The words slammed into the court like a war drum.

Dritarashtra's lips parted slightly, his breath measured, but all felt the weight of his hesitation. He was cornered. Hastinapur needed the Pandavas. "You dare bargain with my sons' lives?" His voice was edged with something dark—something close to anger, close to fear.

"Not a bargain. A reckoning," Nakula's voice rang through the chamber. His eyes, sharp as unsheathed daggers bore into Gandhari. "Prathamamba, answer me. If we were the ones rotting in Kalinga's dungeons, would your sons, would Tatshree lift even a finger for us?"

His words were not a question. They were an accusation. A naked, brutal truth. Gandhari flinched. But she did not refute it. She could not.

"Yet here we stand," Nakula continued, his voice devoid of mercy, "Despite their crimes, despite their hatred, we are still willing to fight for them. But we will not be fools. If we go to war for your sons, Maharaja, then let it not be for nothing."

Silence. Heavy. Crushing.

Then, Gandhari moved. She turned toward him. Vasusena. The one who stood at the crossroads of blood and duty. The eldest. The rightful heir. Her voice, for the first time, pleaded, "Vasu... please."

Vasusena held her gaze. But in his mind, the ghosts of the past whispered—echoes of injustice and treachery. He saw the smoldering ruins of Varnavat. He tasted the bitterness of exile. He remembered his brothers being treated as outcasts in their own land.

His heart was vast. But his mercy had limits, "Tell Tatshree to promise, Prathamamba," he said at last, his voice a blade hidden in velvet, "Then we will go."

Dritarashtra exhaled slowly. The weight of fate pressed upon him, heavier than his blindness, heavier than the throne he clung to, "Fine," he relented, "I promise."

A vow. But a weak one.

"Not like that, Tatshree." The voice cut through the hall like a scythe. All eyes turned.

Stambhinī.

She stepped forward, her presence searing, her voice crackling with unshaken resolve, "Take it as a vow that cannot be undone. If you break it and deceive us, let your hundred sons perish."

Gandhari's fury was swift, scorching, "Stambhinī!" she roared, "You show your true colors today—like a Suta!"

Her insult was a whip laced with venom. Fury ignited in the eyes of every Pandava. Bhima's fists curled. Arjuna's jaw tightened. Vasusena's gaze darkened. But Stambhinī did not flinch. She stood taller.

"No, Prathamamba," her voice was sharp as shattered glass, "I have only ensured the safety of my family. If that makes me a Suta, then so be it."

Her eyes blazed as she looked at the blind king, the mother who had shielded her sons no matter the cost, "We have seen the weight of your promises before. We have felt them break, seen them crumble beneath your love for your own. I will not let my family bleed for another empty oath."

A silence so thick it could strangle.

Gandhari turned—desperate now—to Kunti, "You tell your sons."

Kunti, who had watched all this unfold, finally spoke. Her voice was soft. But her words pierced like an arrow to the heart. "I'm sorry, Bhagini," she murmured, "But this time, my sons have learned well—from yours."

A brutal truth. One that could not be undone. Dritarashtra's fingers trembled. He could feel it now—his kingdom slipping, his power withering.

Without Bhishma. Without a strong army. Without the Pandavas...Hastinapur was nothing. A king must kneel when his kingdom is at stake.

At last, he exhaled. And then, he spoke the words that sealed his fate, "I vow upon my lineage that if my sons return alive, along with the Kuru Kulvadhu, I will divide the kingdom—equally—between my sons and the Pandavas. If I return on my word, let my hundred sons perish."

The vow rang through the hall like a war cry. Bhima let out a slow, dark chuckle. A predator tasting victory. He stepped forward, lips curling into a smirk, and said only three words— "Now, we go."

And with that, the Pandavas rose. The war had begun.

The War of Kalinga

The sun hung low, bleeding fire into the sky as six warriors descended upon Kalinga, their arrival heralded by the storm of war. The Pandavas had come—not as men but as destruction itself.

The city had been alive the night before—torches glowing, music resounding, the scent of spiced wine thick in the air. Now, the streets were drenched in blood, the cries of the dying drowning out the echoes of laughter that once was. The Kalinga army stood tall, unyielding. The battlefield was chaos.

Bhima's mace shattered bones, sending warriors flying like broken dolls. His roars thundered through the battlefield, shaking the very soul of his enemies. Arjuna's arrows rained like death's decree, piercing hearts before men could even scream. Vasusena, his arrows gleaming with the fury of a god betrayed, cut through warriors as though they were nothing but reeds in the wind. Nakula and Sahadeva moved like twin shadows, their swords carving through flesh and steel. Yudhishthira, silent yet unshaken, led the charge, his spear a beacon of finality.

