The hut was too quiet.

The weight of Draupadi's decision still lingered in the air like the remnants of a dying fire. She had spoken her choice, had accepted her fate—but the embers of something unresolved still burned beneath her skin.

And there was only one person in the room who had dared to say what no one else would.

Rhea.

Draupadi turned just as Rhea was fastening the strap of her travel bag.

"Wait," Draupadi said, her voice softer now. "Before you go... may I speak with you?? As a woman?"

Rhea, who had already been shifting toward the door, stilled.

For a moment, she hesitated.

As if she hadn't expected Draupadi to ask for anything.

Rhea's gaze flicked toward Krishna, who merely smiled and stepped aside—as though he had already foreseen this. The Pandavas exchanged glances, but Draupadi ignored them.

This was not for them.

This was between her and Rhea.

Rhea finally sighed and nodded. "Fine. But make it quick—I have to leave soon."

Draupadi led her toward the far side of the hut, away from the others. She walked first, her back straight, her steps measured. She had spent her life in a court of warriors. She knew how to compose herself when she was breaking inside.

But when Rhea reached her, the careful mask slipped just a little.

Draupadi took a breath. "You meant what you said, didn't you?"

Rhea's brows furrowed. "I usually do."

"You think I should have walked away."

Rhea's expression remained unreadable. "Yes."

Draupadi exhaled. "I thought about it."

Rhea did not look surprised. "Then why didn't you?"

Draupadi's hands curled into fists. "Because if I had, I would have spent the rest of my life being known as the woman who ran from fate."

Rhea tilted her head. "And now you'll be the woman who embraced it instead?"

Draupadi's lips pressed together. "No. I will be the woman who commands it."

A flicker of something crossed Rhea's gaze—something almost like respect.

But she said nothing.

For the first time, Draupadi hesitated. She studied Rhea for a long moment, as if seeing her differently now.

"You don't have to do this," Rhea said suddenly. "You don't have to accept their decision."

Draupadi let out a bitter laugh. "Don't I?"

"You could still refuse."

Draupadi shook her head. "And then what? My father would send me back to Panchala, humiliated. The Pandavas would be accused of dishonoring me. I would become a woman known not for her wisdom or strength—but for her shame."

Rhea folded her arms. "And you would rather be known for this?"

Draupadi met her gaze, unflinching. "No. I would rather be known for what I will do next."

Silence stretched between them.

For the first time, something shifted between Rhea and Draupadi.

Not friendship. Not trust.

But understanding.

Rhea exhaled, adjusting the strap of her bag again. "Then I look forward to seeing what you do, Panchali."

Draupadi lifted her chin. "And I will be watching you."

Rhea smirked. "Oh, I don't think you'll be disappointed."

They stood there for a moment, two women in a world of kings and warriors.

Two women who were expected to follow.

And yet—both of them would change the course of history in their own way.

Draupadi extended her hand.

Rhea hesitated—only for a moment—before taking it.

No words were spoken.

None were needed.

And then, just as quickly as she had arrived, Rhea turned and left.

The door swung shut behind her.

Draupadi watched her go, standing alone in the flickering firelight.

And for the first time that night—she did not feel like she was drowning.

She felt like she was ready.