The morning sun bathed Indraprastha in a golden glow as if blessing the occasion. The palace gardens, transformed into a sea of yellow, buzzed with laughter, music, and the intoxicating fragrance of turmeric, sandalwood, and fresh roses.

Yuyutsu sat in the centre, draped in a simple white dhoti, looking every bit at the regal yet reluctant groom. A large silver plate of turmeric paste was placed before him, and before he could shift, Vasudeva stepped forward, dipping his fingers into the golden paste.

"Sit still, Yuyutsu," Vasudeva teased, smearing the first streak across his forehead. "This is the first layer of your armour as a husband."

Bhishma, standing tall, nodded approvingly before taking his turn. "A warrior must be prepared for battle," he remarked with mock seriousness, "and a wedding, my dear boy, is no less than one."

The assembly erupted into laughter while Yuyutsu groaned inwardly. But before he could retort, the women arrived.

Kunti, Stambhinī, Draupadi, Rukmini, and Satyabhama—all carrying small bowls of turmeric—surrounded him. "Why does he look so pale?" Draupadi mused, dipping her fingers into the paste. "Let's make sure he shines bright enough for Niyati."

And then, chaos.

Smears of haldi covered his cheeks, arms, and hair as the women took great joy in their task. Sahadeva, watching from a distance, smirked. "Brata, you are glowing!"

On the other side of the palace, Niyati was receiving similar treatment, albeit with a more celestial audience. Rukmini carefully applied turmeric to her cheeks, smiling. "You already look like the moon, Niyati, but let's make you shine like the sun."

Mata Ganga, her presence ethereal, placed a small dot of haldi on Niyati's forehead. "This is for strength. A new life awaits you."

As midday approached, the sound of conch shells resonated through the palace halls. Ganapati's grand emerald idol in the ceremonial chamber was adorned with fresh marigold garlands.

Standing beside Yuyutsu, Shri Krishna folded his hands before the deity, but not without his usual mirth. "Ganapati, I must say, this Bhaginyah Patih of mine is peculiar. A warrior trained by Mahadeva, a man raised in the shadows, is now about to marry my Bhagini." He turned to Yuyutsu with a grin. "Are you ready?"

Yuyutsu exhaled sharply. "Does it matter if I am?"

Bhima, who had been watching with amusement, chuckled, "No, it does not."

As the mantras began, Vasudeva and Devaki, standing beside their children, led the rituals. Modaks were placed before the deity, and as Yuyutsu offered his own, he felt a strange calm settle over him. As the final mantra echoed, a sudden gust of wind swept through the chamber. The marigold garlands rustled, and the idol seemed to smile briefly.

Of course, Shri Krishna noticed. "Ah," he said, eyes twinkling, "he approves of you, Brata Yuyutsu."

Elsewhere, in a sanctum adorned with soft lamps and blooming lotuses, Niyati sat before the idol of Devi Gauri.

Devaki knelt beside her daughter, placing a Diya before the goddess. "This is where I sat when I prayed for your well-being, my child. And now, it is your turn to ask for her blessings."

Niyati's fingers trembled slightly as she touched the Diya's rim. "What do I ask for, Mata?"

Rukmini smiled knowingly, "Ask her for patience. You are marrying a man who carries the weight of a world that does not yet understand him."

Satyabhama huffed, "Ask her for courage, too! You will need it. Yuyutsu can be as silent as the Himalayas when he wants to be."

Niyati chuckled. "That much, I have already seen."

Standing in the shadows, Maharishi Durvasa spoke in his thunderous voice, startling them all: "A woman who prays to Gauri before her wedding gains not just a husband but an eternal companion in Dharma."

There was a beat of silence.

Satyabhama leaned toward Rukmini and whispered, "I still think she should ask for patience first."

The goddess's Diya flickered as if in amusement.

As evening settled in, the final ritual before the wedding commenced. Yuyutsu, dressed in a simple dhoti, stood before Vasudeva, Bhishma, and the assembled sages. The sacred thread, a symbol of commitment, was to be placed upon his shoulder.

Maharishi Atri spoke first. "This thread is not just a mark of learning or status—it is a mark of responsibility. From this moment, you carry your name and hers as well."

Vasudeva looped the thread over Yuyutsu's shoulder with a solemn expression. "From today, you are no longer just a warrior. You are a protector, a guide, a husband."

Bhishma, ever the guardian, placed his hand over Yuyutsu's head. "A wedding changes a man, Yuyutsu. You will find that words hold more power than swords. Learn to wield them wisely."

