The early rays of dawn painted the sky in hues of gold and crimson as Vasusena completed his Surya Puja, his prayers merging with the gentle hum of the awakening world. As he stepped into his chambers, his gaze flickered across the grand yet methodically arranged space—divided into three distinct sections. One held his personal belongings, a place of solitude where his thoughts and strategies took shape. The second was dedicated to Krodhini, and the third to Stambhinī, both spaces reflecting their unique personalities.

However, this morning, his usually calm sanctuary was anything but quiet. Bhishma, Vidura, Aruni, Yuyutsu, Mata, wives, brothers, and Draupadi were gathered there.

"Anything serious?" Vasusena asked, his tone steady as he took in the unusual assembly.

Vidura sighed deeply, "I received word from my spies that Brata has decided to grant Khandavaprastha to you all. He intends to announce it at the royal court."

"That's it?" Vasusena replied with a flicker of amusement.

"Jyeshta, that's cheating!" Bhima snapped, his frustration evident. Nakula nodded in fierce agreement.

"If Tatshree breaks his vow, then his sons will perish. Why are you so troubled?" Vasusena asked, his voice calm.

Bhishma frowned. "Putra?" The change in Vasusena's demeanor puzzled him. The benevolent, just man spoke with a detachment that none could digest.

Vasusena sighed, shaking his head, "I am not surprised because I always knew we would receive Khandavaprastha. When Guru Parashurama told me to build my kingdom and Niyati suggested Khandavaprastha, I did not question them. I accepted it because, deep within, I believed it to be our destiny. Until today, have we ever spoken of any land other than this? No. Even now, because of Pitamah, Dev Vishwakarma will construct a grand kingdom for us there. What more do we need?"

"But—" Arjuna started, only to be stopped by Yudhishthira.

"Let us not be greedy, Arjuna," Yudhishthira said, his voice firm, "We have seen what greed leads to. And why should we despair? Are we not the ones who will shape Khandavaprastha into the kingdom of our dreams? As Yuyutsu once said, though this seems like a loss, it is a path we have long been prepared for. Then why should we reject it?"

"We thought we would receive what we won, Brata," Nakula said, his disappointment evident, "The lands Brata Bhima and Brata Arjuna conquered during their Digvijaya. The riches our father won."

Yudhishthira met his younger brothers' eyes and spoke with quiet conviction, "If Tatshree was truly just, would we even be at the division stage? The truth is, if we were given those lands, Hastinapur would lose its wealth. That is why they will not share them with us. It is fine. Let us rise from what is bestowed upon us, for that is something no one can take away."

Bhishma stepped forward, "Do not worry. We have manipulated the Kauravas' spies into believing we live a life of simplicity. But we have planned far more. The moment we step into Khandavaprastha, everything will change for the better."

Vidura, however, remained concerned, "It is not just about the land. They intend to turn the smaller villages around Khandavaprastha against you. They want the Nagas to rise against us."

"That will not happen, Kakashree. No one will choose Hastinapur after learning that Khandavaprastha is to be ruled by the Pandavas. As for the Nagas... do not worry. There is one person they will listen to." Yuyutsu's voice held quiet confidence.

"Who?" Krodhini asked.

"Niyati, Bhabhishree. She is coming. She should arrive soon."

"What?!" The entire room erupted in shock. Krodhini and Stambhinī, who had only ever heard about Niyati but never met her, exchanged wide-eyed glances before jumping from their places.

"You are saying this now?!" Draupadi stormed towards Yuyutsu, her eyes narrowing. "Brata, you should have told us first!"

Yuyutsu rubbed the back of his head, "I only learned of its last night... during meditation."

Krodhini frowned, "Last night? Meditation?"

Stambhinī crossed her arms, "Since when does meditation involve knowing someone is travelling?"

Nakula chuckled, "It's divine telepathy, Bhabhishree. A secret only Brata Yuyutsu, Brata Shri Krishna, and Niyati seem to understand."

Bhima smirked, "More like a conspiracy."

Arjuna sighed dramatically, "As always, Madhava and Niyati are ahead of us."

