The great hall of Panchala still echoed with the furious murmurs of the assembled kings and nobles.

The golden fish had fallen.

The challenge had been conquered.

The bow—the bow that had humbled so many great warriors—had been strung and mastered.

And yet, it had not been a king, not a prince, not a great general of Aryavarta who had triumphed.

It was a brahmin.

Or at least, that was what the world believed.

Draupadi had not moved from her place.

She had not spoken.

But her heart knew.

Her fingers curled around the garland, her pulse steady.

It was him.

She lifted her gaze toward Krishna. He had remained seated, watching the events unfold as if this were nothing more than an expected turn of fate.

And when she met his eyes, he only smiled.

A quiet assurance.

A confirmation.

She exhaled softly.

Her choice had already been made.

Draupadi stepped forward.

The sound of her anklets was the only noise in the chamber as she approached the victorious brahmin.

The court was still reeling in shock.

Whispers spread like wildfire.

"She cannot—" "Surely, the king will not allow—" "A swayamvara must be between equals!"

But Draupadi heard none of them.

She saw only him.

The warrior in disguise.

The man who had returned from the ashes of Lakshagraha.

With steady hands, she lifted the garland and placed it around his neck.

And in that moment, the court shattered.

Gasps.

Shouts.

The gathered nobles rose in outrage, their anger filling the grand hall like a thunderstorm ready to break.

"This is outrageous!"

"She has dishonored Kshatriyas!"

"This swayamvara is a farce!"

Swords were drawn.

Some kings stood from their seats, calling for Drupada to stop the marriage, to declare the contest void.

The swayamvara had been meant to strengthen alliances, to forge a bond with a powerful kingdom.

But now—

Drupada himself had not yet moved.

His face was frozen, unreadable.

His daughter had garlanded a man with no name.

A nobody.

He should stop this.

He should demand a redo.

But then—

A voice cut through the rising chaos.

Krishna stood, his expression calm despite the storm brewing around him.

"Would the assembled kings and warriors deny a woman her right to choose?" he asked, his voice carrying effortlessly through the hall.

The murmurs did not cease, but there was a pause.

"Does Aryavarta no longer honor a princess's will?" he continued, his dark eyes glinting with something unreadable.

Many nobles shifted uncomfortably.

Krishna turned his gaze toward Drupada.

"Maharaj, your daughter has made her choice. Will you dishonor her will?"

Drupada's fingers tightened around his throne.

He wanted to refuse.

But the court was watching.

The world was watching.

And Draupadi stood unshaken.

With a slow, reluctant exhale, Drupada spoke.

"The contest was fair."

He forced the words out.

"I will not go against my daughter's decision."

But he did not look at her.

The court exploded once more.

Many stormed out in fury, their faces red with insult.

Some warriors vowed vengeance, calling the contest a trick, a disgrace to kshatriya honor.

But there was nothing they could do.

The swayamvara had been completed.

The princess had chosen.

Draupadi turned, stepping beside the brahmin—beside Arjuna—as the chaos unfolded behind them.

But before they could leave the hall—

Her father's voice stopped them.

"Draupadi."

She turned.

Drupada's face was unreadable, but his eyes held something... calculating.

"You have chosen him," he said, his voice carrying through the hall. "Then go with him. Go to his home. Let us see what this victor of yours truly is."

Draupadi did not falter.

She merely bowed.

And with that, they left the great hall of Panchala.

They did not take the royal chariots.

There were no grand processions, no farewell blessings.

Instead, Draupadi walked on foot beside her new husband.

Beside him, the other brahmins followed.

But she knew.

She knew.

The way they moved—disciplined, silent, precise.

These were not men of temples or schools.

They were warriors.

And she knew, with every step that took her further from the palace, that her life had changed forever.

They left behind the world of courts and kings.

And ahead—

Ahead, the forest awaited.

Ahead, the truth would be revealed.

The hall was nearly empty now, save for a few guards and advisors.

Drupada sat stiffly on his throne, his mind racing.

His daughter had chosen a man with no title, no known lineage.

But something was wrong.

He could feel it.

A victorious brahmin who held a bow like a warrior? Who had the strength of a kshatriya?

He turned to Krishna.

"You know something," he said. "Who is he, truly?"

Krishna only smiled, tilting his head slightly. "Do you wish to hear the answer, Maharaj?"

Drupada exhaled sharply. "Speak."

Krishna stepped forward, leaning in slightly.

"You wished for your daughter to marry the greatest archer in Aryavarta," he said softly. "And she has."

Drupada's hands clenched the arms of his throne. "That... that means—"

Krishna's gaze met his.

"She has married Arjuna."

Drupada's breath caught.

His mind reeled.

His eyes widened with something between shock and realization.

The son of Pandu.

The exiled prince of Hastinapura.

He rose abruptly from his throne, his pulse hammering in his ears.

The son of Indra.

The warrior who should have died in the fire.

But he hadn't.

He was here.

And he had just taken his daughter.

The dice of fate had been cast.

And the war for the future had begun.