A week later,

Brihadbala's fist struck the armrest of his throne. Each facet seemed to catch and amplify his fury, turning the crown into a weapon of his will. "You will not go to Hastinapur!" His voice, usually a command that brooked no argument, was thick with a raw, desperate edge, betraying the fear that lay beneath his kingly anger.

Ishani stood before him, unmoving, a figure of quiet defiance. Her silk robes, the rich fabric a stark contrast to the cold marble floor, whispered around her like a defiant sigh.

" I am not asking for permission, Pita Shree. When Rajkumar Duryodhana left from here, I should have gone, but I wished to make a dramatic entrance and show them who they messed with." she stated, her voice clear and unwavering. Karna stood in the shadows, not knowing whether to laugh or hit his head at her love for drama.

The King of Kosala looked towards Krishna. His expression was infuriatingly serene, a calm ocean in the face of a raging storm. There was a knowing, almost amused, glint in his eyes, as if he were watching a play unfold, a play whose ending he already knew. "You allow this madness?" Brihadbala demanded, his voice laced with a desperate plea, seeking an ally in this battle of wills.

Krishna's smile, enigmatic and knowing, stretched across his face. It was a smile that spoke of destinies woven long before mortal men had walked the earth, of forces far beyond their control. "Who am I to forbid destiny?" he replied, his voice a low, melodious hum that seemed to resonate with the very stones of the hall.

Brihadbala turned back to his daughter, his anger slowly giving way to a raw, heart-wrenching plea.  "They poisoned you," he rasped, the words heavy with the memory of her suffering, the lingering trauma that haunted them both.

"And I survived," Ishani replied, her voice ringing with a strength that belied her delicate appearance.  "But if I let fear rule me, then the curse of Kali Yuga wins. If I cower in the face of danger, then everything will be for naught. I will not be that girl again."

 He looked at his daughter, his heart torn between the desire to shield her from harm and the reluctant recognition of her strength. Finally, with a sound like a wounded beast, a guttural growl of defeat and reluctant acceptance, he wrenched the royal seal from his finger. 

"Then go," he conceded, his voice thick with unshed tears, "Go as Kosala's voice, as my voice. Let them hear the strength of our people, the righteousness of our cause. But," he hesitated, his gaze shifting towards the shadows, "take him with you."

He jerked his chin toward the shadows—where Karna stood, where his complexion dulled to a more subdued bronze in the torchlight. A storm raged within me. 

My Goddess... The word was a prayer, a desperate plea, and a burgeoning obsession.  Karna yearned to stride forward, to seize her. To taste the sweetness of her mouth, to claim her with a hunger that would leave her breathless, undone. And to tell her what a foolish decision she would be making by storming there. But he merely nodded, Ishani's jaw clenching.

The air in the armory crackled, the scent of oil and steel a stark backdrop to the raw emotion that hung between them. Karna cornered Ishani, his broad frame a barrier against the only exit. Shadows painted his face, highlighting the harsh lines of his jaw and the dangerous gleam in his eyes.

"This is a mistake," he growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the metal racks and into Ishani's very bones.

Ishani didn't back down. "Move, Karna. I have a duty."

"And so do I," he countered, his voice implacable.  His hands, calloused and strong, reached for her waist, but she stepped back, her hand flying up to his chest.

"Don't," she pleaded, her voice low, almost a whisper.

"You are walking into danger," he said, his gaze intense, unwavering. "They will not hesitate."

"No one would dare to harm me," she retorted, her voice gaining strength, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "I am Kosala's princess. I am not some weak, helpless creature to be coddled."

He reached for her, his touch gentle, almost soothing, and that was her undoing.

"Don't," she hissed, her voice sharp as a honed blade, as she jerked away from his touch. "Don't you dare treat me like I am some fragile doll! I am not weak! I am not helpless!"

Karna's expression hardened. "I am trying to protect you."

