The news of Kalinga Rajkumari's curse upon the entire Kuru lineage spread like wildfire, shaking the foundations of Aryavarta itself. The weight of her words echoed across kingdoms, unsettling even the gods who watched from above. The great Bhishma, along with Vidura, Aruni, and Yuyutsu, hastened back to Hastinapur, their faces grave, their hearts heavy with foreboding.

Dritarashtra and Gandhari sat in their chambers in the grand palace, surrounded by the royal family. An eerie silence loomed over them, thick with unspoken fears.

Then, like a dam breaking, Gandhari's anguish erupted, "Another curse, Tatshree?!" Her voice trembled with sorrow and frustration, "Why? Why are so many curses being cast upon us? Why is fate so merciless to our family? And now—now my son, Suyodhana, is to be wed to the very woman who has doomed us? A Rajkumari who has spat venom upon our lineage?"

With her fists clenched and her breathing ragged, she scowled, "She will never be the Kulvadhu of Kuru! She will not step foot in Hastinapur!"

A heavy sigh escaped Bhishma's lips. His weary eyes, shadowed by decades of turmoil, reflected his pain as he said, "Do not let despair consume you, Putri. It is easy to cast blame, but we must ask ourselves—who is truly at fault?"

"Tatshree..." Gandhari whispered, searching his face for answers, for solace, but finding only an unbearable truth.

Bhishma closed his eyes briefly as if gathering his thoughts, then continued with a sorrowful chuckle, "Across Prithvi and even in Swarga, my name is revered. I am hailed as the greatest warrior, the wisest of men... but tell me, Putri, does every woman of Aryavarta respect me?"

Gandhari's lips parted in stunned silence.

"They do not," Bhishma answered himself, "Many women whisper my name not in reverence, fear, or scorn. Because of me, Rajkumari Amba's tale became a warning, a curse passed from mother to daughter. 'If you remain unmarried, your fate shall be like Amba's,' they say. "And those daughters... choose to leap into their pyres rather than face such a fate."

His gaze shifted toward Krodhini and Stambhinī, who lowered their eyes, understanding the weight of his words.

"This is not their fault," Bhishma murmured, "It is mine. My hands were bound by duty, by oaths unbreakable. Do I regret my decisions? No. But sometimes, at night, I wish—just once—that Amba had another path."

The chamber was suffocating with emotion as Bhishma walked to Gandhari, taking her trembling hands on his own, "Suyodhana went to a Swayamvar, Putri. Tell me—you are the guardian of the women's council; do you not fight for a woman's right to choose her husband?"

Gandhari's breath hitched.

"Rajkumari Durshrita was within her right," Bhishma stated firmly, "She had rejected countless kings and princes before Suyodhana. Did they act as he did? Did they force her hand? No. Imagine, Putri—if it were you. If you had been abducted against your will, your honour dragged through the dust, would your family not fight for you? Would we not go to the ends of the earth to protect Duhsala if such a fate befell her?"

His voice deepened, grief woven within his words, "This war was unnecessary. It was Suyodhana who began this madness. Yet, I will not say the Pandavas are free of fault. They, too, could have sought a peaceful resolution, a middle ground. Instead, they wielded their weapons, drawing more blood upon a drenched battlefield. Today, I stand neither with your sons nor with the Pandavas. Today, my heart weeps only for the Rajkumari of Kalinga."

He tightened his grip on Gandhari's hands, "Putri, I know your pain. But listen to me—this girl has lost everything. Her father was slain, her kingdom in ruin, and her honour shattered. The only ones left are her Mata Parnasa and Brata Śrutāydha. If you reject and cast her aside, you do nothing but deepen the sins already committed. Instead, embrace her. Welcome her as your daughter, not your enemy."

A sudden, sharp laugh interrupted them.

"No," Dritarashtra's voice rumbled, his hands trembling in fury, "She will be thrown into the dungeons of Hastinapur and tortured! How dare she curse my son?! How dare she spit upon the Kuru name?! I will rip her apart myself!"

A thunderous roar silenced the chamber.