Krodhini looked utterly lost, "Wait, wait. Who is this Niyati? Why does everyone talk about her as a celestial being?"

Draupadi turned to her sisters-in-law, eyes gleaming with mischief, "Oh, you two are in for quite the experience. Niyati is..." she paused as if searching for the right words, "unpredictable."

"Unpredictable?" Stambhinī asked, raising an eyebrow.

Nakula laughed, "No, Bhabhi. She is chaos itself."

Yuyutsu sighed, shaking his head, "She will be here soon. You can ask her yourself."

Bhima groaned, "This means trouble."

"Not trouble," Sahadeva corrected with a grin, "Just... unpredictable consequences."

The Return

The air in the chamber pulsed with an unseen force, thick with anticipation's echoes. Conversations had stilled, laughter frozen mid-breath as if time itself hesitated in reverence. And then, light yet deliberate footsteps resounded through the vast hall, each one carrying an unspoken promise.

She stood at the threshold, draped in an aura of effortless command, as though she had stepped out of myth rather than memory. The golden fabric of her garment shimmered like liquid fire, and her eyes—dark pools laced with mischief—swept over them with an intimacy that unravelled years of absence in an instant.

"What is that I'm hearing?" she drawled, her voice a melody laced with quiet amusement. "Chaos? Unpredictability? Have you all forsaken the wisdom of Dharma so easily? Tell me, Brata Yudhishthira, is it not Adharma to whisper behind one's back?"

Silence. A breath held too long.

And then—

The dam broke.

"Niyati!"

Arjuna moved first, all warrior's restraint forgotten. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, his arms caging her in a fierce embrace, his breath uneven. "Five years, Niyati! Five years, and not a single word! Do you have any idea how much we—"

Before he could finish, Bhima had already seized her, lifting her effortlessly as he spun her in the air like she was still the mischievous child. His laughter was rough-edged, thick with unspoken emotions. "You vanish like mist, and now you reappear, expecting us to act as if nothing has changed? No, little sister, you owe us more than mere words!"

No sooner had Bhima set her down than Nakula and Sahadeva descended upon her, voices colliding in urgency.

"We thought you had wandered into some unknown realm—"

"Did you ever once think about us? Or were we mere shadows left behind?"

Yudhishthira alone held his silence, watching her with the patience of one who understood the weight of returns and departures. When the flurry of hands and voices finally settled, he stepped forward, his touch light as he placed his palm upon her head. His words were always measured but carried the warmth of an entire world wrapped within them, "You have returned, Niyati. That is all that matters."

A voice edged with quiet amusement cut through the moment, "And here I thought I would be the only one waiting for her."

Yuyutsu stood to the side, arms crossed, his smirk betraying the depth of his emotions, "Look at them, utterly undone. If I had known you would cause such a spectacle, I would have demanded a grander welcome."

A soft chuckle echoed from the other side of the chamber. Draupadi stood beside Krodhini and Stambhinī, her gaze gentle, "I have seen my husband's stand unshaken before kings, gods, and fate. But never have I seen them as unguarded as they are before you, Niyati."

Krodhini and Stambhinī, however, remained frozen, eyes locked onto the figure before them as if she were a celestial vision made flesh.

"She is unlike anything I have ever seen," Krodhini murmured, her voice hushed, "Divinity woven into mortal form."

Stambhinī nodded absently, her breath shallow, "Are we certain she is human? Or has a goddess chosen to walk among us?"

But before their whispers could vanish into secrecy, "Ah, Jyeshta's wives have sharp tongues."

Niyati turned her gaze upon them, her amusement unmistakable, "Good. My Jyeshta has always needed someone to keep him in check."

Krodhini and Stambhinī startled, their eyes widening in disbelief, "H-how did you—"

Stambhinī clutched Krodhini's arm, "Did she just—hear us?"

Niyati laughed, a rich, unrestrained sound that carried through the chamber like the first drops of rain on parched earth, "Nothing escapes my ears. Do not be so alarmed." She stepped closer, her gaze warm yet unwavering. "You must be my dear Jyeshta's wives. Pranipat Krodhini Bhabhishree and Stambhinī Bhabhishree, is it?"