Shri Krishna, of course, could not let the moment be too serious. "And the thread will itch sometimes," he said, eyes twinkling. "Just like marriage."

Yuyutsu exhaled. "Is there any part of this that does not involve a lesson?"

Sahadeva smirked. "You are marrying Krishna's sister. The lessons will never stop."

As laughter filled the hall, the ceremony concluded, and the sacred thread now rested upon Yuyutsu's shoulder—a reminder of the path he was about to embark upon. And so, with rituals complete, Indraprastha glowed with anticipation. The heavens bore witness to a wedding unlike any other—a union of fate, choice, love, and the whispers of destiny that had long awaited this moment.

Yuyutsu and Niyati

The sacred fire roared, its golden tongues licking the air as if reaching for the heavens to call forth every celestial being that bore witness to this divine union. The fragrance of ghee and sandalwood swirled around Indraprastha, weaving through the vast assembly that had gathered—kings and queens, sages and devas, mortals and immortals—all drawn by the gravity of this moment. It was not just a wedding but a confluence of Dharma, fate, and the sacred play of the divine.

At the centre of it stood Niyati, the daughter of Vasudeva and Devaki, sister to Shri Krishna and Balarama, a princess born of a celestial decree. Draped in garments finer than moonlight, her presence was like the first rays of dawn—gentle yet undeniable, radiant yet serene. She stood poised, her gaze lowered, but her heart was steady as the stars above. And before her stood Yuyutsu, the man who was not a prince by birth but whose soul was carved from the very essence of Dharma. The one who had walked the path of shadows yet emerged with the light of righteousness.



Vasudeva's hands trembled ever so slightly as he reached for his daughter's, his heart full yet burdened by the weight of parting. His voice, though calm, carried the depth of a father's love—unwavering yet tinged with an unspoken ache. "Putri," he said, his fingers curling around hers, "you were born on a night when the heavens announced your arrival. You were born when both the Sun and Moon were present. You were never just my daughter—a promise from the cosmos. And today, that promise finds its path." His eyes met Yuyutsu's, searching, weighing, and trusting, "She is my soul, pride, and breath. Guard her as you would your spirit."

Standing beside her husband, Devaki felt the world around her blur as she gazed at her daughter, the child she had once held against her heart. A mother's silent sorrow mingled with pride, for today, Niyati was stepping into her destiny. Her lips whispered prayers, blessings carried away by the night breeze.

Yuyutsu bent his head, accepting the weight of Vasudeva's words. "I do not take her as a gift, for she will not be given nor possessed. I take her as my equal, strength, and very existence." His voice was steady, but his heart bore the enormity of this moment, the weight of vows yet to be spoken.

Standing tall in his resplendent white robes, Bhishma observed everything with eyes that had seen countless weddings and unions—but none like this. His heart, bound by his vows, watched this new bond being forged with quiet reverence. Perhaps, he thought, I, too, would have known such a moment in another life.

Draupadi, adorned in royal splendour, felt a strange kinship with Niyati. Though bound by fate to five, she understood what it meant to step into a marriage that was far greater than just love—it was a path woven by Dharma itself. She watched as Niyati held herself with grace, a silent pillar of strength, and a deep admiration filled her heart.

The air shifted as the ceremony moved forward. Panigrahana—the sacred clasping of hands—was upon them. Yuyutsu took Niyati's hand in his, the warmth of her fingers grounding him at this moment. "As the rivers find their way to the ocean," he whispered, "so shall we find our way to each other, again and again, in this lifetime."

Niyati, as steady as her heart, responded, "As the moon embraces the night, I shall embrace all that is yours—your burdens and your joys, your triumphs and your wounds."

From the heavens, divine eyes watched in approval. Mata Ganga, the ever-flowing mother, felt her heart stir as she beheld this union. "May you stand unshaken, as my waters flow ceaselessly, never deterred by any obstacle." The Saptarshis nodded in solemn blessing, their voices whispering across the cosmos.

The Saptapadi—the seven sacred steps—began. The fire, glowing as a divine witness, cast flickering light upon their faces as they stepped forward together, each stride binding them further.

The first step is nourishment to provide for each other in body and soul. The second was for strength, so neither hardship nor time could shake them. The third is prosperity; their household is abundant in all things good. The fourth is for happiness, that love and laughter never abandon their home. The fifth is for progeny, meaning their children may carry forth their Dharma. The sixth—they may walk this journey together for a long time until the stars fade. The seventh—for harmony, their hearts would beat as one in this life and beyond.

