The weight of Krishna's words settled over the hut like a storm that had yet to break.

Draupadi stood at the center of it all, her hands curled into fists at her sides. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts.

A past life. A boon she had never chosen. A fate that had been written before she even existed in this form.

She felt like she was drowning in choices she had never made.

And yet, they stood there—five men, her supposed husbands, waiting. Not questioning. Not resisting. Simply accepting.

She had been raised in a court of warriors, among men who fought to win what they desired. And yet, not one of these men had fought for her right to choose.

Her voice, when it came, was cold.

"You stand here," she said, her gaze sweeping over them, "and tell me this is dharma."

Bhima's expression darkened, but Yudhishthira remained calm. "It is not just dharma. It is fate."

Draupadi let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Fate," she repeated. "Convenient, isn't it?"

Arjuna shifted, his jaw tightening. "Draupadi—"

"Do not say my name like you have the right," she cut him off, her eyes burning. "You stood in that hall and won me. You led me away as my husband. And now you expect me to quietly accept that I am to be given away to your brothers like a gift?"

A muscle ticked in Arjuna's jaw, but he had no answer.

Of course he didn't.

None of them did.

"You say this was decided by the gods," she continued, voice rising. "That this was written before I was even born. But I was not there to agree to it. I was not there to ask for it. So tell me, Krishna, if my soul made this decision in another life, why do I still feel like I am being forced into something against my will?"

Krishna held her gaze. He did not flinch. He did not look away.

"You feel that way," he said gently, "because you are human."

Draupadi inhaled sharply.

"But tell me this, Panchali," Krishna continued. "If you had been given the choice in this life, if you had known everything before stepping into the swayamvara... would you have chosen differently?"

Draupadi opened her mouth—then stopped.

Would she?

If she had known Arjuna was not just fighting for himself but for his brothers... if she had known what would come after... would she have placed the garland around his neck?

Her hands trembled.

She did not know.

Krishna watched her, something knowing in his eyes. "The truth is, Draupadi, choice and fate are not always separate. Sometimes, they are the same river flowing in different directions."

Her nails dug into her palms. "And what if I refuse?"

Yudhishthira exhaled. "Then we will not force you."

The words were calm. But they were not reassuring.

Because the truth was—refusal changed nothing.

She could walk away. But she would always be known as the woman who denied dharma, denied her fate, denied her own past-life boon.

She would always be a story told in whispers, a queen who turned her back on destiny.

And that, too, was a chain.

Before she could respond, before she could even decide—

The hut door slammed open.

A gust of wind swept through, carrying the scent of dust and rage.

And standing there, his chest rising and falling with barely contained fury—

Drupada.

Draupadi's father.

His face was like carved stone, his gaze burning with the fire of a king who had just realized he had been played.

"Is this true?" Drupada's voice thundered, his gaze snapping to Krishna. "Did you know this would happen?"

Krishna did not look surprised. "Would it change anything if I did?"

Drupada's hands curled into fists. "You allowed me to arrange a swayamvara for my daughter, knowing that she would not truly belong to one husband?"

Krishna tilted his head. "Did you not once seek out the rishis and ask them for a divine son who would avenge your honor?"

Drupada's jaw clenched.

"That son was born as Dhrishtadyumna," Krishna continued. "But he was not alone. The fire gave you two children that day. A warrior—and a queen whose fate was written long before you ever thought of revenge."

Drupada's breath was sharp. "You speak in riddles, Krishna, but my daughter is not bound by the past. She is my child, and she will not be treated like a prize to be shared."

A sharp laugh left Rhea's lips. "Oh, so now everyone cares about what Draupadi wants?"

Drupada's gaze flickered to her, but Krishna spoke before he could.

"This is not the first time a woman has married more than one man, King of Panchala," he said, his voice calm but firm. "It will not be the last."

Drupada's eyes flashed. "You expect me to believe that such a thing has ever been dharma?"

Krishna smiled slightly. "Have you not heard of the wives of the great rishis?"

Drupada frowned.

"In the time of the rishis," Krishna continued, "there were women who were shared by great sages. Lopamudra, wife of Agastya, lived among many sages in her quest for wisdom. Uloopi, the serpent princess, did not belong to one man but guided many warriors. Even the celestial nymphs—Menaka, Rambha—were bound to more than one partner through destiny."

His gaze settled on Drupada. "This is not the first time such a path has been walked. It is only the first time you have witnessed it."

Drupada's fists tightened, but his rage had shifted—turning inward, caught between his love for his daughter and the truth he could not deny.

Draupadi swallowed hard.

It was not fair.

None of this was fair.

But she was a queen. A warrior's daughter.

She would not be given the choice to undo fate.

Only the choice to bear it.

She inhaled slowly, lifting her chin. When she spoke, her voice was clear, unwavering.

"I do not accept this because it is dharma," she said. "I do not accept it because of fate, or because of past lives, or because of a mistake made before a god."

Her eyes flickered to Arjuna, then to the rest of the Pandavas.

"I accept it," she said, "because I choose to make my own fate from this moment onward."

Krishna's gaze met hers, approval gleaming beneath his ever-knowing smile.

Drupada looked as if he wanted to argue. But he did not.

And the Pandavas—

They bowed their heads.

For the first time, Draupadi was not just a woman caught in a story written by others.

She was the one writing it now.

And though she had lost something today—

She would make sure that, in the end, she was the one who won.