The knock came again.

Louder. More insistent.

Rhea dragged in a sharp breath, pressing a hand against her racing heart as if that alone could slow it. The air in her room was still thick with something unspoken, the ghost of a presence that had vanished the moment she looked away.

Her wrist still tingled where his fingers had been.

And now someone else was at her door.

She inhaled once, twice—then pulled it open.

Draupadi stood on the other side.

Her dark eyes flickered over Rhea, taking in the way she hesitated, the way her breath still hadn't quite steadied. She saw everything.

But she did not ask.

She did not pry.

She simply met Rhea's gaze with something calm, unreadable, and said, "We need to talk."

Rhea swallowed. "Of course."

She stepped aside, letting Draupadi enter. The new queen of the Pandavas walked with the same effortless grace she always had, but tonight, something in her stride was heavier. A weight, unseen but undeniable, settled over her shoulders.

Rhea shut the door behind them.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Draupadi did not sit immediately. Instead, she wandered toward the window, her hands clasped in front of her as she stared out at the night. The torches flickered below, shadows stretching long across the stone courtyard. The city was alive, even at this hour—unlike the palace, where silence reigned.

But silence was always a deceptive thing.

It was not the absence of sound. It was the weight of waiting.

Rhea leaned against the edge of the table, watching her carefully.

Draupadi was not a woman prone to doubt. She had walked into the court of her father's enemies and left crowned as queen. She had stood tall when men spoke of her as a prize to be claimed. And yet—tonight, something in her posture had shifted.

Something uncertain.

Something vulnerable.

"You stood up for me," Draupadi said suddenly, her voice quieter than Rhea had ever heard it. "When they spoke of dividing me among them."

Rhea inhaled slowly.

She had not expected this.

"It wasn't right," she said simply.

Draupadi let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "No, it wasn't."

Silence.

Then—

"I don't know if I can do this."

The words were soft, almost a whisper.

Rhea frowned. "Do what?"

Draupadi turned then, and for the first time, Rhea saw something rare—something fragile.

Doubt.

"I don't know if I can be what they need me to be," Draupadi admitted, her jaw tight. "A wife to five men. A queen. A woman worthy of their legacy. I thought I was strong enough. But now...I don't know."

Rhea studied her carefully.

Draupadi was fire. She burned bright, she stood tall, she did not waver.

But even fire could be smothered under too much expectation.

"You don't have to be what they expect, Draupadi," Rhea said after a pause. "You only have to be yourself."

Draupadi exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "And if that's not enough?"

"Then they don't deserve you."

A long, weighted silence.

Then Draupadi sat, sinking onto the floor cushions as if the strength in her legs had finally given out. Rhea followed suit, watching as she pressed her hands together tightly in her lap.

"I am their wife," Draupadi murmured. "But I was never meant to be."

Rhea said nothing. She knew that feeling too well.

Draupadi continued, voice quieter now. "I was never meant to be shared. And now, the world watches, waiting to see how I will balance them all. How I will not falter. How I will not favor one over the others. How I will not break under the weight of it all."

Rhea exhaled.

She could not pretend to understand what it felt like to be in Draupadi's place.

But she did understand expectations.

And she understood how heavy they could be.

She leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees. "Who says you have to balance them at all?"

Draupadi blinked.

Rhea tilted her head. "They made this decision, Draupadi. Not you. You do not owe them equal love. You do not owe them anything except the truth of what you feel. Some bonds will be stronger than others. Some will come easier. Some may never come at all. And that is not your burden to fix."

Draupadi looked away. "If only the world saw it that way."

Rhea scoffed. "The world is filled with fools who would rather see a woman suffer than admit she deserves more."

That earned a small, tired chuckle.

Draupadi shook her head. "You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple," Rhea said. "Difficult, but simple."

Draupadi sighed, rubbing her temple. "And what of the conspiracies? The whispers? My father already distrusts them. And I see it too, the way the court watches me, the way their own kin scheme behind their backs." She exhaled sharply. "I know betrayal. I know what it looks like. And I know it lingers in the shadows of this family."

Rhea's fingers tapped against the table.

She could not deny it.

Draupadi was right.

The Kuru court was not a place of peace. It was a battlefield of politics, of alliances, of long-simmering resentments.

And Draupadi, despite her fire, was now caught in the web of it.

Rhea spoke carefully. "You will not be able to trust them all."

Draupadi scoffed. "Trust? I am not that naive."

Rhea tilted her head. "No. But you still believe in fairness. In justice. That will be your greatest strength." She paused. "And your greatest vulnerability."

Draupadi's expression shifted.

Understanding.

Wariness.

Acceptance.

"I will not break," she murmured, more to herself than to Rhea.

"No," Rhea agreed. "You won't."

A long silence stretched between them.

And then, in a rare moment of quiet intimacy, Draupadi reached for Rhea's hand.

Squeezed it once.

A silent thank you.

Rhea squeezed back.

No more words were needed.

Because in the quiet of that moment, they both understood—

The game had only just begun.

And neither of them could afford to lose.