The two nodded, still grappling with the weight of her presence.

Niyati reached out, taking their hands in hers—a gesture both grounding and commanding, "There is no need for reverence. I assure you, I am as mortal as you are."

Krodhini scoffed, regaining her usual fire, "Mortal? I highly doubt that."

Stambhinī, still studying her with unabashed curiosity, folded her arms, "I have seen goddesses sculpted in temples with less radiance."

Niyati arched a brow, a smirk tugging at her lips, "You flatter me. But tell me, how has my Jyeshta been treating you? Has he been his usual insufferable self?"

Before they could answer, a low, measured voice cut through the moment's warmth.

"Five years have done nothing to humble you, Niyati."

The air shifted.

Vasusena stood at a distance, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable save for the quiet storm beneath his gaze.

Niyati turned to him, head tilting in that familiar, knowing way, "And I see five years have made you more sentimental, Jyeshta. Look at you, standing there, pretending you aren't relieved beyond measure."

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, "You are insufferable."

Niyati's smile deepened, "And you would not have me any other way."

The Veil of Arrogance and the Unseen Truth

The vast chamber, filled with the weight of history and destiny, suddenly felt too small. It wasn't the physical space that had shrunk—it was the presence of something larger than life, something intangible yet suffocating. Laughter had faded into silence, and the warmth of long-awaited reunions had given way to the cold, piercing edge of truth.

Bhishma's voice, heavy with both authority and exhaustion, broke through the hush, "What do you think we should do?"

He did not ask as a grandsire nor as a guardian of the throne—he asked as a man who had seen too much, suffered too much, and still carried the unbearable burden of protecting a crumbling lineage. His voice wavered, just slightly, when he continued, "Putri... you know the curse bestowed upon the Kuru lineage. Especially Yudhishthira..."

A sigh escaped him—one of worry and quiet despair. The kind that came when a man had seen the tides of fate move beyond his grasp.

Niyati's gaze swept across the room, her expression unreadable. And then—she smiled. It was not one of amusement or comfort. A smile laced with something more profound stirred the air with an unseen force, "First, I am happy to see how you have all grown in the past five years."

The simple words carried the warmth of a mentor's approval but also held something more—a knowingness, a wisdom that weighed heavier than mere praise.

She turned toward Yuyutsu, her eyes holding an unspoken acknowledgement, "I know you took mine and Brata Krishna's place and guided them through the tides of fate. And for that, Dhanyavaad."

Yuyutsu, who had always been an observer rather than a participant, let a rare smirk tug at his lips, "They are not so easy to guide, Niyati."

For a fleeting moment, the room felt lighter. The Pandavas, the elders, even the ever-watchful queens seemed to bask in the quiet satisfaction of being acknowledged.

Krodhini and Stambhinī exchanged glances. In these past moments, they had observed much—from Bhishma's conflicted wisdom to the unshakable bond of the Pandavas. But now, for the first time, they saw something different. A teacher stood before her pupils. The chamber was no longer a hall of royalty, the heart of a kingdom—it had become a place of reckoning. And then, as quickly as it came, the warmth faded.

Niyati's expression shifted—her presence, which had been soothing moments ago, now felt like an unyielding storm, "But there are certain truths that you have forgotten. And because of that... this catastrophe has unfolded."

The shift was palpable.

Yudhishthira's throat tightened. His fingers curled slightly, a subtle sign of unrest. He knew what was coming. And yet, when he spoke, his voice was steady, "What are those things, Niyati?"

Draupadi's hand instinctively found his, and her touch was an anchor. It was a silent promise—one that did not go unnoticed. The others saw it. And for the first time, their bonds all felt... whole.

But there was no time to reflect.

Niyati's words sliced through the moment, sharp as a blade, "Brata Yudhishthira, I warned you before, did I not? That you would commit the greatest sin of your life."

The weight of those words crushed the breath from the room. Yudhishthira stiffened, a single tear slipping past his restraint. His voice, usually so composed, cracked as he interrupted, "Is this the sin? The one for which I was cursed?"

