The tension in the hall was suffocating.

The sound of Draupadi's words—sharp, final—still lingered in the air.

"I shall not wed a suta-putra."

A single sentence. Simple, unshaken.

But it had struck like a blade.

Rhea had witnessed insults in the court of Hastinapura. She had seen men thrown into conflict over a single look, a single misplaced word.

But this? This was different.

This was a dismissal.

Not of Karna's skill. Not of his worth.

But of his right to even try.

Rhea had always thought of Karna as someone unshaken.

A man who did not bow to kings, who did not let whispers about his birth diminish him.

And yet, for a moment, just a moment, she saw it.

A flicker.

Something deep and raw beneath the surface.

Not rage. Not shame.

But something older.

A lifetime of knowing that no matter what he did, no matter how high he reached—he would always be lesser in their eyes.

And yet, Karna did not look away.

He did not step back.

Instead, he took a single step forward.

His voice was steady, clear—devoid of the hurt they all expected. "Princess of Panchala, I do not seek to force my way into your heart or your fate."

His words were calm. Controlled. But underneath them, there was steel.

Duryodhana tensed beside him, eyes flashing with anger, but Karna raised a hand—a quiet command for silence.

He did not need Duryodhana to fight this battle for him.

He was a warrior.

And warriors did not beg for approval.

Rhea exhaled softly.

She should not have been surprised.

Karna had never been the kind of man to let his wounds be seen.

And he had always carried himself with the weight of his own pride.

"I do not ask for your hand, Princess," Karna continued, "but I will not let my worth be determined by a name."

The murmurs in the hall grew.

Some shifted uncomfortably, but others—**especially among the smaller kingdoms—**looked at Karna with a newfound respect.

Because for the first time, someone had said what no one else dared to say.

That a warrior's worth was not in his blood, but in his deeds.

Rhea's fingers curled slightly at her side.

And yet—no one spoke up for him.

No king. No prince.

The silence was the final confirmation.

They had never seen him as an equal.

Not truly.

Draupadi remained still, her expression unreadable.

She had not been cruel in her rejection.

There was no malice in her voice, no hatred in her eyes.

But there had been certainty.

A certainty that Karna had never been given the chance to fight against.

Duryodhana was the first to break the silence.

He scoffed, shaking his head. "So this is Panchala's dharma?"

Drishtadyumna stiffened at that. "Prince of Hastinapura, this is not your concern."

Duryodhana let out a breath—controlled, but sharp. "Not my concern?"

His voice was smooth, but his eyes burned.

"A warrior—one who has stood beside me in battle, who has proven himself stronger than half the men in this hall—is rejected not for his failures, but for his birth?"

He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

"I thought Panchala prided itself on righteousness. On fairness. And yet, today, I see that even the noblest of kingdoms bow to the same outdated chains."

The words were aimed at the entire hall, but his eyes flickered to Draupadi.

And Rhea, watching her closely, saw what no one else did.

Draupadi did not waver.

She did not look away.

But her hands clenched slightly at her sides.

As if she, too, knew that Duryodhana was right.

As if, for the briefest second, she felt the weight of the choice she had made.

And yet—she did not take it back.

Because her fate had already been decided.

And that fate did not belong to Karna.

Duryodhana took a slow breath, as if reigning in his temper.

Then, he turned to Karna.

"We are done here."

It was not a command.

Not an order.

Just a simple fact.

And finally—Karna moved.

Not in anger. Not in haste.

Just calmly.

As if he had nothing more to prove to anyone in this hall.

He turned away from the assembled kings, from the swayamvara, from Draupadi.

And without a word, he walked out of the hall.

Duryodhana followed, his expression dark with restrained fury.

Ashwatthama walked beside them, his silence just as heavy.

And Rhea?

For a moment, she hesitated.

Her eyes flickered to Krishna, seated high near Drupada, watching.

He had not spoken once.

Had not interfered.

Had not stopped any of this from happening.

And that—that was what unsettled her most.

Because Krishna was never silent without reason.

She took a slow breath and followed after them.

They had barely reached the entrance when a new voice rang out behind them.

"Wait!"

Rhea turned back just in time to see Krishna rising from his seat.

He did not seem troubled. Did not seem tense.

He only seemed amused.

Drupada turned to him sharply. "Krishna, what—"

"A true competition," Krishna mused, "should give all warriors a fair chance, should it not?"

Drupada stiffened. "The strongest men of Aryavarta have already stepped forward, Krishna. You have seen them fail."

Krishna smiled. "Yes, I have seen mighty kings fail. But tell me, Raja Drupada—have we invited every warrior in this land?"

Drupada frowned. "What are you suggesting?"

Krishna spread his hands, as if this was the simplest truth in the world. "We have allowed kings and princes to compete. But what of the brahmanas?"

A murmur spread through the crowd.

Rhea's breath caught.

He was extending the challenge.

Not to nobles. Not to rulers. To men who had come here as mere spectators.

Drupada hesitated. "Surely you jest. No mere brahmana could lift that bow—"

"Then what harm is there in allowing them to try?" Krishna's voice was smooth, unshaken. "If they fail, then nothing changes. If they succeed... then perhaps fate has chosen something we did not expect."

Silence.

Then—Drupada nodded.

Reluctantly.

And Rhea?

She saw exactly what had just happened.

Krishna had just rewritten the ending of this swayamvara.

And no one else had even realized it yet.