The great hall of Panchala was still humming with whispers.

Duryodhana walked swiftly, his steps sharp with restrained frustration. Ashwatthama followed in silence, his jaw set, his shoulders stiff.

But Karna?

Karna was quiet in a way that was different.

Not tense. Not angry.

But watchful.

As they stepped past the towering pillars of the grand entrance, Karna slowed, his gaze flickering back—just once—toward the swayamvara hall.

And that was when he saw him.

The brahmin.

Just another ordinary man among the gathered spectators, draped in simple robes, his hair unbound like an ascetic.

He should have been unremarkable.

But Karna had fought too many battles to miss the way a warrior carried himself.

The way a man stood.

The way he held his weight evenly on both feet.

The way his hands curled slightly, unconsciously adjusting for balance.

And most of all—the way he looked at the bow.

Not with curiosity.

Not with awe.

But with certainty.

Karna's breath slowed.

Duryodhana was still speaking beside him, muttering about Draupadi, about the insult, about how they should have overturned the swayamvara altogether.

Karna barely heard him.

Because suddenly, everything fit together.

The missing Pandavas. The mysterious fire at Varnavrat. The way Krishna had intervened at this very moment.

And the way this brahmin—this seemingly unknown man—stood with the confidence of someone who had drawn a thousand arrows before.

Arjuna.

It was him.

Alive.

Here.

And about to win Draupadi's hand.

Karna inhaled sharply, the weight of it settling into his chest.

He should have said something.

He should have turned and told Duryodhana what he had seen.

But he didn't.

Because even as he recognized Arjuna, he also recognized something else.

Fate had already chosen.

And for all his anger, for all his wounds—Karna knew better than to fight against fate.

Rhea was still inside.

She had lingered, long enough to watch the shift in the hall.

Long enough to see Krishna watching the brahmin with quiet amusement.

Long enough to see Draupadi straighten, the slightest hope flickering in her eyes.

She didn't understand it fully—not yet.

But she knew something was about to happen.

And something told her that when she stepped outside, things would not be the same.

By the time she reached the entrance, the others were already ahead.

She stepped into the open air, the cool breeze washing over her, just as Karna glanced over his shoulder.

He was looking at her.

Not in the usual way—not with exasperation or amusement or indifference.

But as if he was debating something.

For the briefest second, Rhea had the strangest feeling that he had a truth sitting on his tongue, waiting to be spoken.

And then, just as quickly, he turned away.

As if he had already decided against it.

She frowned. "What is it?"

Karna exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Nothing."

Rhea narrowed her eyes. "No, that's not a 'nothing' kind of face."

Karna let out a low chuckle, though it lacked its usual sharpness. "You're too observant for your own good."

She crossed her arms. "I'll take that as a compliment."

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering something. "Tell me, Rhea... have you ever watched the sky just before a storm?"

She blinked at the sudden shift in topic. "What?"

"The way everything stills. The way the air changes." His gaze flickered back toward the hall, toward the man who was not a brahmin. "And you just know... something is coming."

Rhea followed his gaze, her stomach tightening.

She had not recognized the brahmin.

But she knew Karna had.

And that alone was enough to tell her that this was no ordinary competition.

Something was about to change.

And she wasn't sure if she was ready for it.