A single shake of her head.

"No." The answer landed heavier than the question.

"This curse... is merely the hand that pushes you toward it. It is only part of the process. You cannot fight it, Brata. You must embrace it. The question is—how will you embrace it?" Her gaze bore into him, seeing past his flesh, past his name, past his very soul, "You are the son of Yama. Your father, the Dharmaraj himself, knows when to forgive and when to punish. He knows when mercy must be given, and justice must not waver."

The words clawed their way into him, unsettling the very foundation of his being, "And yet, do you? Do you truly understand Dharma? Or have you let the guise of Dharma deceive you?"

Silence.

A silence so vast it felt as though time itself had frozen, "If you do not see past this illusion, then you will die with self-guilt gnawing at your soul. And worse—your wife, who vowed to stand by you, won't trust you. Your mother, whom you look to for guidance, will one day fear to ask you anything at all."

A strangled whisper, "Niyati..."

The single word, broken and aching, was all Yudhishthira could muster.

But Niyati was relentless. She turned her gaze to Bhishma, who had remained silent for too long, "Pitamah, you know Dharma. But let me remind you—faithful Dharma does not lie in blind vows and oaths. It lies in knowing when to forsake them."

A sharp intake of breath.

"When oaths are broken, hearts shatter. But when oaths are upheld beyond reason, entire lineages fall."

Her voice turned cold, "When you see Adharma before you, do not hesitate to punish it. If you do... then the Kuru lineage will fall."

Her words were not just spoken—they were etched into the very air and the bones of those who heard them.

No one spoke. No one could. Draupadi felt her skin prickle with something unnamable.

Beside her, Draupadi, Krodhini and Stambhinī stood frozen. Their eyes had seen warriors, kings, themselves—but never this.

Arjuna, the first to break the silence, found his voice, "What is the second thing, Niyati?"

A shadow of a smirk played on her lips, "Arrogance."

The word itself felt venomous.

"Your arrogance has called upon this curse. Somewhere along the way, greed has touched your souls. And because of it, you thought only of division—never of peace."

Her gaze lingered on each of them, "Why display strength when Brata Yudhishthira's words could have solved everything?"

Her voice dropped, but its weight only deepened, "The day you bask in the false glory of arrogance... is when your downfall begins."

Nakula hesitantly said, "Is it wrong to speak of what we have earned?"

Niyati smiled knowingly, her gaze sweeping the gathered kin, "Arrogance is not always loud. It often whispers, deceiving even the wise. Let me tell you a story. A story of our ancestor—King Nahusha, Pitashree of Yayati."

She let the name settle before continuing, her voice laced with reverence and warning, "He was a righteous king, a man of virtue, and one who had even earned the throne of Indra himself. The gods, the rishis, all placed their faith in him. But power is a treacherous thing. The moment one believes themselves invincible, they start walking the path of their ruin."

She began narrating, her words painting a vivid picture of Nahusha's rise and tragic fall, "When Indra went into hiding, the gods needed a ruler. They pleaded with Nahusha, offering him the throne of Swarga. At first, he resisted, but when convinced that he would inherit the merit and power of the gods themselves, he accepted. What began as humility turned into pride. The righteous ruler became intoxicated by power, mistaking himself for one beyond reproach."

Yudhishthira listened intently, his fingers curled over his knee, his breath measured but heavy. He, more than anyone, knew the burden of power.

"His downfall began when he set his eyes upon Indra's wife, Sachidevi," Niyati continued. "Blinded by lust, he sought to claim her as his own. When the gods try to stop him, he mocks them, justifying his desires with the sins of those before him. In his arrogance, he refused to see reason."

Krodhini and Stambhinī exchanged glances, the weight of Niyati's words sinking into their bones. Was this not the very warning they had all overlooked? Had they not seen arrogance brewing in the hearts of those they loved?

Niyati's voice took on a sharper edge, "In his folly, he demanded that the great rishis carry his palanquin. Even the most revered sages were reduced to his bearers. And then, in his impatience, he committed his gravest mistake—he kicked the great Rishi Agastya, urging him to move faster, uttering the word 'Sarpa, Sarpa.'"