Among them, Jarāsandha. The king of Magadha, unrelenting, unbowed. He was no ordinary warrior—he was a force unto himself. With every strike, he sent men sprawling. With every roar, he commanded the heavens to witness his wrath.

And then he met Bhima.

It was not a battle. It was a collision of titans. The war drums of Kalinga pounded like a heartbeat as their weapons clashed, each strike sending sparks into the sky. Jarāsandha fought with the rage of a man who believed himself invincible. But Bhima was rage itself.

Blow after blow. Bones cracked. The ground split beneath them. And then— A final strike. A roar that tore through the heavens. Jarāsandha fell. The mighty king staggered, blood spilling from his mouth, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His warriors looked at him, waiting for a command. But there was none. He ran. Jarāsandha—the unbreakable, the undefeatable—fled the battlefield.

Footsteps thundered through the stone corridors. The once-mighty prison now trembled with chaos. Chains rattled. The scent of sweat and fear choked the air.

Chitrasena fingers tightened around the rusted bars of his cell. "What's happening?" he demanded, his voice hoarse from days of captivity.

A soldier, bloodied and breathless, stumbled into view. His armor was dented, and his face twisted in terror. "The Pandavas—" he gasped, his chest heaving, "They have come."

Silence fell.

"They are only six, but they fight like Tridev themselves!" the soldier rasped, "Jarāsandha has fallen. He—he has fled! Rajkumar Bhima—he crushed him!"

A stunned whisper ran through the prisoners. The Pandavas... had come for them?

Suyodhan's breath stilled. His hands balled into fists. Saved by Bhima? A tremor of rage crawled up his spine. No. No. He would rather die. His hand found the hilt of his sword, unsheathing it with a sharp hiss. Better death than this humiliation.

But before he could move, a hand gripped his wrist, firm and unyielding. Bhanumati. Her eyes, dark and fierce, burned into his. "You will not," she said, her voice steady as steel.

He wrenched his hand away, "You expect me to live with this shame?"

She did not flinch, "I expect you to live, Arya."

His teeth clenched, "I would rather—"

"You would rather what?" she hissed, stepping closer, "Die like a coward? Throw away your throne, your vengeance, your very name because you cannot bear that your brothers came for you?" Her voice dropped to a whisper, laced with fury, "You would make their sacrifice meaningless?"

Suyodhana stared at her, his breath ragged, his rage warring with something more profound. And then, slowly, his grip on the sword loosened.

The Fall of Kalinga

The battlefield was drowning in screams. Once vast and endless, the sky was now suffocating under thick, black smoke. The stench of burning flesh clung to the air like an omen. Bodies lay twisted upon the earth, their blood sinking into the soil that had once been their home. And yet, the war did not end.

At the centre of this storm, two titans clashed. Bhima and Suvajra. The king of Kalinga, a warrior bathed in Mahadeva's blessings, stood tall—unshaken, unbreakable. His bloodied mace rested against his shoulder, his breath a growl of fury. His kingdom was in ruins, his people slaughtered, but his boon had never wavered.

No enemy could overthrow him on his land. He was invincible here. Or so he believed. Across from him, Bhima stood, blood dripping from his arms, his chest rising and falling like a beast unchained. His body bore wounds, but his soul burned with the hunger of a storm. He was not here for mercy, not for justice. He was here for destruction.

Suvajra's voice roared through the battlefield. "Do you think you can kill me, Rajkumar Bhima? My land is my armor; my boon is my shield! Your strength is nothing against Mahadeva's will!"

Bhima rolled his shoulders, his lips curling into a smirk. "Then let's see," he whispered, "if even Mahadeva's blessing can save you from me."

And then, they charged.

Mace met mace, the impact splitting the earth beneath them. The ground trembled as their blows shattered through the air, each strike like thunder ripping apart the sky. Soldiers paused mid-battle, their swords frozen, watching as the two warriors tore through the world.

Suvajra struck first, his mace swinging like the wrath of gods, aiming to crush Bhima's skull into dust. But Bhima was rage itself. He dodged, his movements sharp, relentless. His counterstrike sent Suvajra stumbling, the king's blood staining his golden armor.

The Kalinga warriors gasped. Their king had never faltered. Not once.

Until now.

Suvajra's teeth bared in rage. He lifted his mace high, calling upon his land to shield him, calling upon his boon to make him immortal. "You cannot kill me, Bhima!" he roared, "This land is mine—I am Kalinga!"

Bhima's eyes darkened. He looked at the ground beneath his feet. And then, he understood. A slow, menacing grin stretched across his face. He stepped back just enough to lure Suvajra forward. Just enough to lead him away from the blood-soaked soil of his land.

