Hastinapura had never been a home.

Not for her.

It was a city of marble and gold, built on power, held together by unspoken rules.

She had learned those rules early—long before she ever set foot in the palace.

Because her father had lived by them.

And in the end, those same rules had swallowed him whole.

She still remembered the day his name was erased.

She had been eight, still too young to understand the weight of politics but old enough to notice the shift.

One day, her father had been a respected advisor, his voice steady as he spoke in court.

The next, his seat was empty.

At first, she had thought he was sick. She had waited by the door, expecting him to return, dusting off his robes like nothing had changed.

But he never came home.

And when she asked, people stopped meeting her eyes.

The servants who had once smiled at her turned away. The guards at the palace gates tightened their grips on their weapons. The noblewomen who had once spoken kindly to her suddenly whispered behind their hands.

And then, one night, she overheard a conversation she was never meant to hear.

She had woken to the sound of her mother's voice—low, desperate.

"This isn't right."

Vidura's voice had been calm, but firm. "It doesn't matter if it isn't right. The decision has been made."

"You know my husband was loyal."

"Loyalty means nothing when the dice have already been cast."

Rhea had stayed frozen in place, heart hammering.

She didn't understand the words—not fully.

But she understood what they meant.

Her father wasn't coming back.

And no one would ever tell her why.

Her mother had never been the same after that.

At first, she had tried to hold them together.

She had kept the house in order, had still held Rhea close at night, had still tucked her hair behind her ear with gentle hands.

But there had been something else, too.

Something new.

The way she kept the doors bolted at night, even though Hastinapura was safe. The way she flinched when she heard footsteps outside. The way she refused to let Rhea walk alone in the courtyard anymore.

And then, one day, she was gone too.

The palace had its own explanation.

"A tragedy," they said.

"Grief consumed her."

"She couldn't live without him."

People whispered condolences, but Rhea saw the truth in their faces.

They weren't surprised.

And that terrified her more than anything else.

Vidura had taken her in.

Not because he wanted to.

But because no one else would.

She had expected him to offer her answers.

But Vidura never spoke of the past.

He never said her father's name again.

Instead, he had taught her to survive.

To listen to what wasn't being said. To watch who spoke first and who stayed silent. To recognize when a conversation was a test.

Vidura was not cruel.

But he was a man who understood power.

And he knew that Rhea had no power at all.

So he taught her the only thing that would keep her alive.

How to stay invisible.

But no matter how much she had tried to stay unseen, she had still grown up in a palace full of powerful men.

She had watched them from the edges of rooms, memorizing their faces before they ever noticed her.

And over time, she had learned to see them for what they really were.

Bhishma.

The legend. The man of unshakable vows.

She had feared him as a child—not because he had ever harmed her, but because his presence was too great.

Bhishma didn't need to raise his voice to be heard. He didn't need to remind anyone of his power.

It was in the way he stood. The way people bowed their heads when he passed. The way he watched over Hastinapura, carrying its weight as if it were his own.

But as she grew older, she realized something else.

Bhishma was trapped.

By duty. By loyalty. By the same kingdom he had sworn to protect.

A man who could fight gods in battle, but could not break the chains of his own choices.

Vidura.

He was different. He saw things others didn't.

He had been the first to understand that the Kauravas and Pandavas were walking toward war long before the rest of the court.

But knowing the truth meant nothing if you had no power to change it.

And Vidura, for all his wisdom, was powerless.

Because wisdom did not rule Hastinapura.

Strength did.

And for all his intelligence, Vidura was neither a warrior nor a king.

So he learned to play the game.

And in doing so, he had taught Rhea how to survive it.

Duryodhana.

If Bhishma was bound by honor, Duryodhana was bound by his own certainty.

He didn't question himself.

He didn't hesitate.

Duryodhana believed he was right, and that was all that mattered.

But Rhea had seen the way he watched people when they weren't looking.

He wasn't just arrogant.

He was calculating.

And that made him far more dangerous than people realized.

Karna.

She still wasn't sure what to make of him.

He wasn't a noble, not really.

But he wasn't a commoner either.

He was something else—caught between two worlds, trying to prove he belonged in one of them.

And that?

That made him angry.

Not in the way Duryodhana was.

Duryodhana's anger was a fire that burned outwards, meant to consume.

But Karna's?

Karna's anger was quiet.

A slow, simmering thing that never went out.

And she wasn't sure which was worse.

So many men.

So many rulers, warriors, schemers.

But in the end, none of them had saved her father.

None of them had saved her mother.

None of them had saved her.

She had learned that lesson long ago.

No one was coming to save her.

If she wanted the truth—if she wanted to stop running from her past—

She would have to find it herself.