The fire crackled low, casting long shadows against the walls of the small hut. The air inside was thick—not with smoke, but with something heavier. Fate. Choices. Or the illusion of both.

Rhea stood at the center of it all, her arms folded, her expression sharp.

"This is wrong," she said, her voice unwavering. "You cannot possibly believe this is right."

No one answered.

Draupadi sat, her face unreadable, but the tremor in her hands had not disappeared. Yudhishthira stood near the idol of Shiva, his shoulders tense but his gaze calm. Arjuna had not spoken since Kunti's words had sealed Draupadi's fate.

It was infuriating.

"You say it was spoken before Shiva," Rhea continued, her voice growing sharper. "You say that makes it unchangeable. But why? Since when does Shiva demand blind obedience?"

Yudhishthira finally met her gaze. "A vow spoken before the gods is a vow that must be honored."

"Even if it is wrong?"

"Even if it is painful."

Rhea's jaw tightened. "And what if it had been a different mistake? What if Kunti had said something worse? Would you still follow it?"

Yudhishthira exhaled. "Dharma is not about comfort, Rhea. It is about order."

"Order," she scoffed. "You mean rules. Rules made by men for men. Because I don't see Draupadi being given a choice in this."

Draupadi flinched.

Arjuna's hands curled into fists at his sides. "It is not that simple."

"Then explain it to me," Rhea challenged. "Make me understand why your dharma allows a woman to be divided like a piece of land."

The words landed like a slap.

Bhima's nostrils flared. "You insult dharma itself."

"I insult your version of dharma," Rhea shot back. "The one that suits your needs."

Sahadeva, who had remained silent, finally spoke. "This was not a decision we made."

"No," Rhea said. "It was a decision Kunti made. A decision she didn't even realize she was making. And now you would rather follow it than challenge it, because challenging it would mean asking something far more difficult—"

She turned toward Draupadi.

"What does she want?"

Draupadi inhaled sharply.

Silence stretched between them.

Rhea softened, her voice quieter now. "What do you want, Draupadi?"

Draupadi opened her mouth.

But before she could answer—

Krishna laughed.

The sound was unexpected, light and effortless, yet it filled every corner of the hut.

Rhea turned swiftly.

There, standing just inside the doorway, wrapped in the glow of the firelight and something more, was Krishna.

His gaze moved over them, lingering on Draupadi before settling on Rhea, amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Ah, Rhea," he said, tilting his head. "Always the one to ask the right questions."

Rhea's arms remained crossed. "Then answer them."

Krishna's expression was unreadable, but his voice was calm when he said, "Tell me, Rhea—do you believe this moment was born from a single mistake?"

Her eyes narrowed. "What are you saying?"

Krishna stepped further inside, his presence shifting the very air.

"This did not happen because Kunti spoke before Shiva," he said. "It did not happen because she was fasting."

The tension in the room grew thicker.

"It happened," Krishna continued, "because it was always meant to happen."

Draupadi's breath caught.

"How?" Rhea demanded. "How can you say that?"

Krishna turned to Draupadi now, his voice quieter, almost gentle.

"Panchali," he said, "do you remember your last life?"

The fire crackled. The air stilled.

Draupadi frowned. "What—what do you mean?"

Krishna smiled, but it was tinged with something deeper. "You think this is your first life? That this is the first time your soul has walked this path?"

Draupadi's heart pounded against her ribs.

Krishna turned toward the others. "You were not five men in this life alone," he said. "You have been five before. And Draupadi has been bound to you before. This is not the first time your souls have stood in this moment."

A chill ran through the room.

Krishna faced Draupadi fully now. "Your husband in your last life," he said softly, "died soon after your marriage."

Draupadi stiffened.

"You grieved," Krishna continued, "and in your grief, you turned to Shiva. You performed penance, offering your prayers with a heart that only wished for one thing—a husband who would not be taken from you so soon again."

The flames flickered, casting eerie shapes along the walls.

Krishna's voice was steady. "When Shiva appeared before you, he granted you a boon. You asked for a husband who was—"

He lifted a finger.

"Handsome."

A second.

"An archer."

A third.

"Powerful."

A fourth.

"Intelligent."

A fifth.

"And a man of dharma."

The silence in the room was deafening.

Krishna exhaled. "And Shiva, in his wisdom, told you that a single man could not hold all these virtues alone. That such a man would be nothing less than a god."

The weight of his words filled the space between them.

Rhea's fingers curled at her sides. "And so," she said, her voice dangerously quiet, "Shiva gave her five instead of one."

Krishna inclined his head. "Yes."

Draupadi's hands trembled. "But that was not—" She shook her head. "That was not my decision. It was a boon given in another life. A choice made for me."

Krishna looked at her, a knowing softness in his gaze. "Then tell me, Panchali," he said. "Is it still not your choice now?"

Draupadi's breath came unsteady.

Krishna turned to the others. "You believe this is Kunti's doing," he said, voice light but firm. "But it is not. She was merely the vessel that carried out what was already written."

Yudhishthira's expression did not change, but something flickered in his eyes.

Krishna turned back to Rhea. "You rage against fate, Rhea," he said. "And you should. Fate is not a chain, nor is it a cage. It is a river—one that bends and shifts, but still flows toward the sea."

Rhea clenched her jaw. "Then what is the point of questioning it?"

Krishna smiled. "Because the river does not decide how fast you swim."

Silence.

Draupadi closed her eyes. She felt the weight of Krishna's words settle over her, pressing down on everything she had thought she knew.

Rhea, beside her, exhaled sharply. "So what now?" she muttered. "She simply accepts this?"

Krishna's gaze lingered on Draupadi. "That is not for me to decide."

Draupadi swallowed. Her mind spun with everything she had just learned, with the weight of lifetimes she could not remember.

But one thing was clear.

Kunti had spoken the words.

But fate had already set the path.

And now, whether she liked it or not—it was her choice to walk it.