"DHITARASHTRA!" Bhishma's voice exploded, his wrath shaking the very walls of the palace. The air turned heavy, suffocating, as his presence burned like the midday sun.

The blind king flinched. His fists loosened.

Bhishma stormed toward him, his every step resounding with unrelenting authority, "Hold your tongue before you speak such filth again!" His voice was steel, unwavering, merciless, "If she deserves to be torn apart, tell me, what of Gandhari? Did she not give birth to your sons, who are a curse to our lineage? Should I have cast her into the flames, then? Should I have had her executed for the doom she has brought upon us?"

A stunned silence filled the air.

Dritarashtra paled.

"Speak, Putra," Bhishma hissed, "Should she, too, have been thrown into the dungeons? ANSWER ME!"

Tears slipped from Gandhari's blindfold as she gripped the edge of her saree. Kunti gasped, looking away in horror. The truth—brutal, unforgiving—hung over them like a guillotine.

Bhishma's tone darkened, "You blame Kalinga for your downfall. But our downfall began long before this. It began with your sins, your blindness—not of the eyes, but of the soul."

He turned to Kunti, disappointment clouding his gaze, "And you, Kunti. I expected better. You should have stopped this war before it began. You should have guided them toward peace. But I see why they acted as they did. They do not trust Dritarashtra's words. And why should they? His past actions have bred nothing but distrust and greed."

Bhishma stepped into the chamber's centre, his voice echoing like a prophecy, "This... this is our Sanchita karma. It has returned. And now, we shall all pay the price."

He turned to Krodhini, Stambhinī, and Draupadi, his gaze commanding, "I expect the three of you to welcome both Dhumavati, Rajkumari of Kashi, and Durshrita, Rajkumari of Kalinga, as the Kulvadhu of Kuru. I want all of Hastinapur to celebrate their marriage. The past must be buried. I will not repeat myself."

Gandhari's body shook with grief, and Kunti, unable to hold back any longer, stepped forward, her voice broken, "Bhagini... I feel your pain. I know now what it is to have one's sons cursed. My eldest... my Vasusena... was cursed because of his ignorance. And now my second... my Yudhishthira... is cursed because he placed family above Prajadharma and peace."

She reached for Gandhari, and the two women fell into each other's embrace, their sobs intertwining. The weight of their sorrow bore down upon them like the sky collapsing.

Dritarashtra sat frozen. For the first time, resentment did not fill his heart when he thought of the Pandavas. For the first time, he feared for them. If the Rajkumari's curse came to pass, no one from the Kuru lineage would be left.

Neither from his sons. Nor from his brother's.

Rejoicing Amidst Ruins

Hastinapur stood adorned like a celestial realm descending upon Prithvi, shimmering in gold and crimson, its streets alive with jubilance. The towering gates were wreathed with marigolds, the scent of fresh roses carried by the cool breeze that whispered through the grand city. The palace, majestic and unyielding, stood like a mother awaiting the return of her children. Draped in festive grandeur, Hastinapur pulsed with the breath of a thousand voices, cheering, singing, calling out to their princes who had returned victorious.

From her chariot, Dhumavati, now Bhanumati, gazed upon the spectacle before her. The ivory walls gleamed under the sun's embrace, and the banners of Hastinapur swayed as if rejoicing in their own right. But more than the city's splendour, the people struck her heart. Women adorned in their finest silks showered flower petals upon the path, and young children ran alongside the chariots, their laughter mingling with the reverberating drums that announced the homecoming of the sons of Hastinapur. Men, warriors and scholars alike bowed their heads in reverence, their eyes shining with admiration.

A strange warmth filled her. She had been known as the daughter of Kashi, but here she was being embraced as the daughter-in-law of the mighty Kuru lineage. Her name, once spoken with defiance, was now chanted with devotion. The turmoil of war and the bitter taste of captivity seemed a distant shadow. Was it truly possible that fate had woven this path for her? That she, once a princess of another land, had found her home in the heart of her once-enemies?

She turned her gaze to Suyodhana, who had not taken his eyes off her for even a moment. A soft blush painted her cheeks as he reached for her hand.