Shri Krishna, watching with a knowing smile, whispered to Balarama, "Dau, see how fate plays? We think we are weaving our paths, but Niyati herself has written the script."

Balarama, though usually stoic, found himself nodding. "Kanha, you and I both know this is no ordinary wedding. This meeting of two forces will shake the world in ways we cannot yet see."

The Mangal sutra gleamed in Yuyutsu's hands, its black beads absorbing the light of the fire, its golden thread a symbol of eternity. As he tied it around Niyati's neck, he spoke, not to the gathering, but to her. "This is not an ornament. It is a vow, a binding of my soul to yours. As long as this graces your neck, know that my promise remains—unbroken, unshaken."

Niyati touched it gently, feeling the weight of love, duty, and destiny.

Then came the Ashmarohana. A solid, unyielding stone was placed before her, and the priest Dhoumya's voice rang out. "As this stone is firm, so must be your resolve. Step upon it and let the world know you are not merely a wife—you are a force, unshaken by storms."

Without hesitation, Niyati placed her foot upon the stone, her back straight, her gaze unwavering. She was not just stepping into a new life but claiming it.

At last, Dhruva Darshana. The sky stretched wide above them, the Pole Star standing unmoving among the shifting constellations. They gazed upon it together, hands entwined. "As the Dhruva star never wavers," intoned the priest Dhoumya, "so shall your union remain—unyielding, unbroken, eternal."

Showers of divine flowers rained down upon them from the heavens. The conch shells roared, the celestial drums echoed through Indraprastha, and the air shimmered with unseen blessings.

Gandhari, standing in the shadows, felt her blindfold dampen with silent tears. Ah, if only I could see this moment... If only I could see him standing so tall, so worthy. Dritarashtra clenched his hands, his voice quiet as he murmured, "May fate be kinder to them than it has been to me."

But Krishna, ever the orchestrator, merely smiled. Fate had played its part. Dharma had found its balance. And so, amidst the witness of gods, sages, kings, and mortals alike, Yuyutsu and Niyati were bound—not just by vows but by the threads of time itself.

A Night Where Time Stood Still

As the stars adorned the velvety night sky, the women gathered around Niyati, their laughter echoing through the chambers of Indraprastha. The fragrance of fresh jasmine filled the air as Mitravinda playfully adjusted Niyati's veil, teasing, "A celestial bride, yet even she must blush tonight!" Satyabhama smirked, "Even the moonlight may seem dim in front of your glow, but let's see if our dear Yuyutsu can match your fire." Draupadi, ever poised, traced the golden embroidery on Niyati's attire and whispered, "Tonight, Niyati, is not just about duty—it is about allowing your heart to open."

Standing at the edge of the gathering, Kunti watched Niyati with soft eyes. She stepped forward and cupped the bride's face. "He has always been a man of restraint, my Yuyutsu. When he is pensive, run your fingers through his hair—it calms him. He eats in silence but craves companionship. He finds peace in the sound of the river, and his heart, though armoured, yearns for warmth." Gandhari, hearing Kunti speak so intimately of her son, felt a flicker of something unspoken. A pang of jealousy? Perhaps. Kunti, more than she knew her son.

On the other side of the palace, the men had surrounded Yuyutsu. Balarama clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. "A warrior in battle, a protector of Dharma, but let us see how you fare as a husband, hmm?" Arjuna chuckled, "Do not let Niyati intimidate you. Though I suspect she will." Bhima, roaring in laughter, handed him a goblet, "Drink, brother, it is not poison! You look like you are entering war instead of your first night!" Even Nakula and Sahadeva, usually composed, joined in the teasing. "A wife's love is another battlefield, brother," Nakula jested. "And victory is won with patience, not strength."

Yet amidst the revelry, Narayan and Mahadev stood apart, gazing at each other. And then—time stilled. The flickering lamps froze in their glow, and the laughter turned into echoes lost in the wind. It was just them now.

Krishna's eyes twinkled with knowing amusement, yet his words were firm. "You must give this marriage a chance."

Yuyutsu exhaled, his voice low. "I do not doubt Niyati's grace, but she is unlike the others. Her soul is as ancient as the stars, perhaps older than ours. We cannot bind her with mere mortal affections."

Krishna smiled, but there was steel beneath the softness. "And yet, you must. The world sees you as a man, Yuyutsu, not as Mahadev. You will fail her if you remain only a guardian and never a husband. She is stepping into this bond with trust. Will you leave her to stand alone?"

