Rhea had always known she was powerless in the great game of Hastinapura. She had no armies, no throne, no bloodline strong enough to shield her from the storm.

But she had always believed she could survive it.

Now, she wasn't so sure.

Because the Pandavas were leaving.

And she knew—she knew—they were walking into a trap.

She had tried. Gods, she had tried.

First, she had gone to Vidura.

She had told him everything—the strange materials, the secrecy, the whispers of a 'grand farewell.' She had watched his face, searching for some sign that he already knew, that he would do something.

Vidura had listened, his expression unreadable. And then, instead of confirming or denying, he had simply said:

"Do not speak of this again."

She had wanted to scream.

Instead, she had tried again, more desperate this time. "They are being sent to die."

Vidura's hands had clasped behind his back, the weight of his silence suffocating. Then, softly, he said, "Some truths cannot be spoken, Rhea."

She had stormed out before she could say something she'd regret.

Vidura wasn't going to stop it. He couldn't.

Which meant she was alone.

She spent the next day watching, looking for any sign that someone else saw what she did.

Bhishma had been unusually quiet. His shoulders carried a weight that no one else seemed to notice, but when she tried to approach him, he dismissed her with a tired sigh.

"I cannot fight battles that have already been lost."

Kunti was unreadable, her face a perfect mask of dignity and restraint. But there was something in her eyes—something that made Rhea hesitate.

Did she already know?

Would she say anything if she did?

She had even gone to Karna again.

This time, she had not been subtle.

She had gripped his wrist, voice low with frustration. "Are you going to let this happen?"

Karna had stared at her, silent for a long moment.

Then he had smiled. Not cruel. Not kind. Just... tired.

"You think this is the first time injustice has been ignored in Hastinapura?"

Her throat had tightened. "So you'll do nothing?"

Karna exhaled, pulling his wrist from her grip. "I have already made my choices, Rhea."

The conversation ended there.

And now, as she watched the Pandavas prepare to leave, she felt sick.

She had done everything she could.

And it wasn't enough.

The departure was treated as a celebration.

The people cheered, nobles offered well-wishes, and the Kauravas stood at the steps of the palace, smiling as if they weren't sending their cousins to their deaths.

Rhea stood at the edge of the courtyard, nails digging into her palms as she forced herself to stay silent.

Yudhishthira, always dignified, bowed to Dhritarashtra, speaking words of gratitude that Rhea knew were hollow.

Bhima was grinning, rolling his shoulders as if eager to stretch his strength in a new place.

Arjuna, observant as ever, let his gaze flicker over the crowd. When his eyes landed on her, he paused.

She felt the weight of his stare.

She should have looked away. She didn't.

There was a question in his eyes.

But she had no answer to give him.

Then Nakula and Sahadeva stepped forward, and the moment passed.

Duryodhana clapped Yudhishthira's shoulder, too friendly. Shakuni smiled, speaking of prosperity and honor.

And then, just like that—they were gone.

Rhea stood there long after the last chariot disappeared down the road.

The cheers faded. The crowd dispersed.

And still, she didn't move.

Because she had just watched them walk away.

And she hadn't been able to stop it.