Suyodhana stormed into Gandharaj Shakuni’s private chamber, his sandals striking the marble floor with barely restrained fury. The scent of burning incense curled in the air, mixing with the faint mustiness of the old scrolls and ivory dice strewn across the table. Shakuni sat cross-legged on a low wooden stool, his skeletal fingers idly toying with the dice, rolling them between his fingertips as if coaxing secrets from their hollowed-out centers.

"Leave us,” Suyodhana snapped at the attendants before turning to his uncle. His breath was heavy, his jaw clenched. “How can you sit here and play dice so calmly, Mamashree?! Have you not heard? Those Pandavas have, yet again, managed to slip past our grasp—unscathed, untouched!”

His voice cracked with frustration, his broad frame trembling with rage. The veins in his forearms bulged as he slammed a fist onto the table, sending the dice skittering across the wood.

Shakuni, unfazed, let out a slow chuckle, his lips curving in a serpentine smile. He reached for the fallen dice, rolling them back into his palm with a practiced ease.

“Shānt, mere bāchche… shānt,” he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, his kohl-lined eyes gleaming under the flickering lamp. “Patience is the finest weapon in the art of politics. It is not always the blade that slays a king—it is the slow-acting poison that festers in his own blood.”

Suyodhana huffed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “I have been patient, Mamashree. Too patient! But every day that passes, that pretentious flag bearer of dharma Yudhishthira walks around as Yuvraj, while I—the rightful heir—stand in his shadow. How much longer must I endure this humiliation?”

Shakuni leaned back, fingers tapping idly on his knee. His voice remained measured, but there was an unmistakable steel beneath his words. “Your anger clouds your judgment, dear nephew. You must understand that power is not taken in haste—it is cultivated, ripened, and plucked when the moment is most opportune.”

Suyodhana’s eyes flickered with impatience, but he listened, breathing heavily through his nose.

Shakuni picked up a single die, rolling it absentmindedly between his fingers. “I have made arrangements in Varnavat. The Pandavas will walk into the flames of their own accord. But there is something else to consider—something you have overlooked.”

Suyodhana frowned, irritation flickering across his face. “What is more pressing than ensuring those five never return?”

“The girl.”

“What girl?” Suyodhana scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “You concern yourself with a mere stray? I heard Arjuna and Nakula found her in the forest. We do not even know her caste or lineage. Why waste time on an irrelevant matter?”

Shakuni exhaled through his nose, his smile widening just slightly—just enough to remind Suyodhana why he, and not the Kuru prince, was the true mind behind their schemes.

“You think too narrowly, my child,” Shakuni murmured, his voice almost indulgent. “A nameless girl? A mere wanderer? Tell me, then—have you heard of Maharani Satyavati?”

Suyodhana stiffened.

“She, too, was of unknown birth. And yet, through her, the mighty Kuruvansh was thrown into disarray. For her, your Pitamah Bhishma still stands—an unbreakable wall shielding your enemies. One woman’s presence can alter the course of an empire, if placed correctly on the board.”

Suyodhana was silent for a moment, chewing on his lower lip. Then he scowled. “And what do you propose?”

Shakuni’s eyes gleamed. “Find out everything about her. Her origins, her past—what she means to Arjuna, what she means to Nakula. If she is of noble birth, the Pandavas gain an ally. If not—then we must discover what use she may serve… or how to turn her into a weakness.”

Suyodhana exhaled sharply but nodded, rising from his seat. “Fine. I will see to it.”

As he turned to leave, Shakuni called out one last thing.

“And, my dear nephew… patience. Let them walk to their doom on their own feet. Then, and only then, shall the throne be yours.”

Suyodhana smirked, bowing slightly before stepping out into the corridor. He had no patience for waiting, but if Mamashree willed it… then let the Pandavas play into their hands.

For now.

------------ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ------------

Kunti stood by the doorway for a moment, her gaze lingering on the sleeping girl. The morning light had shifted now, casting golden streaks across the chamber, but the girl remained unchanged—unmoving except for the slow rise and fall of her breath.