Yuyutsu closed his eyes. "I will not deceive her."

Krishna took a step closer. "Love is not deception. Take a step toward her, and she will do the same. You must build the bridge between your souls." He lifted his flute, spun it between his fingers, and, with a knowing smile, whispered, "The rest is upon you."

Time flowed again.

Now, Yuyutsu stood before the door of their chamber. The air was thick with sandalwood and roses, and the room was bathed in a golden glow. Silk drapes swayed as if whispering secrets of a thousand love stories that had come before. At the centre, upon an adorned bed, sat Niyati—ethereal, waiting. Their eyes met.

A New Dawn, A New Bond

The first rays of the sun had not yet kissed the grand halls of Indraprastha, and the world still slumbered in the embrace of dawn. But within the palace, a quiet rustle broke the silence. Niyati, draped in the soft glow of the oil lamps, moved with a sense of purpose. The echoes of the night still lingered in her heart—the unspoken words, the tentative steps into a new journey, the weight of the vows exchanged. Yet, here she was, stepping into her new role with an eagerness that came not from duty but from something more profound—an unformed feeling, an unspoken promise.

As she entered the grand kitchen, the scent of sandalwood and lingering incense from the morning prayers filled the air. The enormous hearth, which had fed countless warriors, sages, and kings, now awaited the gentle hands of its new mistress. Niyati's fingers moved deftly, gathering the ingredients and the space's warmth, filling her with a sense of belonging.

But before she could begin, a shadow loomed behind her, his presence familiar yet unexpected.

"You wake up too early," Yuyutsu's voice came, laced with amusement.

Niyati turned, startled, "Yuyutsu? What are you doing here?"

A slight smirk played on his lips. "You shouldn't call me that."

She arched an eyebrow. "Then what should I call you?"

He stepped closer, his voice gentler this time, yet carrying the weight of something more profound. "I am your husband now. You can call me 'Arya' if you like."

Niyati blinked. The word felt foreign on her tongue, yet something in how he said it made her heart pause for a fleeting moment. She chuckled, shaking off the strange feeling. "Okay, okay. Arya, it is. But tell me, what are you doing here?"

"To help you cook."

Niyati let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "As if I don't know how to cook."

"I know that you know," he said, expression sincere. "I just want to help you."

There was something about his tone that made her pause. This was no mere act of service, no mere performance of duty. He was trying to bridge the distance between them and carve a space for himself in her world.

A smile curved her lips, softer this time. "Alright then, Arya Yuyutsu. Let me guide you."

And so, the two stood side by side—Niyati showing, Yuyutsu following, their hands moving in synchrony, their voices mingling with the bubbling of the pots and the fire crackling. It was a sight unseen in the great halls of Indraprastha, where men of war and wisdom were seldom found in the heart of the kitchen.

Unbeknownst to them, they were being watched.

From the royal balcony, Krishna stood, his eyes twinkling with a knowing smile, the cosmic dance of fate playing before him in the simplest moments. The Pandavas, with their wives, stood as silent witnesses, their expressions ranging from amused to touched. Her heart was swelling with unspoken emotions. Kunti looked upon the son she had not birthed but had come to love as her own and the daughter-in-law who had brought light into his life.

Even Bhishma, the ever-stoic guardian, allowed a rare smile to graze his lips.

A new chapter had begun, not with grand declarations or battle-forged alliances but in the kitchen with quiet, unassuming warmth.

And perhaps, in that moment, love had begun to take root.

A Play of Fate and Affection

Arjuna wandered through the grand corridors of Indraprastha, his mind adrift in contemplation. His footsteps were steady, yet his heart was uncharacteristically light, carrying the remnants of a sight he had not expected to move him so profoundly.

The kitchen—humble yet alive with warmth—had been the stage of an unspoken assurance. He had seen Niyati, her laughter unhindered, guiding Yuyutsu's hands as he fumbled through the unfamiliar terrain of kneading dough. Yuyutsu, once the silent storm at the edge of Indraprastha, had let himself stumble, unguarded, under her amused tutelage. There had been no force, no expectation, just the quiet merging of two souls finding rhythm in each other's presence.

Arjuna exhaled softly, the weight of his earlier concern loosening its grip. He had been uncertain when Niyati had come to him, her voice steady, declaring her readiness for marriage. He had searched her eyes then, seeking a crack, a shadow of hesitation. But there had been none. She had chosen, and now, seeing her so effortlessly at ease, he finally understood.