"Tell me, Bhanumati," he murmured, his voice thick with something more profound than mere affection, "when the sun sets upon this day, will you believe that your place is here? That this city, the people, this...man beside you is yours?"

Bhanumati smiled, though a tear stubbornly clung to her lashes. "How can I not?" she whispered, fingers tightening around his, "Hastinapur has claimed me not through war, not through vows alone, but through the love I see in your eyes. If you look at me like this, I will belong."

Suyodhana exhaled as if he had been holding his breath and brought her hand to his lips, "Then let the whole world know—you are mine, just as I am yours, beyond fate, beyond war, beyond curses."

But not all hearts were light that day.

Durshrita sat rigid in her chariot, her hands clenched in her lap. Her eyes, dark as a stormy sky, roamed the streets of Hastinapur, watching, observing. Laughter. Joy. Celebrations. How? How did they celebrate so quickly when a kingdom lay in ruins? When a father lay dead, a mother wailed in grief, and an entire land bled in silence?

How did these people move forward so quickly while Kalinga crumbled into dust?

The fragrance of flowers suffocated her. The echoes of music felt like war cries. Every cheer was a dagger to her soul. She was not welcomed—she was paraded. A prisoner dressed as a bride. A pawn in a fate she had not chosen.

'They cheer for their victory, not for me.'

Her grip tightened further. 'But I will not be forgotten. Their glory will not swallow me. I am Durshrita of Kalinga. And I will remind them what was lost.'

As the chariots rolled closer to the grand gates of Hastinapur, another voice broke the air. Strong. Steady. A voice of reason among the chaos of emotion.

Vasusena.

The eldest of the Pandavas, who had walked the path of fire and emerged unscathed, spoke with the wisdom of ages.

"Look at us," he said, his gaze sweeping over Pandavas and Kauravas alike, "We ride together, but our minds are divided. We return victorious, but the past shackles our hearts. The curse weighs upon us, an unrelenting storm on the horizon. And yet, what do we do? We celebrate. We mourn. We love. We despair. Is that not what it means to be human?"

His voice deepened, drawing them all into his words, "A curse is not the end. Nor is it merely the work of fate. It is a consequence—a result of actions or choices. If we cower beneath it, we are already defeated. But if we acknowledge, face, and rise above it, we will have rewritten our fates."

He turned to his brothers, then the Kauravas, "You who bear the pride of the Kuru lineage. Will you let a few words seal your destinies? Or will you rise, knowing that even fate must bow before those who dare to defy it?"

Silence followed. But it was not an empty silence. It was one heavy with thought, with contemplation. And then, one by one, heads lifted, spines straightened. A new resolve gleamed in their eyes.

As they reached the towering gates of Hastinapur, they saw Draupadi, Krodhini, Stambhinī, and the entire Kuru family waiting for them.

The moment had come. Not just to return home but to face all that lay ahead. For curses may haunt, but destinies are forged by the ones who dare to wield them.

As Suyodhana walked with both his wives toward the grand gates of Hastinapur, the golden domes reflected the sun's radiance and the scent of incense mixed with the fragrance of fresh marigolds. Yet, Bhanumati's attention was fixed elsewhere. She had heard of Panchal Rajkumari's fabled beauty, but seeing Draupadi in person unsettled her in ways she couldn't express. The woman stood poised and regal, her dark tresses cascading in waves like the sacred Ganga, her skin glistening with a golden hue under the sun's embrace. Her sharp, fiery eyes held the intensity of a storm ready to unleash its wrath. Her movement was deliberate, as though the wind bowed to her command.

Suyodhana, noticing his wife's silence, smirked, "Now, I'm jealous of Panchal Rajkumari."

Bhanumati turned to him sharply, masking the bitter turmoil rising within her. "She is beautiful," she admitted, though her voice was laced with something else—envy, perhaps. "But more than that, she carries herself with an arrogance that only someone with five husbands could afford."

Duhsasana, who stood behind her, chuckled, "Then you should see Rajkumari Niyati from Dwaraka. She is the epitome of beauty. No one can compare."