"I don't need your protection!" she snapped, her eyes flashing with a fury that mirrored the fire in his. "I am not some simpering maiden who needs a strong man to fight her battles. I am Kosala's princess! My lineage, my position, commands respect and ensures my safety!"

He seized her waist, his grip firm, possessive, cutting off her words. He yanked her against him, the suddenness of the action stealing her breath. . "Respect? Safety? Those are illusions, Pari. Illusions shattered by a single, well-placed blade. You are a woman, alone, in a hostile place, and you are in danger whether you admit it or not."

He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his breath hot and possessive against her skin. A shiver ran through her. He peppered light kisses on her hair and forehead, as if trying to calm himself.

"Karna..." she began, her voice barely a whisper, but he cut her off.

"Hush," he murmured against her skin, his voice thick with a raw possessiveness that sent a jolt of alarm through her. It wasn't Karna speaking. It was something darker, more primal. Dev.

Dev's voice rumbled, low and dangerous. "At least allow me to accompany you. Let me paint these walls with their blood if they so much as look at you the wrong way."

Ishani pushed against him, trying to create some space, some distance from the overwhelming intensity of him. "This is his kingdom, not yours!" she protested, her voice strained.

Dev's head snapped up, his eyes, when she finally managed to meet them, were molten gold, burning with a fierce, possessive fire. He tilted her chin up, his gaze searching hers, his face mere inches from hers. The air crackled between them, thick with unspoken desires and a dangerous, undeniable attraction.

"I don't care about his kingdom," he snarled, his voice a low growl. His gaze dropped to her lips, lingering there for a long, pregnant moment. He was so close, she could feel his breath on her skin, the heat of his body enveloping her. "Before any king, before any kingdom," he rasped, his voice rough with barely suppressed passion. "I am your devotee first. And then, perhaps, I will acknowledge this... kingdom."

Ishani's breath hitched. His words, laced with a possessiveness that bordered on obsession, sent a shiver down her spine. She was caught in his gaze, unable to look away, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

When he finally pulled away slightly, his gaze still locked on hers, she was breathless, shaken to her core.

"...Fine," she managed to whisper, her voice a mere thread, the word heavy with a reluctant surrender she hadn't anticipated.

Hastinapur, 2 days later,

The massive gates of Hastinapur, forged in an age of gods and heroes, groaned open. But the sound was swallowed by the sheer spectacle that unfolded within the city walls, a sight that would be whispered in hushed tones for generations to come.

Ishani rode astride a magnificent white stallion, its coat gleaming like polished moonlight. She was a vision of warrior royalty, woven with Kosala's ancient sigils in threads of shimmering gold and deep indigo. The symbols pulsed with a faint, ethereal light, marking her as both a princess and a force to be reckoned with. 

And beside her rode Karna. He rode with an effortless grace, his very presence radiating power and an almost palpable heat. He was her shadow, her protector, and a blazing symbol of the might she commanded.

The streets of Hastinapur, usually bustling with life, fell silent. Merchants froze, their wares forgotten. Children stopped their games, their eyes wide with wonder and a hint of fear. The very air seemed to crackle with anticipation, with the weight of the moment.

A priest, his face pale and etched with disbelief, stumbled backward, his voice a hoarse whisper. "The Kosala Princess!" The words rippled through the stunned crowd, carrying the weight of ancient prophecies and forgotten tales.

Bhishma, the mighty Grandsire of the Kuru dynasty, stood at the palace steps. His aged face, usually a mask of stern authority, was ashen. He felt the earth tilt beneath him, the foundations of his world shifting. Gods. What have we done? The unspoken question hung heavy in the air, a lament for the sins of a generation.

Ishani dismounted with a fluid grace that spoke of years spent in the saddle, years spent honing her body into a weapon. She didn't kneel. There would be no supplication, no begging for forgiveness. She had come to deliver a reckoning.