A chuckle, rich with mischief, broke through his thoughts.

"Partha," came the voice he could never mistake, laced with humour yet touched with that ever-present knowing. "In whose thoughts have you wandered so far that you forget even me?"

Arjuna blinked, startled out of his reverie, and turned to find Krishna walking beside him, effortless in his grace, as if he had been there all along. "Ah, Madhava," Arjuna said, shaking his head, "I was merely lost in thought. Niyati and Brata Yuyutsu... I worried for them, but now I see they will be well."

Krishna's gaze shimmered with quiet satisfaction. "It gladdens me to hear you say that. My Bhagini will be safe here, surrounded by love and loyalty." Then, teasingly, he added, "And I am pleased that she has found another Brata in Indraprastha."

Arjuna's expression softened, a vow forming unspoken. "I will always stand by her, Madhava. Should the need arise, I would raise my arms even against Brata Yuyutsu himself."

Krishna studied him, his divine smile unchanging yet laced with something unfathomable. "I know you will, Partha." Then, after a moment, he added, "And you should raise those arms for your wife too if ever fate demands it of you."

Arjuna frowned, facing him, "What do you mean, Madhava? Krishnaa is my heart. You know there is nothing I would not do for her in this world."

A quiet sigh left Krishna's lips, the weight of many lifetimes resting in his words. "Love, Partha, is not merely a promise but a path. And sometimes, we wound those we cherish most without meaning to."

Arjuna stiffened, his voice edged with defiance. "You mean to say I will hurt Krishnaa?" He shook his head, conviction burning in his gaze. "No, Madhava. Never."

Krishna chuckled, the sound both light and impossibly ancient. "Never say never, Partha," he murmured, his voice almost wistful.

Before Arjuna could challenge him further, another voice wove into the moment, bright and teasing.

"You know, Partha," Satyabhama's laughter danced into the air as she approached, the clinking of her ornaments announcing her arrival, "I have never been jealous of any of Arya's wives the way I am jealous of you."

Arjuna turned to her in confusion, but she only smirked, folding her arms. "Do you know what Arya always says?" she continued, feigning a dramatic sigh. "Partha is me, and I am Partha. He is my best friend. Now tell me, what should I do with such favouritism?"

Arjuna chuckled, shaking his head. "What would you have me say, Satya?"

She tilted her chin, feigning thoughtfulness, "Hmm. Perhaps I should claim you as my Mitr, too. That way, I even the scales."

Krishna, ever the mischief-maker, interjected, "An excellent idea, Priye. But Partha has always belonged to me first."

Satyabhama rolled her eyes before looping her arm through Arjuna's wrist. "Enough brooding, Partha. I have stolen a few moments of Arya's time and will not let them go to waste." Then, pulling him forward with the determination of a queen claiming her prize, she added, "Krishnaa agreed to a game of Chausar. Come, we need players."

With his expression alight and mirth, Krishna allowed himself to be dragged along. But before they disappeared down the hallway, he cast Arjuna one last glance—one that held laughter, wisdom, and the quiet promise that their conversation was far from over. And so, laughter echoed through the halls, mingling with the distant echoes of fate. The game of dice awaited them, but the most authentic match—the one of love, destiny, and choices—had already begun.

The Game of Fate and Folly

The chamber was set. Golden lamps flickered in the dimly lit hall, their glow casting elongated shadows upon the marble floor. The air hummed with the scent of sandalwood and saffron, mingling with an unspoken anticipation. In the centre, the Chausar board lay spread—a battlefield of ivory and ebony squares, the dice resting idly upon it, unassuming yet brimming with unseen consequences. The players took their seats, each bearing a subtle intensity in their gaze.

On one side, Krishna and Satyabhama are a pair that moved like a single will, seamless in their understanding. On the other hand, Arjuna and Krishnaa are life partners, bound by love and duty, yet still learning the depths of each other's minds.

Krishna leaned back with a serene smile, his fingers idly toying with the dice, rolling them across his palm as though measuring their weight in fate. Then, he spoke with a glance that bore the gravity of both jest and judgment, "A game played without stakes is a game played without meaning. Put something on the table."

Arjuna frowned slightly, "What would you have us wager, Madhava?"

Krishna's smile did not waver, "Something of value. Something that makes your hands hesitate before they roll the dice." His gaze flickered between them, "Only when the mind tastes the bitter edge of loss does it truly understand the nature of victory."

