More than a year had passed since Krishneshwari had embarked on her arduous tapasya. In the opulent halls of the royal palace, a shadow of worry hung heavy in the air. King Dilip, his face etched with lines of worry and exhaustion, paced restlessly across the marble floors. Each passing day amplified his fears, gnawing at his heart with increasing intensity.

He longed for his daughter's return, for the sound of her laughter to echo through the corridors once more. But the silence was deafening, broken only by the hushed whispers of concerned courtiers. And then there was Balaki, the shrewd and ambitious minister, ever-present with his unwelcome counsel. He, along with several other ministers, would repeatedly approach Dilip, their voices laced with thinly veiled impatience.

They would then proceed to suggest, some subtly others not so subtly, that Dilip consider his nephews, the sons of his brothers, as potential successors. Dilip, already burdened by worry and grief, found these constant reminders of his dynastic predicament a cruel twist of the knife.

He would often stand on the balcony, gazing out at the distant forests that concealed her retreat, his eyes searching for any sign of her return. The vibrant colors of the royal gardens seemed to mock his despair, their beauty a stark contrast to the hollowness he felt inside.  Sleep offered little respite, his dreams haunted by visions of his daughter, frail and alone, battling the elements and the rigors of her self-imposed penance.

The queen, Aarvi, though equally concerned, maintained a facade of composure. She tried to reassure her husband, reminding him of Krishneshwari's strength and determination. But even her words of comfort rang hollow in the face of their prolonged separation and the uncertainty of Krishneshwari's fate.

While Aarvi offered words of comfort and assurance to her husband, a similar ache throbbed in her own heart. Behind the veneer of strength, she harbored the same gnawing worries, the same desperate longing for her daughter's return.

Each morning, Aarvi would stand at the palace entrance, her gaze fixed on the road leading to the forest, a flicker of hope igniting in her eyes. She would wait, her heart pounding with anticipation, imagining Krishneshwari's familiar silhouette appearing in the distance. She'd picture her daughter's radiant smile, the warmth of her embrace. Every day, she would instruct the palace cooks to prepare Krishneshwari's favorite dishes, so she may feed her daughter with her own hands when she returns.

But as the sun climbed higher in the sky, and the day wore on, the hope would slowly dwindle, replaced by a familiar pang of disappointment. With a heavy sigh, Aarvi would turn and walk back into the palace, her footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. She would tell herself that tomorrow her daughter shall surely return, a part of her was desperate for that tomorrow to come.

The city of Ujjain, once vibrant and bustling, now mirrored the anxiety of their rulers. A palpable sense of unease permeated the streets, replacing the usual cheerful hum of daily life. The citizens, who had always revered their princess, were desperate for news, any sign that Krishneshwari will return.

People would gather in small groups, their faces etched with concern, sharing rumors and speculations about Krishneshwari's whereabouts and her well-being. They spoke of her dedication, her spiritual quest, but also of their fears that she might never return, that their beloved princess had been lost to them forever.
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The sun beat down mercilessly on the banks of the Kshipra. A year had passed, a year of unwavering devotion, a year of enduring hardship. Krishneshwari, now fifteen, stood as she had for countless days, her body a testament to the sheer force of her will. The once vibrant princess was now a shadow of her former self, her skin stretched taut over bone. Yet an inner light, a divine radiance, shone from her, illuminating the hollows of her cheeks and transforming her thin frame into something otherworldly.

The monsoon season had come and gone, leaving its mark on the landscape and on her. The winters had lashed her, the sun had scorched her, and the river had tested her with its currents and depths.  A hush had fallen over the ancient trees, the only sound the faintest whisper of wind rustling through their leaves.  Even the usual chorus of nocturnal creatures was muted, as if the very air itself was holding its breath in reverence.

Memories, like shards of broken glass, were beginning to surface, fragments of a life she barely remembered. Faces, names, battles… they flickered at the edge of her consciousness, tantalizingly close yet frustratingly elusive. She stood there, a lone warrior on the battlefield of her own mind, struggling to piece together the scattered fragments of her identity, to reclaim the life that had been stolen from her.

Into this hushed sanctuary, a shadow crept. Mayantak emerged from the trees, his presence a discordant note in the forest's symphony of peace. He moved with a predatory grace, his one remaining hand clenched at his side, his eyes fixed on Krishneshwari. They burned with a malevolent light, a hunger that had festered and grown over the long time.

He stopped at the edge of the clearing, his gaze sweeping over her, taking in her frail form, her serene expression.  A cruel smile twisted his lips. So, the little princess continued her charade, lost in her delusions of divinity.  He had waited patiently, biding his time, allowing her to weaken, allowing the curse to unravel its hold. Now, the moment he had craved for so long had finally arrived.

The malice in his eyes was palpable, a dark cloud obscuring the tranquility of the forest. He had come to claim his vengeance, to extinguish the light that shone so brightly within her.

Mayantak raised his remaining hand. His lips moved, forming words of dark power, an incantation that hissed through the still air. The very air around him seemed to thicken, to vibrate with a malevolent energy. From the swirling darkness coalesced a weapon – a grotesque thing of jagged edges and pulsating shadows, crackling with raw demonic power. It seemed to hunger for blood, to throb with an unholy life of its own.

"KRISHNESHWARI !" With a guttural cry, Mayantak hurled the weapon towards the girl.

It flew through the air, a blur of dark intent, aimed at her heart. But the weapon, mere inches from its target, stopped. It hung suspended in mid-air, as if held back by an invisible force, the demonic energy crackled helplessly. Krishneshwari, finally opened her eyes.  They were not the vacant eyes of someone lost in meditation. They blazed with the concentrated energy of her tapasya, a power so intense it seemed to illuminate the entire forest.

Her gaze, focused and unwavering, fell upon the suspended weapon.  The effect was instantaneous. The demonic energy that had crackled around the blade vanished. The weapon itself began to crumble, turning to dust in the blink of an eye, as if consumed by an unseen fire.

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A/N

OH MY GOD ITS HAPPENING 🔥🔥🔥