She strode into the throne room, Karna a silent, imposing presence at her right. The vast hall, usually echoing with the pronouncements of kings and the schemes of courtiers, was thick with a silence so profound it was almost a physical presence. All eyes were on her, on the unyielding princess who dared to challenge the might of Hastinapur.

Dhritarashtra, the blind king, sat upon his throne, his face a mask of uncertainty and fear. His voice, when he finally spoke, trembled with a vulnerability that few had ever witnessed. "Princess of Kosala, we—"

"Spare me your pretty words," Ishani's voice cut through the hall like a whip, sharp and unforgiving. It was the voice of a woman who had seen too much, suffered too much, to be swayed by empty courtesies. "Where is Shakuni?"

A murmur, like the rustling of dry leaves before a storm, rippled through the court. Faces shifted, eyes darted, but no one dared to speak.

Bhima, the mighty Pandava, stepped forward. His usual swagger, the boastful confidence that had defined him, was absent, replaced by a grim weariness. "Gone. Fled to Gandhara."

Ishani's smile was icy, devoid of warmth or mercy. It was the smile of a predator who had cornered its prey. "Then you have nothing to offer but apologies."

A collective gasp swept through the hall. It was unheard of, this level of disrespect, this raw defiance.

Bhishma, the mighty Grandsire, the patriarch of the Kuru dynasty, the man who had shaped empires and commanded armies, bowed his head. His aged frame, usually held with unwavering pride, now stooped in profound humility. The weight of his guilt was a tangible burden. "Forgive us," he rasped, his voice hoarse with shame.

"Rise... or rather, remain as you are, Mahamahim" Ishani commanded, her voice echoing through the hall. "Do not kneel. I will not have your complete submission, your sin, added to the already heavy burden this house carries. Acknowledge your failure, but do not compound it with utter self-abasement." Her gaze swept across the bowed elders, her expression unyielding. "It is not your fault, not entirely. You are not Shakuni. But you should have seen. You should have anticipated his moves. You should have acted."

Even Vidura, the wise counselor, stood with his head bowed, his face a mask of deep sorrow and regret. He, who had always championed righteousness, felt the weight of his inability to prevent the unfolding tragedy.

One by one, the elders remained standing but with their heads bowed, their faces etched with a mixture of shame and a dawning understanding of the depth of their transgressions.

Then, Draupadi stepped forward, her eyes filled with a sorrow that mirrored Ishani's own. Her voice, though soft, silenced the hall. "I... we, the Pandavas and I, offer our apologies."

Ishani raised her hand, cutting Draupadi off. "No, Draupadi," she said, her voice firm, yet laced with a strange compassion. "You are a queen. A queen does not apologize for the mistakes of a snake. Your grief is understood. Your anger, justified."

Duryodhana stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Karna, a profound weariness in his eyes. "Jyesth," he began, his voice rough with emotion. "I ask you now to take the throne. Rule this kingdom, for you are more worthy than anyone could ever be." His gaze shifted to Ishani, the raw power and regal authority she exuded holding his attention for a long moment. 

Karna's face remained impassive, his expression unreadable as Duryodhana spoke. . It was a cold, flat statement of fact. "I am not of this house." He turned his gaze away, his jaw tightening, as if the very air of Hastinapur choked him.

Bhishma stepped forward, his face a mask of anguish. "Karna, my son..." he began, his voice thick with unshed tears. "You are. You are the eldest. You have more right than any ..."

"Enough," Karna hissed, the word like the crack of a whip. He did not turn to face Bhishma, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the throne room. "I have said my piece." A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his voice, when he spoke again, was low and dangerous. "You ask me to take a throne built on lies, on treachery, on the blood of the innocent?"

He finally turned, his eyes, blazing with an ancient fury, sweeping across the assembled court. "You offer me power now, when for years, I was denied even the simplest courtesy, the most basic respect? When I was judged not by my skill, but by my birth? When I was forced to endure the venom of your insults, the sting of your contempt?"