Bhanumati's smile faltered, her fingers instinctively tightening into fists. But before her insecurities could take root, Suyodhan's firm grasp encased her hand. His voice was resolute, his gaze unwavering, "You are my wife, Bhanumati. For me, you are the most beautiful. Why should the rest matter?"

A flicker of relief passed through her eyes, and she walked beside him, pushing aside the venomous thoughts threatening to consume her.

Meanwhile, Suyodhana turned toward Durshrita and, without warning, pulled her from the palanquin. Gasps echoed through the crowd. Bhishma's sharp glare bore into him as he sneered, "Is this how you treat a Kulvadhu, Suyodhana? Dragging her like she is a war trophy?"

Gandhari and Dritarashtra, unable to see their son's actions, were left to rely on the weight of Bhishma's disapproval. But they knew—if the curse was to be lifted, only Durshrita had the power to do so. They could not afford to alienate her further.

Gandhari immediately said calmly yet authoritatively, "Suyodhana, we are waiting. Come with both your wives."

At the palace entrance, Krodhini and Stambhinī stood with sacred lamps, ready to perform the aarti. But just as they were about to proceed, Bhanumati stepped forward, raising a hand to halt them, "I am a Kshatriya. I do not wish to be welcomed by a Suta."

A tense silence fell over the gathering. Eyes burned into her, some in anger, others in disbelief. Even Suyodhana, despite his love for her, couldn't help but question why suddenly she was so indifferent. But love had already shackled him to her, so he chose to smooth over the situation instead.

"It's fine," he said, glancing at Draupadi, "Panchal Rajkumari, why don't you do it?"

Draupadi's lips curled into a smile, but the sharpness in her eyes betrayed her true feelings. Without a word, she stepped forward, performing the aarti and tilak with the grace befitting her stature.

As she turned toward Durshrita, the Rajkumari of Kalinga stared at her, an unreadable expression in her gaze. But deep within, a single thought churned—how cruel fate was to women. How could one bear to be a wife to five men? Did she never feel lost? Did she never grieve the singular love she might have had?

And yet, despite those musings, Durshrita stepped forward and bent down, touching Draupadi, Krodhini and Stambhinī's feet in reverence. Gasps rippled through the gathering once more.

Draupadi took a step back, stunned. Krodhini and Stambhinī exchanged glances, equally bewildered. Durshrita's voice rang clear and firm. "Panchal Rajkumari is the wife of Panduputr Yudhishthira, the elder brother of Arya Suyodhana. That makes her my Bhabhishree. Taking her blessings is not dishonorable. Likewise, Jyeshta is married to these two, therefore, they too hold the same position as Draupadi Bhabhishree."

She turned to the assembled family, her gaze unwavering, "I do not judge people by their caste. To me, character is the only measure of worth. Without it, no matter how beautiful one may be, they remain ugly."

Silence reigned. The weight of her words settled upon all present, stirring thoughts that many dared not voice. Bhishma, however, chuckled—deep, amused, perhaps even approving.

"I have heard of Kalinga's pride and wisdom, but to witness it first-hand is something else," he said, stepping forward. His voice carried both warmth and regret, "Suyodhan's actions cannot be undone. And in their misguided response, the Pandavas have caused you unfathomable loss. I will not ask you to forgive immediately, nor will I expect you to call us family so soon. But I ask that you grant us a chance. I see clarity in your vision—you know how to discern right from wrong. Walk that path, even when the easy one tempts you."

Durshrita stared at him, momentarily stunned by his words. To hear such humility from a man of his stature—one who had once shaped the fate of kingdoms—was unexpected. After a moment, she nodded silently.

Gandhari stepped forward and placed a hand on both her daughters-in-law's heads, "Come, let me show you your chambers."

As the grand gates of Hastinapur closed behind them, it was clear that the city had welcomed its new daughters. Yet, beneath the surface, the wounds of war, betrayal, and curses still festered. This was only the beginning.