There was something unsettling about her. Not just the bruises, nor the strange cut of her hair, nor the scars that told stories Kunti could not yet understand. It was the stillness. A person so young should not carry such a stillness, as if she had already braved a storm that should have shattered her but somehow hadn't.

Who are you, child?

Last night, Kunti had kept vigil, unable to bring herself to leave the girl alone. Even now, Gandhari’s words echoed in her mind.

"She is burdened with something heavy. But her fate is not yet unraveled."

That was no answer, and Kunti disliked mysteries, especially those that wandered into her life unbidden. The girl’s arrival was not a coincidence—of that, she was certain.

Still, she forced herself to step away. She had duties to attend to, and more than that, her sons were waiting.

---

The palace halls carried a hushed tension. Servants murmured about Dussala’s unexpected engagement, courtiers speculated about its political ramifications, and Kunti could feel the unease in the very air itself. Suyodhana had acted rashly—again. And it was Yudhishthir who would have to navigate the storm that followed.

As she entered the dining chamber, her heart swelled at the sight of her sons. No matter how much she insisted they eat as per their convenience, they always waited for her. A silent show of respect, of devotion. Even now, though grown, they were bound to her in ways that no throne, no war, no passage of time could ever sever.

Yudhishthir, ever the first to rise, turned as soon as she stepped in. His brothers followed, their movements fluid, automatic. They approached in unison, touching her feet in greeting.

"Pranipaat, Mata," they said, their voices deep, steady, carrying the weight of the men they had become.

"Kalyan ho, putro," Kunti murmured, placing a hand atop Yudhishthir’s head before shifting to bless the others.

She took in each of them—

Yudhishthir, his posture straight, his face calm but with a shadow of concern he had yet to voice. The burden of the throne already weighed upon his shoulders, no matter how gently Pitamaha Bhishma and Kaka Dhritarashtra tried to place it.

Bheem, arms crossed, his sheer presence commanding the space around him. But there was a softness in his gaze when he looked at her, a tenderness only a mother could recognize. He had always been protective, fierce in his love as he was in battle.

Arjun, quiet but watchful, the sharpest mind in the room despite his silence. His fingers idly traced the rim of his cup, but his eyes, his eyes never stilled. A warrior through and through, always assessing, always waiting.

Nakul, ever the most poised, a streak of princely elegance in every movement, even as he adjusted the fold of his angavastram. His concern was hidden behind an easy smile, but Kunti knew better. He had inherited Madri’s heart—he felt deeply but revealed little.

And Sahadev, observant as always, standing slightly apart, his head tilted in quiet contemplation. Unlike his twin, he had no patience for masks. His was a mind sharpened like a blade, precise, calculating, reading not just words but the intent beneath them.

"Come sit with us, Mata," Bheem said, his voice softer than one might expect from a man of his size. He reached for her, a gentle pull at her arm, but she shook her head.

"Not today, Putra. I just came to see whether you have all eaten properly. I must attend to our guest," she said, glancing toward the chamber where the girl rested. "Rajvydaji said she should wake by noon. I have decided I will take my meal there."

"Then we will also join you, Mata," Sahadev said without hesitation.

"Of course," Nakul agreed, as if there was no other choice.

Bheem and Arjun gave firm nods, their loyalty unquestioning.

Only Yudhishthir hesitated. He clasped his hands together and said, "Shyama karna, Mata (Forgive me, Mother), but Kakashree and Pitamah expect me to attend the council to discuss the political consequences of Dussala’s marriage."

Kunti sighed, her concern deepening. The child who had once clung to her hand now bore the weight of Aryavarta’s future. He had no time for ease, no space for indulgences.

"Of course, Putra. But make sure to eat something before you go," she said, her voice gentle.

With a final glance at her eldest, she signaled the dasis to bring the food. As they moved toward the guest chamber, her mind drifted once more to the unknown girl.

Something told her that when she woke, things would begin to change. And Kunti wasn’t certain whether that was a blessing—or a curse.