And then, in one swift motion, Bhima leapt. The river. They crashed into the waters of Kalinga. The moment Suvajra's body hit the current, Bhima struck. His mace came down like the judgment of Yama himself—one blow, then another. Bone shattered—flesh split. Blood exploded into the water, turning the river into a crimson grave.

Suvajra gasped, his arms trembling. His eyes, once filled with arrogance, now widened in horror. His mouth opened, a choked whisper escaping his lips. No enemy will overthrow you on your land. But this... this was water. Water belongs to no one.

Bhima leaned in, his voice a growl, "Your boon... was your curse."

And then, with one final, bone-crushing strike, Bhima ended him. Suvajra's body floated for a moment before sinking into the depths, the river swallowing him whole. The King of Kalinga was dead.

The war was over. But the bloodshed had only begun.

The Curse of Blood

The battlefield had fallen silent. Not because the war had ended but because death had spoken louder than steel.

The rivers of Kalinga ran red. Bodies, broken and lifeless, lay across the ruined land—warriors who had sworn to protect their kingdom were now nothing but echoes of their lost cause. The air, once filled with the clash of weapons, was now haunted by the wails of widows and the screams of mothers clutching their fallen sons. The kingdom that had stood defiant was now ash and ruin.

And at the centre of it all, she stood. Rajkumari Durshrita.

Her face was streaked with blood, though not her own. Her hands trembled, not in fear but in rage. Her father—her king—lay dead. The people she had sworn to protect were butchered. And the ones who stood before her, the so-called victors, were the very hands that had orchestrated this carnage.

And now, they had come for her, too.

Suyodhana stepped forward. The man who had once stood as an ally was now her conqueror. His voice was steady and merciless: "No man in Aryavarta will take your hand now. You have two choices, Rajkumari—be mine or die."

The words struck like a blade to the soul. A cruel demand veiled as mercy. She should have been afraid. She should have begged. But instead—she laughed—a broken, hollow sound carried across the battlefield, cutting through the eerie quiet.

And then, she turned. Not to Suyodhana. Not to the Pandavas. But to the skies, the gods who had abandoned her, and the land that had failed to protect her people.

Her voice, thick with agony, rose like thunder, "You all speak of Dharma? You who slaughtered my father in his land? You who burned my people, shattered my home? You speak of righteousness while bathing in the blood of the innocent?" Her breath shuddered, her entire body shaking, but her eyes burned.

She turned to Yudhishthira, her voice laced with anguish and a hint of defiance, "Tell me, Dharmaraj—was this truly Dharma? It was my Swayamvar, my choice, my decision. I had the right to reject, and I did. Suyodhana tried to abduct me, defying the sacred rules of the gathering. That was Adharma, and he faced the consequences. But why, oh why, did so many innocent people have to lose their lives? Is that what you call Dharma?"

Her words hung in the air, a poignant challenge to the very fabric of their society and the principles they held dear.

Yudhishthira, who had always held the burden of truth, did not look away. His jaw clenched, his fists tightened. And then, his voice—soft but unwavering—answered. "No." A pause. A silence heavier than the war itself. "This was not Dharma. This... was power."

Durshrita let out a sharp, breathless laugh—a sound of understanding and despair. She faced Suyodhana, her voice a whisper laced with venom. "You want me? Then take me. But know this, Kuru prince: my heart will never be yours, and my womb will give birth to your fear and death. "

And then—she cursed them.

"Hear me, Kurus! Just as Kalinga is bathed in the blood of its sons, so too shall Hastinapur drown in the screams of its children! As my father fell, so shall your fathers, sons, and grandsons! A woman's Swayamvar ruined Kalinga, and a woman's wrath shall burn your lineage to the ground! The day will come when the Kingdom of Hastinapur will be slick with the blood of its kin! Brother shall slay, brother! Sons shall be torn from their mothers! And you, Dhumavati..."

She turned to the queen, the woman who had once ruled beside Suyodhana with grace and steel.

"As I lost my Pitashree, so too shall you lose your children. You will hold their broken bodies in your hands, and you will remember this day, remember the blood you stood upon, remember that it was your husband who sealed this fate!"

She then turned, her burning gaze fixing upon Yudhishthira once more.

"And you, Dharmaraj Yudhishthira—may your hands be forever stained! You, who sought Dharma, shall be its greatest betrayer! You, who wished for righteousness, shall become its executioner! The war you began today shall not end with you—but with your brothers, with your sons, with your kingdom reduced to ruin! May the very throne you sit upon be your greatest curse! You will win everything, Yudhishthira—but you will lose more than any man in history."