Between Duty and Despair

The chamber was dimly lit, the flickering oil lamps casting restless shadows across the walls. Yudhishthira sat motionless, his head bowed, his shoulders burdened with an invisible weight. The words of the Kalinga princess echoed in his mind, each syllable cutting through his soul like a merciless blade. "You, who sought Dharma, shall be its greatest betrayer! You, who wished for righteousness, shall become its executioner!"

The prophecy had not just wounded his heart; it had uprooted the very foundation upon which he stood. For what was he without Dharma? A king without his kingdom? A warrior without his sword? A man without his soul?

Draupadi stood by the door, her gaze locked onto him. She had watched her husband bear many burdens, seen him falter beneath the weight of responsibility, but never had she seen him this—broken. The fire in his eyes, which had burned steady even in the face of injustice, was flickering. And that, more than anything, made her blood run cold.

She stepped forward, the rustle of her silks breaking the silence, "Are you going to sit there like a man defeated, Arya?" Her voice was sharp and unwavering, "Is this the man who carries the bloodline of Shantanu? The one whose name is synonymous with Dharma?"

Yudhishthira flinched but did not raise his head.

Draupadi's fists clenched. Anger surged through her—not at him, but at the cruelty of fate. She moved closer, kneeling before him, forcing him to look at her. "Look at me, Aryaputr," she demanded, her voice thick with emotion, "Look into my eyes and tell me you have accepted this curse as your truth."

His breath was ragged, his throat dry. "What else am I to do, Panchali?" he whispered. "The gods themselves seem to have forsaken me. The very path I have walked with devotion has been turned against me. I wanted to uphold Dharma, yet my actions paved the way for destruction. The curse... it is just."

A sharp crack rang through the air. Draupadi's palm had met his cheek with such force that even the lamps trembled in their stands.

"You speak of justice?" she seethed, her body trembling. "Do you think curses hold power over the righteous? Dharma is not so weak that a mere curse can shake it! Or do you believe your righteousness has been a lie?"

Yudhishthira's fingers ghosted over his burning cheek, his eyes wide with shock. But Draupadi was not done.

"You call this a curse, but tell me, my lord—when has fate ever been kind? You believe destiny binds us, but does it bind our choices? Fate may have placed a crown upon your head, but did it force you to bow before its weight? Fate may have made me the wife of five men, but did it command me to love, endure, and hold my family together? You speak of Dharma as a path laid out in gold before you—but Dharma is forged, Arya, not given. You decide whether to bear this curse or break it."

Yudhishthira closed his eyes, his heart tightening. He could hear the anguish in her voice, the unspoken wounds she carried, the battles she had fought in silence.

Draupadi took his hands in hers, her grip unyielding. "You think this curse will be your undoing? Then listen to me carefully, Arya," she whispered, her voice a mixture of steel and fire, "Curses do not shape kings. Will does. Resolve does. Dharma does. And you are not a man who bends to fate. You are the man who defies it."

Tears burned in Yudhishthira's eyes, "But what if I truly falter? What if I become the very thing she cursed me to be?"

Draupadi leaned in, her forehead pressing against his, their breaths mingling, "Then I will remind you of who you are. Every day, if I must. If your hands are stained, I will hold them until you remember their purpose. If you are lost, I will bring you back. Because you are not just Yudhishthira, son of Pandu. You are the beacon of Dharma. And I will not let you forget it."

A shuddering breath left Yudhishthira's lips. The weight of the curse still hung over him, but it was no longer suffocating. The fire in Draupadi's eyes reignited something within him—a flicker of resolve, a whisper of defiance.

He pressed her hands to his forehead, his voice hoarse but steady, "You are my strength, Panchali."

"And you are mine," she replied fiercely, "We do not break, Arya. We rise."

For the first time since the curse was uttered, Yudhishthira felt something other than despair. He felt the beginnings of a storm that would rage against the tides of fate. And in its eye stood Draupadi—unshaken, unbreakable.

And so, he straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin, his heart still heavy but no longer crumbling. Because she was right. Dharma did not bow. Neither would he.

A Kingdom Torn in Two

The tension in the chamber was thick enough to suffocate. The great halls of Hastinapur, where kings and sages had once spoken words that shaped empires, now trembled under the weight of an impending division.