As the Pandavas and the Kauravas, those who were present, bowed their heads, many of them, overcome with a sudden realization, began to call out to Karna. "Brother," they cried, the word heavy with regret and a lifetime of denial. They fell to his feet, seeking his forgiveness.

Ishani turned to them, her expression softening slightly, though her voice remained firm. "You owe Karna more than apologies. You owe him recognition. You owe him the respect he was denied for so long. Acknowledge him, not just with words, but with your actions, from this day forward."

"Yudhishthira, his voice trembling, was the first to speak. "Jyesht" he croaked, the word heavy with a grief that went beyond the loss of a kingdom. "Forgive us. We were fools, blinded by hatred and ignorance. We do not deserve your mercy, but we beg for it nonetheless."

And from the Kauravas, a similar scene unfolded. Dhritarashtra, his sightless eyes filled with tears, stretched out his hands towards Karna. "My son," he said, his voice trembling. "I have been a blind king, a blind father. I allowed my love for Duryodhana to cloud my judgment, to deafen me to the truth. Forgive me for my blindness, Karna."

Gandhari, her face hidden behind her ever-present blindfold, spoke with a quiet dignity. "I have seen the truth of you, Karna, in my heart. I knew, even when others denied it, that you were a man of honor, a man of righteousness. I grieve for the suffering you have endured, the injustice you have faced. Forgive us, for failing to protect you."

Ishani stepped closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "This is not about power, Karna. It's about responsibility."

As she spoke, Ishani reached out and placed a hand on Karna's shoulder. The touch was light, yet it seemed to ground him, to anchor him to the present.

Karna stared at her, his expression slowly shifting from one of tormented anger to a grudging contemplation. He felt the touch of his goddess, a whisper in the back of his mind, and it calmed the storm within him.

"They need guidance, not just a ruler," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

"And you can provide that guidance," Ishani affirmed. "You can be the strength behind the throne, the wisdom that advises the king, the unwavering hand that ensures justice is served. You can shape their decisions, not with the crown, but with your character, your knowledge, and your unwavering commitment to what is right."

Karna nodded, turning back to them I would never forget the way she guides and defends me in a court of royals.

"I acknowledge your repentance," he said, his voice firm, "but I cannot accept your forgiveness. Not after the way I was treated, the disdain with which I was dismissed, the insults I endured. Not after the way Ishani was looked upon, as if she were dirt beneath your feet. Your regret, though welcome, does not erase the past."

Karna paused, letting his words sink in. He squeezed her hand in return, a silent acknowledgment of her support, her presence a lifeline in the midst of the storm.

"But let me be clear," he continued, his voice resonating with newfound resolve. "My priority is not the throne. It never has been. My path lies elsewhere."

"However," he continued, his voice firm, "the laws of succession are clear. I am not a legitimate son of King Pandu, and thus, I cannot ascend the throne of Hastinapur. It is not my right, nor would it be dharma to do so."

A collective sigh swept through the hall. But it was not a unanimous sound.

From the edge of the assembly, Duryodhana rose, his face a mask of fury. "This is madness!" he roared, his voice echoing through the hall. "Jyesht, you are no ordinary man! You are the son of Surya, the Sun God himself! That makes you more than worthy, more than legitimate! You have the right, the duty, to rule! Are you truly going to abandon us?"

Karna turned to Duryodhana, his voice filled with a weary patience. "Duryodhana, you err in your understanding. While it is true that Surya deva is my father, in the eyes of the world, I am the son of Radha. I was raised as a sutaputra, and that is how I am seen. Legitimacy is not merely a matter of blood, but of acceptance, of societal standing. And society has never accepted me as anything other than illegitimate."

Bhishma closed his eyes.  A sigh, heavy with defeat and a lifetime of regret, escaped his lips. He had spent his life upholding the laws of Hastinapur, and now, those very laws stood as a barrier to the man who could have been the best king they had ever seen.

The Pandava and Kauravas exchanged sorrowful glances. Was there truly nothing to convince their Jyesht to take his rightful throne?