The forest stretched before them, silent except for the rustling of leaves beneath their feet. The night was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant woodsmoke. The Pandavas walked with the ease of men who had long called the wilderness their home, but Draupadi could feel the weight of something unspoken pressing between them.

She had known that marrying Arjuna meant leaving behind the luxuries of her father's palace, but she had not expected this—a journey into the unknown, beside men who were still strangers to her.

Bhima was the first to speak, his voice breaking the stillness.

"Well, Panchala will not forget us anytime soon," he said, his tone somewhere between amusement and irritation. "I am fairly certain half the court wanted to chase us down with swords."

"Not half," Nakula corrected, grinning. "At least three-quarters."

"For good reason," Draupadi said, arching a brow. "A man no one had ever heard of walked into my swayamvara, lifted the bow no other king could lift, and left without so much as explaining who he was. What did you expect?"

For the first time, Arjuna glanced at her, his expression unreadable.

Yudhishthira, however, smiled. "True. But the truth always catches up, Princess."

She already knew. Krishna had hinted as much even before she had placed the garland around Arjuna's neck. She had chosen a warrior, but she had also chosen a Pandu prince in exile.

But she had not chosen what came next.

She watched as the brothers exchanged a look, one that spoke of an understanding only they shared. Their bond was clear—unshakable, effortless. Draupadi had spent her life among kings and warriors, men who saw their own brothers as rivals. But these five?

They were not like that.

"You already know Arjuna," Yudhishthira said after a moment, as if sensing her thoughts. "But allow me to introduce the rest properly."

He gestured to Bhima. "Our second brother. Strong enough to tear a man apart with his bare hands, but sentimental about food and far too dramatic for his own good."

Bhima scowled. "I am standing right here."

"Yes," Sahadeva said lightly. "That's what makes this more entertaining."

Draupadi hid a smile.

"Bhima is the one you'd want at your side in a battle," Yudhishthira continued, ignoring the interruption. "And the one you should never challenge to an eating contest."

"That's unfair," Bhima grumbled. "I never refuse food offered in friendship."

Sahadeva coughed. "Or food offered in silence. Or food stolen from someone else's plate."

Bhima shot him a glare, and Draupadi found herself laughing—unexpected, but real.

Yudhishthira turned next to Nakula and Sahadeva. "The twins. Nakula thinks he is charming, and Sahadeva knows he is too intelligent for all of us."

Nakula grinned. "I am charming."

"Debatable," Arjuna muttered.

Draupadi exhaled, feeling something shift within her. She had stepped into an unfamiliar world, but it was not as cold as she had feared.

And yet, the closer they got to their destination, the more the lightness faded from the Pandavas' expressions.

Arjuna had won her, but something in him seemed hesitant. As if there was another truth she had yet to see.

The small hut came into view.

A humble shelter nestled between the trees—far from the grand palaces she had known, far from the world she had once belonged to. And inside, Kunti was waiting.

Yudhishthira stopped just before the threshold, exhaling as though bracing himself.

They stepped inside, the dim firelight casting flickering shadows against the walls. Kunti sat before a small Shiva idol, her head bowed in silent meditation, the beads of her rosary slipping through her fingers.

She did not look up.

She did not acknowledge them.

Bhima stepped forward, a small grin on his lips. "Mother, you will be pleased to know that Arjuna has brought something wonderful back today!"

Kunti did not turn.

Her fingers did not still in their movement over the prayer beads.

But her voice—calm, distant, spoken between a vow and a command—cut through the space between them.

"Enjoy what you have brought."

The words landed like a blow.

Bhima's grin vanished. Nakula and Sahadeva stilled.

Yudhishthira inhaled slowly.

Draupadi felt the world tilt.

Her stomach clenched, her breath catching in her throat.

Share it among yourselves.

She turned to Arjuna, expecting him to correct this. To say that his mother had misunderstood.

But he remained silent.

For the first time since she had placed the garland around his neck, Arjuna looked uncertain.

Kunti finally lifted her gaze.

And the moment her eyes landed on Draupadi—

Realization struck.

The fire crackled between them, flickering like an omen. Kunti's gaze was sharp, assessing, but not cruel.

"Tell me," she said finally, looking at her sons, "what have I just done?"

Silence.

Yudhishthira lowered his gaze.

Nakula and Sahadeva exchanged a glance.

Bhima, for once, had no words.

And Arjuna—

Arjuna would not meet her eyes.

Draupadi's hands trembled.

She turned to Yudhishthira, voice tight. "You are the eldest. What do you say?"

Yudhishthira met her gaze, calm but unwavering.

"We will follow our mother's words," he said, his voice steady. "Because they were spoken before the idol of Shiva while she was fasting."

Her heart pounded.

"Even when it was a mistake?"

Yudhishthira did not waver.

"A vow made in devotion cannot be undone."

Draupadi turned to Arjuna, seeking something—anything.

"Tell me you do not agree," she whispered.

Arjuna exhaled, his jaw clenched.

But he said nothing.

That—that silence hurt more than anything.

It was then, at the doorway, that she saw her.

From the Shadows

Unseen by them all, another figure stood at the edge of the trees.

Rhea had followed at a careful distance, her steps light, her presence unnoticed.

She had been sent here for a purpose—to observe, to understand.

But now, as she watched Draupadi's expression shift from joy to quiet devastation, as she saw the flicker of hesitation in the Pandavas, she found herself stepping forward instead of remaining hidden.

Because something about this felt wrong.

She did not know Draupadi, not truly.

But she knew this feeling.

The weight of tradition. The chains of expectations.

"How," Rhea said softly, stepping into the firelight, "does a word spoken in devotion become a command that cannot be undone?"

Draupadi's head snapped toward her, her eyes wide, breath unsteady.

Yudhishthira turned, his expression unreadable. "It was said before Shiva."

"And?" Rhea stepped forward. "Does the God of Destruction demand blind obedience? Or does he demand understanding?"

Silence.

Bhima's brows furrowed. "It is our dharma to follow our mother's words."

"Dharma?" Rhea's voice was sharp now. "Or convenience? If the words had been spoken outside, without fasting, would you still be saying this?"

Yudhishthira exhaled slowly. "We do not question dharma, Rhea."

"Then maybe you should," she shot back. "What part of dharma forces a woman to be divided among five men? What part of dharma is so rigid that a mistake cannot be undone?"

Arjuna's jaw tightened. "We have no choice."

"You always have a choice," Rhea said fiercely. "You're just choosing to pretend you don't."

Draupadi watched the exchange, her hands still trembling.

No one else had said it.

No one else had questioned it.

But Rhea had.

For the first time since stepping into the hut, Draupadi did not feel entirely alone.

And as she looked at Rhea, she realized—this woman was not like the others.

Rhea would not walk away from a battle just because she was told to.

And perhaps, neither would she.