Suyodhan's fists clenched as he stared at his father, his voice laced with fury. "What?" he spat. "How could you do this to us? How could you take such a vow?" His piercing eyes bore into Dritarashtra, searching for some flicker of hesitation, some sign that the king could be swayed.

Dritarashtra, helpless yet firm, turned toward his son. "Then tell me, Putra, what can I do? We do not have Tatshree with us. Even if we did, do you believe he would stand with you? No—Bhishma is a slave to Dharma, not to Hastinapur's throne. If I refuse the Pandavas their due or deny them their birthright, tell me, who will stand against them? If I send Hastinapur's army, who will lead them?" He took a slow step forward, his voice weary yet resolute. "The truth remains, Suyodhana—whatever you feel about them, I cannot deny that Hastinapur stands tall today because of Bhishma's sacrifices, because of the Digvijaya Pandu undertook, and because of the victories Arjuna and Bhima have secured. The land they conquered, the riches they amassed—they have a rightful claim over them. If we do not acknowledge this, our ancestors will turn against us."

"No! Not possible, Pitashree!" Dusshasan's voice boomed across the hall. His hands curled into fists, his face flushed with anger. "If we give them what they won and return the wealth they brought to Hastinapur, what will be left for us? You must refuse!"

Dritarashtra's face twisted in sorrow. "I cannot. If I deny them and attempt deceit, the curse shall take its course—you, my sons will perish."

The chamber fell silent—the weight of those words pressed upon the Kauravas like a noose tightening around their throats.

"Maharaja," a voice rang out. It was measured and smooth-coiled with the venom of strategy.

Everyone turned. Shakuni had entered, his robes still bearing the dust of his long journey from Gandara. His dark eyes glimmered with an unreadable expression as he stepped forward.

"Shakuni," Dritarashtra exhaled, relief washing over his features. He embraced his brother-in-law, gripping his shoulders. "Tell us what we should do. The curse will doom my sons if I do not divide the kingdom. My sons will never forgive me if I give them what they ask."

Shakuni pulled back slightly, his lips curling into a calculating smile. "There is always a way, Maharaja. A way to follow Dharma without surrendering to it."

Suyodhan's eyes narrowed. "Tell us, Mamashree. Do not make us wait."

A slow, deliberate pause. Shakuni glanced at each of them—the enraged Suyodhana, the desperate Dritarashtra, the impatient Duhsasana—before speaking.

"Very well," he said, almost playful, "You must give them land, as Dharma demands. But who said you must give them the land of prosperity? Who said it must be the land of value? You will not deny them their share—you will give them a share that suits them."

A flicker of understanding lit up in Suyodhan's eyes. "You mean..."

"Yes," Shakuni's smirk deepened. "Khandavaprastha. The barren, forsaken land where even the wind refuses to stay." He stepped forward, weaving his words like an enchantment. "A cursed land, stripped of its glory, where no empire can flourish. Let them take it; let them call it their kingdom. They will not defy Dharma—but they will rule over ashes."

Sama, a Kaurava, says, "But the land was given to Kakashree Vidur."

Shakuni's smirk faltered for a brief moment, his mind calculating the new variables. "Khandavaprastha belongs to Vidura?" he echoed, stroking his beard. "That complicates things... but not by much."

Durmukha nodded. "Yes, Jyeshta Vasusena granted it to him long ago, declaring it free from Hastinapur's rule. Vidura Kakashree was meant to govern it independently." He paused, his brows furrowing, "Yet, our spies tell us that he and Pitamah Bhishma have done little with it—merely some homes, a handful of soldiers. Nothing more."

"I saw it with my own eyes," Durmukha continued, "Pitamah, true to his word, has not even lifted a weapon. They live in solitude as if waiting for time to swallow them."

Sulochana, listening keenly, added, "It is true, Mamashree. Khandavaprastha is vast—a far bigger land than Hastinapur, but mostly forest and wasteland. Small villages dot the outskirts, but the heart of it remains untamed wilderness. If not for Kakashree Vidura's claim, it would be ideal to give away, appearing as if we grant something grand, yet knowing it is nothing but a burden."