She paused, allowing the gravity of that moment to seep in. The chamber felt colder, heavier, "But the universe listens, my brothers. The sage cursed him. 'Sarpa'—not as 'move' but as 'serpent.' Nahusha fell from Swarga, stripped of everything, condemned to slither on the earth as a python, awaiting liberation."

A profound silence followed her words, broken only by the faint flickering of the lamps.

Then, in a voice both haunting and resolute, she recited: "Mūrkhasya pañca cinhāni garvo durvacanaṁ tathā, krodhaśca dṛḍhavādaśca paravākyeṣvanādaraḥ."

She looked at each of them, her gaze unwavering, "Pride. Abusive speech. Anger. Stubbornness. Disrespect towards the wisdom of others. These are the five signs of a fool. Nahusha had all five. He had the world at his feet and lost it to arrogance. Do you now see, Brata?"

A hush fell over the chamber.

Draupadi's fingers curled around Yudhishthira's hand, silently reassurance. Bhima's jaw tightened, Arjuna's gaze fell to the ground, and Nakula and Sahadeva exchanged knowing glances. Vasusena exhaled slowly as if the story struck a deep chord within his soul.

Bhishma finally spoke, his voice grave, "And what do you say we must do, Putri? If we are to avoid the fate of Nahusha?"

Niyati smiled softly, her gaze gentle but firm, "Understand the true Dharma. Not the one disguised in grand speeches, not the one that serves our pride, but the one that upholds justice and righteousness. Arrogance does not announce itself—it creeps in, disguising itself as confidence, self-righteousness, and justification. When you see it, you must crush it! Or it will crush you."

Her words hung heavy in the air. And in that moment, none could deny the truth in them. The chamber remained silent—but it was the silence of realization, of reflection. A silence that would echo in their souls long after the night had passed.

Yudhishthira's fingers trembled slightly as he exhaled, his voice no louder than a whisper—yet heavy, laden with an unshakable truth, "I will be honest, Niyati... At this moment, I feel this division is happening because of our greed. We have been arrogant, believing we could build a greater kingdom than our ancestors and re-establish Dharma. I am scared."

His words, fragile yet piercing, fell into the silence, sending ripples through the chamber. The weight of realization settled upon him like a mountain pressing against his chest.

Niyati smiled—a smile not of dismissal but of understanding, of knowing. She walked toward him, knelt, and took his hand in hers. Her grip was firm and grounding, as if tethering him to the present, to truth itself. Her eyes met his, deep and unwavering, "In a soul, either Bhaya (fear) can take residence, or Paramatma (the Supreme)."

Yudhishthira's breath hitched.

"One should fear when they sin, Brata," she continued, her voice a whisper of steel. "But fearing that you might sin is not Dharma. That is doubt poisoning your soul. You are letting the weight of your past outweigh the power of your present and the promise of your future."

She let the words sink in before continuing, her voice softer now, yet no less resolute, "It is fine. You may not control all the events that unfold before you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them. Every decision carries its share of righteousness, regret, light, and shadow. Some will bring blessings, and others will bring burdens. But indecision is the greatest thief, stealing time, resolving destiny itself."

Yudhishthira looked at her, his soul laid bare, searching.

"So," she said, rising, her gaze never wavering, "let us move forward as planned. If your heart wishes to build a better kingdom, a new order of Dharma, then let it be. But do not let your hope turn into fear. Fear, when respected, becomes wisdom. But fear, when unchecked, leads only to self-destruction."

She turned, her steps measured and deliberate, and stopped before Vidura. The silence between them was rich with unspoken understanding. Then, she spoke, "Kakashree, you alone will be summoned in some time. You must go, you must listen, and you must accept it."

Vidura frowned. "Accept it?"

Niyati nodded. "Yes. But not immediately."

The depth of her meaning was not lost on him.

"Act hesitant. Make it known that you are not entirely convinced," she continued. "And then... when the moment is ripe, take a vow from Maharaja Dritarashtra."

Vidura narrowed his eyes, considering her words. "What vow, Putri?"

