Memory was a strange thing. Some moments passed like smoke, forgotten as soon as they were lived, while others clung like ink to parchment, refusing to fade no matter how much time tried to wash them away.

For Rhea, Hastinapura had always been a palace of echoes—of voices layered upon each other, each one certain, each one convinced that their truth was the only truth. It was a kingdom of men who all believed they were right.

The Pandavas were no different.

She had grown up watching them, observing them from the edges of grand halls and quiet courtyards. They were called righteous, dharmic, men of virtue. And yet, the more she watched, the more she saw the contradictions beneath their ideals.

Even now, in the solitude of her thoughts, she could still hear their voices.

She had once asked Yudhishthira what it meant to be righteous.

It had been a quiet evening, long before the weight of kingship had settled on his shoulders. He had been seated in the library, a scroll unrolled before him, but his mind was elsewhere.

"A king must be just," he had said, answering her without looking up. "A king must never waver in dharma."

Rhea had tilted her head. "And what if dharma is not so clear?"

Yudhishthira had finally lifted his gaze then, surprised by the question.

"Dharma is always clear," he had said with quiet conviction.

She had not argued with him then, but she had wanted to.

Because it wasn't true.

She had seen how easily righteousness could be shaped to suit one's own needs. She had seen how people could justify their actions in the name of duty. And she had seen how, sometimes, the right choice was the one that broke the rules.

Yet, Yudhishthira believed in absolutes. To him, dharma was a path that never wavered. But Rhea had already learned that the world did not work that way. There were choices that could not be unmade, sacrifices that could not be justified, and battles that could not be won by virtue alone.

Did he truly believe that dharma would save him? Or did he simply refuse to acknowledge the weight of the choices he had yet to make?

She had left him with his scrolls that evening, but the question had never left her mind.

Bhima, however, was different.

He did not think in complexities, in moral dilemmas or layered philosophies. His world was simple. There were those he loved, and there were those who stood against them. There was justice, and there was vengeance.

He had never pretended to be anything else.

"You think too much," he had once told her, laughing as he tossed a wooden practice sword over his shoulder. "If someone wrongs you, you strike back. That's all there is to it."

She had watched him then, the way he carried himself, the way his strength shaped him. He did not struggle with the questions that haunted others. He did not weigh his actions on a scale.

He simply acted.

And yet, she wondered—what would happen when strength was not enough? When the battles he fought were not ones that could be won with his fists? Would he still stand as tall when faced with a war that demanded more than power?

Would he know when to stop?

Or would he burn everything in his path, convinced that it was the only way to win?

Arjuna had always been the hardest for her to understand.

He carried a kind of restlessness, an unease that lurked beneath his skill, beneath his unwavering focus. He was a warrior, yes, but he was also a man who searched for something beyond war, beyond victory.

She had seen it in his eyes when he spoke to Krishna, in the way he hesitated before battle, in the way he questioned even his own greatness.

And yet, despite his doubts, he had always been the favored one—the one destiny itself seemed to bend toward.

She had once asked him if that burden ever felt too heavy.

"You think I was given a choice?" he had asked, a wry smile on his lips. "Some of us are born with purpose, Rhea. Whether we want it or not."

She had thought of that often.

For all his skill, for all his strength, Arjuna did not truly belong to himself. His fate had been written long before he had a say in it. He was the hero of the story, the chosen one, the warrior who could not walk away from war.

But what would happen if he ever wanted to?

What would happen if, one day, Arjuna decided he did not want to be great?

She doubted he would ever allow himself that question.

And that, she thought, was its own kind of tragedy.

Then there was Nakula and Sahadeva. The forgotten ones. The shadows that stood beside their brothers, always present, always loyal.

Nakula carried himself like a prince, like a man who knew his worth but never demanded recognition. He was a warrior, but he fought not for power, nor for ambition, but because it was expected of him.

He was duty-bound in a quiet way, never questioning, never rebelling. But Rhea often wondered—did he ever wish to be more than a supporting figure in someone else's tale?

Did he ever wonder what his life might have been if he had been born first?

And Sahadeva—Sahadeva was the one who saw the future.

Or so the whispers said.

He had always been quieter than the others, always watching, always calculating. He spoke the least, and yet, Rhea often felt that he saw the most.

And she wondered—what was it like to know what was coming?

To see the path laid out before them, to know the war was inevitable?

And to still walk toward it anyway?

In the end, they were all certain of themselves.

Yudhishthira believed dharma would guide him. Bhima believed strength would protect him. Arjuna believed destiny had chosen him. Nakula believed duty would define him. Sahadeva believed knowledge would prepare him.

And yet, Rhea had seen too much to believe in certainty.

She had watched the wisest men make foolish choices. She had seen warriors fall not in battle, but to their own convictions. She had seen kings lose their thrones because they trusted in fate instead of themselves.

And she wondered—what would happen when the world did not bend to their beliefs?

What would they do when faced with the truth that righteousness did not always win, that strength could not protect against betrayal, that destiny did not always favor the worthy?

Would they break?

Or would they simply find new justifications to hold onto?

Rhea sighed, rubbing a tired hand over her face.

Perhaps that was what it meant to be a ruler, a warrior, a man of honor.

To convince yourself that your path was the right one.

Even when the world was burning around you.