Draupadi met Krishna's eyes, unflinching. "I will wager a piece of my jewellery," she said, removing a golden bangle from her wrist and setting it down on the board.

Arjuna followed suit, unclasping a ring bearing Indraprastha's sigil. He placed it beside her bangle, the metal glinting like a silent promise.

Satyabhama, watching with an amused smirk, set down a pearl necklace while Krishna, ever unpredictable, plucked a single peacock feather from his crown and let it drift onto the board.

Draupadi arched a brow, "A feather, Govinda? What weight does that carry in this game?"

Krishna chuckled, his eyes glimmering. "Ah, Krishnaa, you have yet to learn. The lightest things often hold the greatest burdens."

And with that, the game began.

At first, the moves were simple and predictable—each piece shifting and manoeuvring across the board in a slow, methodical rhythm. But with each turn, Krishna began weaving something into the air, something unseen, something that tightened its grip upon the players' minds.

"The dice do not fall by chance," he mused, rolling them between his fingers before casting them upon the board. "They are thrown by the hand but guided by the mind. Tell me, Partha, do you trust your hand or fate when you roll?"

Arjuna moved a pawn forward, his jaw tightening. "I trust my strategy."

Krishna smiled, watching the board as if he knew the next dozen moves. "A warrior's answer," he mused. "But tell me, when the arrow leaves your bow, is it your strength that guides it or the wind?"

Arjuna hesitated. "Both."

Krishna nodded. "Then know this: every move in this game is a balance of force and surrender. If you have too much control, you will be blinded by arrogance. Too much faith in luck, and you will be swept away."

Draupadi studied the board, her keen intellect unravelling the patterns Krishna wove into his play, "If both force and surrender guide the game, what determines victory?"

Krishna turned his gaze to her, his voice soft but edged with something more profound. "The ability to see beyond the board."

And then the game turned ruthless.

The moves quickened, and the stakes rose. Draupadi and Arjuna played with sharpened focus, their movements growing precise and confident. But Krishna was not merely playing. He was teaching, revealing.

With every throw, he dismantled their illusions.

"Partha," Krishna said, watching Arjuna hesitate before a risky move, "why do you doubt?"

Arjuna exhaled sharply. "Because I do not know if this is the right move."

Krishna's gaze deepened. "Then tell me, when your enemy's blade meets your own on the battlefield, do you wait for certainty?"

Arjuna's grip on the dice tightened. He rolled. The piece moved forward.

Then came Draupadi's turn. She was winning, yet her eyes flickered with wariness. Krishna's gaze softened as he turned to Draupadi, his voice carrying gravity and affection. "Sakhi, when the fire chose you, when the garland fell around Partha's neck, when you became the queen of Indraprastha—did you see any of it coming?"

Draupadi's fingers stilled over the board. The question lingered in the air, entwining itself with memories of moments she had never controlled, paths she had walked yet never chosen.

"No," she admitted, her voice quieter now.

Krishna nodded. "Life does not wait for you to be ready. Life does not always offer choices. But the game?" He gestured to the board. "The game always gives you a move. The question is—can you see it?"

Draupadi met his gaze, something shifting in her eyes. "Then teach me to see it, Govinda."

Krishna's smile deepened, holding a wisdom far beyond the pieces on the board. "That, Sakhi, is a lesson no one can give you. It is a lesson you must take."

Krishna and Satyabhama had won.

Draupadi sat back, eyes sharp, not in disappointment but in realization. Arjuna also studied the board, now understanding how every piece had moved, not by chance, but by design.

Krishna lifted the peacock feather from the board, spinning it lightly between his fingers. "Tell me, Sakhi," he said, "do you now see why even a feather has weight?"

Draupadi exhaled, a slow smile curving her lips. "Because even the smallest thing, in the right hands, can decide the game."

Krishna's smile deepened. "Exactly."

Arjuna leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. "You did not just teach us how to win, Madhava. You taught us how to lose."

Krishna looked at him then, something unreadable passing through his expression. "Victory and defeat are illusions, Partha. What matters is what you take from both."

A silence stretched between them, heavy yet illuminating. Then, as if brushing off the moment's weight, Satyabhama clapped her hands together.

"Well then," she mused, "now that we have robbed you of your precious jewellery, perhaps it is time for a rematch?"

Draupadi smirked. "Oh, Satya, you will not win so easily next time."

Krishna laughed, the sound like the ringing of temple bells resonating beyond time itself. "Then let the game continue," he murmured as the dice rolled again, carrying the eternal dance of fate and free will.