Her gaze sharpened, a glimmer of something far-seeing flashing within it, "Tell him that you understand what he is doing. And in return, make him swear—on his Dharma, on his throne, on his very existence—that there will come a day when you will ask him three wishes... and he shall grant them without question when that day comes."

Vidura studied her intently, measuring the weight of her words. "Three wishes...?"

She smiled then—soft, yet knowing.

"And ask him for something else," she added, her voice laced with quiet certainty. "Request that the small villages surrounding Khandavaprastha be given under your jurisdiction—not theirs."

Vidura arched a brow, intrigued. "Will he agree to this?"

Niyati tilted her head, exhaling in amusement.

"Don't you know your Jyeshta, Kakashree?" she murmured, shaking her head ever so slightly. A sigh escaped her lips, neither of resignation nor doubt but of deep understanding.

"He will do anything for his sons."

And as if the universe aligned with her words, a messenger entered the chamber at that moment, his voice cutting through the heavy air, "Maharaja Dritarashtra summons Kakashree Vidura to the family royal court."

A ripple of energy swept through the room. Vidura, ever the embodiment of wisdom, nodded. He glanced at Niyati, the Pandavas, and all those gathered. A silent exchange passed between them, a moment steeped in something unspoken—something more significant than fate itself. Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward his destination.

A Game of Shadows and Intentions

Seated upon the throne, Dritarashtra appeared composed, yet an invisible burden sat heavier upon him than his blindness. His milky, sightless eyes seemed to peer beyond the present into a chasm of indecision and consequence. At his left, Shakuni, ever the puppeteer, traced idle patterns upon his dice, his lips curved into an unreadable smirk. Across the hall, Suyodhana stood tall, his arms crossed in defiance, his gaze like a smouldering ember—burning with ambition, fury, and certainty. Behind him, Vikarna, silent yet piercing in presence, observed everything with the stillness of a blade waiting to strike. Dusshasan and others lingered in the shadows, their faces a tapestry of intrigue and expectation.

A measured gait echoed across the polished marble. Vidura had arrived.

The grand chamber stilled. His presence was neither overbearing nor subdued; it carried the unmistakable weight of wisdom sharpened by restraint. He offered his respects with a bow, yet his keen eyes—a stark contrast to Dritarashtra's blindness—saw everything.

Heavy with something unspoken, the king's voice broke the silence, "Vidura, you are here."

Vidura nodded, his voice steady, "You summoned me, Jyeshta."

A silence stretched between them before Dritarashtra exhaled deeply as though seeking absolution, "You know why."

Vidura met his words with unwavering clarity, "You wish to divide the kingdom."

A murmur rippled through the court—the unspoken truth, now spoken, felt like a sword unsheathed.

Dritarashtra's fingers clenched the armrests of his throne, "It is... necessary."

Shakuni chuckled softly, his voice smooth as silk yet edged with steel, "Come now, Mahatma Vidura, let us not veil our words with noble sentiments. Necessary or not, this is the path chosen. The Pandavas will be given their due. But not Hastinapur."

Vidura's lips pressed together, his expression unchanging, "You do not divide a home by giving the weaker side its bones and calling it a fair split."

Duryodhana's voice sliced through the air like a blade, "Are you implying we are being unfair, Kakashree?"

Vidura's gaze did not waver, "Yes. Tell me, what exactly are you offering them? And, Jyeshta, are you not going back on your vow? Have you forgotten the weight of your word?"

Dritarashtra flinched, but before he could respond, Shakuni leaned forward, his smirk deepening, "Mahatma Vidura," he purred, "you are born from the legacy of a Brahmin and Vaishya, yet given status of son of Kuru. As per Dharma, you do not need to rule any land. Khandavaprastha has been under you, granted to you by Rajkumar Vasusena in a moment of generosity. But let us not forget—the land belongs to Hastinapur, to its ancestors. And every land requires a king." He paused, his voice taking on amusement, "So why not do what is righteous? Relinquish the land, let your brother's vow remain unbroken, and let him pass down to Pandavas. Do you not love your Jyeshta, Vidura?"