Shakuni's smirk faltered for a moment as Sulochana and Durmukha spoke, but only long enough for his mind to twist the game in a new direction. He let out a slow breath, his fingers drumming lightly against his staff. The game had changed, but that did not mean he had lost control. No, this only gave him another opening he could mold to his will.

"So," he murmured, voice rich with amusement, "Khandavaprastha belongs to Vidura? Declared outside the claim of any Hastinapur king by Vasusena himself?" He chuckled, shaking his head as if entertained by its very irony, "How poetic. And how... convenient."

Suyodhana frowned, "Convenient? Mamashree, that land is already given away."

Shakuni turned, his expression now one of patience, "Ah, Priya Svasr (Son of the sister - Sanskrit), that is exactly what makes it useful to us. Tell me, what was Vasusena's decree? That no king of Hastinapur may lay claim to Khandavaprastha?"

Durmukha nodded cautiously, "Yes."

Shakuni's smirk deepened. "And yet... the Pandavas are not kings of Hastinapur, are they?"

The chamber fell into a heavy silence. The realization dawned like the first sliver of light at dawn.

Sulochana was the first to understand. "You mean...?"

Shakuni turned to Dritarashtra, "Maharaja, you are not dividing Hastinapur. You are not giving away the land of your ancestors. You are merely formalizing what already exists! Khandavaprastha belongs to Vidura. So, we are not truly giving the Pandavas anything of Hastinapur's inheritance. We are merely letting them govern what is already outside our rule."

Dritarashtra's lips parted slightly, "You mean to say..."

Shakuni nodded, stepping closer, "You will summon Vidura and remind him that he is its rightful lord. And then, out of his great wisdom and kindness, he will be asked to allow his beloved nephews to govern it under his name. The Pandavas will not be kings of their land—they will be caretakers of a wasteland, bound to Vidura's goodwill."

Duhsasana exhaled sharply, "And if he refuses?"

"He won't," Shakuni said smoothly, "Vidura, for all his wisdom, is bound by his love for them. If he refuses, it will seem as though he is selfishly clinging to barren land while his nephews are left without a throne. He keeps his claim if he agrees, but they take on the burden."

Suyodhan's lips curled into a slow smile, "And Hastinapur remains whole."

Shakuni's voice was thick with triumph, "Exactly. You lose nothing. They gain nothing. And yet, the world will sing praises of your generosity."

Sulochana grinned, "A kingdom that is not truly theirs. A throne that holds no real power."

Shakuni turned back to the table, tracing his fingers over the map, "And we do not stop there. We will send word to the villages surrounding Khandavaprastha, inviting them to move to Hastinapur. We will clarify that under your rule, they will find protection, prosperity, and safety. They will leave willingly."

Suyodhan's smirk widened, "So, when the Pandavas arrive..."

"...they will find themselves ruling over emptiness," Shakuni finished.

Durmukha, still cautious, added, "But the land, even barren, is vast. They may cultivate it over time."

Shakuni chuckled. "Let them try." His eyes gleamed with a darker thought. "The Khandava forest is not as empty as it seems. The Nagas dwell there—ancient, proud, and ruthless. We will send whispers to them, warning them that the Pandavas come as conquerors. That their land, their homes, are under threat."

Duhsasana grinned, "You want the Nagas to fight them?"

Shakuni's voice was a silken whisper, "Not just fight. Destroy. Let the Pandavas enter their 'kingdom' only to find a war awaiting them."

A slow, victorious silence filled the chamber.

Dritarashtra let out a long, weary breath, "You twist even fate, Shakuni."

Shakuni smiled, "I only guide it, Maharaja."

Suyodhan clenched his hands into fists. Slowly, he exhaled, a cruel grin spreading across his face. "Let it be Khandavaprastha, then." His voice was filled with quiet satisfaction. Let them have their illusion of a kingdom. Let them fight for every breath."

Dritarashtra hesitated, then finally nodded, "The decision is made."

And thus, a throne was granted—not as a gift but as a curse waiting to unfold.