Hastinapura had seen many strange days, but this—this was different.

The exiled sons of Pandu had returned.

Not as wandering ascetics.

Not as fallen princes begging for a place in the kingdom.

But as men who had survived. As warriors.

And not alone.

They brought back a queen.

Draupadi.

The woman whose name had been on every tongue since the swayamvara. The woman who had caused an uproar across kingdoms. The woman whose marriage had not just been a scandal— —but a war waiting to happen.

And now she was here.

As their wife.

As all of their wife.

The city was alive with whispers.

Servants hurried through the palace halls, nobles gathered in tight groups, and messengers rushed from chamber to chamber.

The gates had opened, and the Pandavas had stepped through—all five of them.

Not as broken exiles. Not as forgotten men.

But as a force.

Yudhishthira, walking at the front, shoulders straight, gaze unreadable.

Bhima, a step behind him, his sheer presence making those around him step back.

Arjuna, silent but watchful, his jaw set as if waiting for the next fight.

Nakula and Sahadeva, sharp-eyed and unreadable, moving as one.

And in the middle of them—Draupadi.

She did not shrink beneath the weight of the stares. She did not falter.

She walked as if she had been born for a throne.

And behind them, Kunti.

The woman whose single mistake had changed everything.

The moment they stepped past the palace gates, the air cracked with tension.

Because there, standing at the steps of the court, waiting—were the Kuru elders.

Bhishma. Drona. Vidura. Dhritarashtra.

And behind them—Duryodhana.

Watching.

The silence was suffocating.

The Pandavas halted before the assembled court, their arrival carrying unspoken challenges.

Vidura stepped forward first, his voice carefully measured. "You have returned."

Yudhishthira inclined his head. "We have."

A pause. Tense. Expectant.

And then—Bhishma spoke.

"We had heard of the events in Panchala," he said, his voice even, unreadable. "But we had not expected... this."

His gaze flicked to Draupadi.

She did not bow. She did not look away.

She met his eyes and held them.

Bhishma's expression did not change, but the weight of the moment settled between them.

Then—finally, Dhritarashtra spoke.

"You bring a bride," he said slowly. "But do you bring her as a wife... or wives?"

And just like that, the unspoken was spoken.

The court stirred.

The whispers swelled.

Duryodhana's lips curved into something too close to amusement.

And Draupadi?

Draupadi's nails dug into her palm.

She had prepared for this.

She had expected this.

And yet—the words still cut.

But this time, she did not let them sink too deep.

Yudhishthira's voice was calm when he answered.

"She is queen to all five of us."

It should have been simple. It should have been final.

But instead—it unleashed chaos.

Gasps rippled through the court.

Drona's brow furrowed, Bhishma's fingers curled slightly at his side. Even Vidura, so often neutral, exhaled softly.

But it was Duryodhana who broke the moment.

He laughed.

Sharp, edged, mocking.

"Astonishing," he mused, stepping forward. "Truly, Yudhishthira, I never expected you to return with a throne. And yet here you are—with a queen to share among yourselves."

Draupadi's spine stiffened.

She could feel his eyes on her. Weighing. Measuring.

Daring her to break.

But she would not.

Not anymore.

Her fingers uncurled from her palm. The nails that once dug into her skin now rested against her sides, calm, measured.

This was her reality now.

Her choice.

Her marriage.

And she would not let Duryodhana—or anyone else—make her feel shame for it.

She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze directly.

"And yet," she said, her voice smooth, steady, "it is not your concern, is it?"

The amusement in his eyes flickered. Just for a moment.

Duryodhana had expected anger. Expected hurt.

He had not expected acceptance.

Draupadi had already won this battle.

Yudhishthira did not respond to the insult. He merely looked at Bhishma.

"Our mother's word is law," he said simply.

And there it was.

The full truth.

Kunti did not flinch. She did not react.

She stood tall, but unlike before—there was guilt in her eyes.

Draupadi could see it now.

The weight of what had happened had settled over Kunti's shoulders like an unseen burden.

She had not meant for this to happen.

But it had happened.

And now, she could never take it back.

Draupadi inhaled slowly, feeling something shift inside her.

She had blamed Kunti before. She had resented her.

But standing here, in this moment—she understood.

This was not cruelty.

This was a mistake that could never be undone.

And Kunti would carry it for the rest of her life.

Draupadi's jaw relaxed, her shoulders easing ever so slightly.

She turned to the court, her voice firm.

"I am Draupadi, daughter of King Drupada. And I stand here as the wife of the Pandavas."

Her gaze swept across the stunned faces before her.

"If anyone has a problem with that, they may take it up with fate itself."

The court fell into complete silence.

And for the first time since she had entered Hastinapura, Draupadi felt like she had won.