The palace of Hastinapura was never silent. Even in the dead of night, it breathed—through the distant murmurs of guards, the rustling of robes in the corridors, the flickering of torchlight casting shifting shadows along the walls.

Rhea had learned to navigate these halls without being noticed, had spent years walking between the cracks of this city's politics. But lately, something felt different.

It started with small things. Messengers moving in and out of meetings at odd hours. Servants exchanging wary glances but saying nothing. A shift in Vidura's expression when she passed him in the halls—subtle, but there.

And then there was the matter of the construction.

A new palace, a grand gift for the Pandavas.

On the surface, it sounded like an honor. An extravagant residence being built away from Hastinapura, a place of luxury. Duryodhana had made a show of it in court, speaking of generosity, of kinship.

But Rhea had lived in this palace long enough to know a lie when she heard one.

Still, knowing something was wrong and proving it were two very different things.

And right now, she had nothing but suspicion.

She first heard of the palace's unusual design by accident.

The servant quarters had always been a place where people spoke freely, believing themselves unseen. Rhea had never belonged there, not truly, but she had spent enough time among them to understand that the most valuable information in the palace was never spoken in court—it was whispered in kitchens, in corridors, in places where the powerful did not think to look.

She was passing through one of the back hallways when she heard two laborers talking.

"Strangest order I've ever had," one muttered as he stacked a crate of supplies. "Not stone, not wood—something else. Fragile."

"You think too much," the other scoffed. "It's a palace. We build, we get paid."

A pause. Then, more quietly, "Burns too easily, though."

Rhea's steps slowed.

She forced herself to keep walking, pretending she hadn't heard. But her mind raced.

Why would a palace be built with something flammable?

She had spent enough time watching the games of Hastinapura to know that power was never given away freely.

If someone was offering a gift, it meant a debt was being collected somewhere else.

And something told her that this particular debt would be paid in blood.

The days passed, and the unease in the palace only grew.

She caught glimpses of things that did not make sense—ledgers being reviewed behind closed doors, Bhishma walking with Vidura in deep discussion, Shakuni watching with that ever-present smirk of his.

Still, no one spoke of it openly.

Until one evening, when she overheard something she wasn't meant to.

She hadn't been searching for answers. Not this time.

But fate had a cruel sense of humor.

She was passing by one of the council chambers when she caught voices—Vidura's low and measured, Shakuni's ever-amused drawl.

"This is not a game," Vidura murmured.

"Oh, but it is," Shakuni replied smoothly. "And in games, there are always those who lose."

Silence.

Then, more quietly, Vidura said, "And how will you justify it?"

Shakuni chuckled. "Accidents happen."

A pause.

Then, in a tone almost too soft to catch—"A house is only as strong as what it's built from."

Rhea's breath caught.

She stepped away before she could hear more, heart pounding.

A house. A game. An accident.

Shakuni never spoke plainly, but she had spent enough time in Hastinapura to know that his words were never without meaning.

The palace. The flammable materials. The secrecy.

She didn't have proof, but she felt it.

Something was coming.

And she had the sinking feeling that the Pandavas would be at the center of it.

She couldn't ignore it anymore.

That night, she sought out Karna. She didn't know why—perhaps because he had always been one of the few people who spoke the truth, no matter how brutal it was.

She found him in the training grounds, as expected. He was alone, finishing his drills, the dim torchlight flickering against his golden armor.

"You know things," she said.

Karna didn't turn immediately. "Everyone knows things, Rhea."

She stepped closer. "Not everyone pretends not to."

Now he looked at her, raising an eyebrow. "And what is it you think I know?"

She hesitated.

"The new palace," she said finally. "The one for the Pandavas."

Karna's expression didn't change, but she caught the slight stiffening of his shoulders.

She pressed on. "Strange materials. Unusual secrecy. A house that... might not be meant to last."

She waited.

For a denial. For an accusation.

For anything.

But Karna said nothing.

Instead, after a long moment, he sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow. "You should stop asking questions."

Her chest tightened.

"That's not an answer."

He exhaled. "It's the only one I can give you."

She stared at him. "Tell me I'm wrong."

Karna looked at her then, and for the first time, she saw something there. Not anger. Not amusement.

Regret.

And that was when she knew.

This wasn't just suspicion.

This wasn't paranoia.

This was a trap.

And the Pandavas were walking straight into it.

Rhea turned to leave, her mind already racing, but before she could take a step, Karna spoke again.

"You think you know what's happening," he murmured, "but you don't understand how deep it runs."

She swallowed. "Then tell me."

He let out a humorless chuckle. "You think I know everything?"

"I think you know enough."

He studied her for a long moment. Then, quietly, he said, "Do you know how wars begin, Rhea?"

She frowned. "With ambition. With power plays."

Karna shook his head. "With small things. A word here, a lie there. A match striking dry wood."

A house built to burn.

Her stomach twisted. "You're saying this—"

"I'm saying," he cut in, "that you should let this go."

She clenched her fists. "I can't."

Karna exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He looked almost... frustrated. "You don't get it, do you? You think you're an observer, that you can watch without getting pulled in."

He stepped closer, his voice lower now.

"But in Hastinapura, there are no bystanders."

Her breath caught.

For the first time, she saw something in him that she hadn't before—not just loyalty, not just honor, but someone who had learned the cost of playing this game.

And she was starting to learn it too.

Karna sighed, stepping back. "Do what you want, Rhea. But don't say I didn't warn you."

She hesitated.

Then, before she could think better of it, she turned and walked away.

Because she had already made her choice.

She had to warn the Pandavas.

Even if no one listened.

Even if it put a target on her back.

She didn't notice the figure watching from the shadows.

She didn't hear the quiet footsteps that followed her.

By the time she realized she wasn't alone, it was already too late.