Her voice cracked like lightning, her hands trembling as she pointed towards the heavens, "Let the gods be my witness! Let the winds carry my words across time! Let the earth remember—Hastinapur's throne is built on blood, and blood shall wash it away!"

The sky, dark and restless, split apart.

A crack of thunder roared above them as if the heavens had accepted her prophecy. The earth beneath trembled, shuddering at the weight of her words. A curse had been spoken. A doom had been written.

And yet, Suyodhana did not flinch. He stepped forward, his gaze locked onto hers, unyielding. And then, in a voice that sent chills down the spines of all who stood there, he whispered: "I don't believe in curses."

The battlefield stood frozen. Warriors who had once roared in battle now held their breath.

Suyodhana leaned in, his voice like steel. "I wanted you. I got you. Hate me if you must. But from this day forth, you are my wife."

He seized her hand with a grip like iron, and without another word, he walked away. And as he left, taking with him his new bride, the Pandavas, the Kauravas, the shattered remnants of Kalinga—all stood in stunned silence. A kingdom had fallen. A prophecy had been born. And the fate of Hastinapur had been sealed.

Echoes Through Ages

Shukracharya, standing atop the sacred ground of his meditation, lifted his gaze toward the sky. His celestial vision pierced through the veils of time and fate, unravelling the truth of what had just transpired. His lips curled into a knowing smirk—the cycle had come full circle.

Beside him, his disciple, a young Brahmin prodigy blessed with an insatiable thirst for knowledge, furrowed his brows in confusion, "Acharya, I do not understand. Rajkumari Durshrita is the reincarnation of Durukti, the second wife of Asura Kali. Then why does she stand here today, burning with vengeance, cursing the Kurus as if she were wronged?"

Shukracharya let out a deep, resonant chuckle—one laced with amusement and eerie finality. He turned to his student, his ageless eyes gleaming with the weight of unspoken truths, "Karma spares no one, child. Not man, not god, not demon. Even time bows to its decree."

He stepped forward, his fingers tracing the ancient symbols etched into his staff. His voice dipped into something more profound—something laced with the wisdom of aeons.

"Durukti... She was not just Asura Kali's wife. She was his sister. And the bond of a brother and sister is meant to be sacred, untainted, untouched by desire. But Asura Kali—drunk on his own power, blinded by arrogance—married his own blood. He defiled a bond that even the gods themselves dare not disturb."

The student gasped, realization striking like lightning.

Shukracharya nodded, his expression darkening, "Fate does not forget. Dharma does not forgive. And now, in the world of mortals, the ripples of his transgression have returned. In his human form, Asura Kali faces the consequence of what he once did."

He let out a slow breath, his gaze hardening as he turned toward the horizon—toward the bloodstained lands of Kuru.

"But I must admit, even I did not foresee this." His voice dropped to a murmur as if speaking aloud would summon unseen forces, "A woman's curse... it is not just a warning, nor a mere wish cast into the void. It is a force. And in moments like these—when rage is pure, when grief is unchained—it does not merely manifest...it annihilates."

For the first time in centuries, Shukracharya—the great teacher of the Asuras, the master of knowledge beyond realms—felt an unease creep into his being.

He turned to his disciple, his voice firm, absolute, "Perhaps it is wise that we remain distant from the Kuru lineage from now on. Until fate demands it, let us not entangle ourselves in their storm."

His disciple swallowed, nodding in silent agreement. And as the heavens roared above them, echoing the prophecy uttered in blood, Shukracharya took one last look at the battlefield of Kalinga and stepped away—not in fear, but in foresight.

Note: -

This chapter takes creative liberties while staying true to the essence of the original manuscripts.

Suyodhan's abduction of the Kalinga princess is rooted in the authentic texts. As described in the manuscripts, he went against her wishes and forcibly took her with Karna's aid. However, when Kalinga prepared for war, Karna withdrew, leaving Suyodhana to face the consequences alone.

The war that followed—when Bhima and the Pandavas arrived to rescue Suyodhana—is part of the original accounts.

The two creative liberties I have taken are:

The Kalinga princess's name—The texts only refer to her by her kingdom, never mentioning a personal name. I gave her an identity to deepen her presence in the narrative.

Her reincarnation as Durukti, the wife of Asura Kali—Just as Dhumavati is believed to be the reincarnation of Alakshmi, I envisioned that Asura Kali's second wife would also return to the mortal realm. However, upon learning of the bond they shared in past lives, I reshaped the story to reflect the consequences of karma unfolding across lifetimes.

While this chapter carries my interpretations, it remains grounded in the heart of the original Mahabharata's events and philosophy.