Vidura's gaze swept across the court, taking in the carefully arranged game before him. Then, with measured calm, he spoke, "Jyeshta, I have stood by you all my life. I have offered counsel, not as a subject, but as a brother. I have never sought a throne, nor have I ever wished for power. But I ask you this—do not let your blindness become a blindness of the soul. Do not go back on your vow. If you do, your sons may not perish today, but karma will return. And when it does, no throne shall be high enough to escape it."

A heavy silence.

Duryodhana's patience snapped. He rose, his voice thunderous, "I do not fear curses, Kakashree! Nor do I fear your words. We have made our decision. Give back the land and leave!"

Vidura turned to him, his expression unreadable, "You wish to send them to Khandavaprastha—a barren wasteland, once cursed, now abandoned. You wish to strip them of their resources, forcing them to rebuild from dust while you remain seated in Hastinapur, untouched by struggle, wielding its wealth and power. Call it strategy or politics, but do not call it Dharma."

The words echoed, striking where they were meant to.

Dritarashtra inhaled sharply, "They are my sons too, Vidura."

Vidura exhaled, his voice softer yet piercing, "Then treat them as such."

Shakuni leaned back, his tone deceptively gentle, "Ah, wise Vidura, you misunderstand. We are allowing them to build, create, and carve their destiny. Is that not what every great ruler desire?"

Vidura studied him for a long moment before responding, "What you offer them is exile without chains. Slow suffocation dressed as an opportunity."

Suyodhan's fists tightened, "Enough. The kingdom shall not be divided. Take what we offer."

Vidura remained silent, then slowly nodded. "Very well."

Dritarashtra turned toward him, "Then you accept?"

Vidura's eyes glowed with something unseen, "I accept... but on two condition."

A flicker of uncertainty passed through the court. Even Shakuni's fingers stilled over his dice.

Dritarashtra frowned, "What conditions?"

Vidura stepped forward, his voice steady, "You are choosing this path, Maharaja. But fate has a way of twisting intentions. I ask for a vow if you truly believe this division is just."

Dritarashtra stiffened, "What vow?"

Vidura's voice was calm, yet each word struck like thunder, "That there will come a day when I shall ask of you three wishes... and when that day comes, you shall grant them without question, delay, and resistance."

A sharp intake of breath.

Shakuni's fingers twitched. Duryodhana's jaw tightened. Karna's eyes flickered. Dritarashtra sat motionless. The silence stretched unbearably. Then, after what felt like an eternity, Dritarashtra exhaled, "And what shall these wishes be?"

Vidura shook his head, "That is not for today."

Another ripple of unease. Shakuni's smirk faltered just slightly.

Dritarashtra hesitated, "And if I refuse?"

Vidura tilted his head, his gaze unwavering, "Then let it be known that even the blind can see their own deception."

Dritarashtra flinched. The game had changed. Then, after a pause, Dritarashtra spoke. "So be it. What is the second thing?"

Vidura's gaze did not waver, "The villages near Khandavaprastha—they must be under Pandava rule."

Dritarashtra nodded, "Granted."

The moment the words were spoken, something shifted. Vidura turned, his cloak trailing behind him. Shakuni's fingers tightened over his dice. Suyodhana seethed. And Dritarashtra sat still, feeling as if he had just sealed the fate of his own house. The pieces had been set. The future had begun.

Note:

The story of Nahusha is an authentic account within the Mahabharata, where Nahusha narrates his downfall to Yudhishthira. Recognizing Yudhishthira as a descendant of his lineage, Nahusha pleads for his redemption, which Yudhishthira ultimately grants.

However, in this retelling, the story is not limited to a singular moment of revelation. Instead, it is woven into the present circumstances, with Niyati narrating Nahusha's fate to the gathering.

Placing this tale within the ongoing discourse serves as both a lesson and a warning—one that mirrors the struggles, ambitions, and choices shaping the destiny of the Kuru lineage. In this way, the past does not merely inform the future; it actively speaks to it, forcing the characters to confront the weight of history as they stand at the precipice of their fates.