Above the mortal realm, in a hall woven from swirling galaxies and nebulae, where stardust coalesced into thrones of pure light, the Trimurti convened. Brahma, the Creator, sat upon a lotus, his four faces contorted in a rare display of frustration, the very fabric of nascent universes trembling with his displeasure. Beside him, Vishnu, the Preserver, reclined on Ananta, his chakra held loosely, his expression one of profound, almost unsettling serenity, his eyes holding the wisdom of countless cosmic cycles. And Shiva, the Destroyer, sat in silent contemplation, his third eye a smoldering ember of cosmic fire.

Present too were other powerful deities. Indra, the King of Svarga, sat on his throne of clouds, his gaze sharp and calculating. Lakshmi, the goddess of fortune and beauty, radiated a gentle yet formidable grace, her eyes fixed on the distant mortal realm with a maternal concern. Beside her, Parvati, the divine mother, embodiment of Shakti, watched with an intense, fierce love, her aura shimmering with raw power.

"Devajit's fusion with Karna was never meant to happen!" Brahma thundered, his voice echoing through the cosmic expanse, each of his four mouths speaking simultaneously, a cacophony of divine frustration. "His soul is half-mortal, half-monster! An abomination, a deviation from the grand design!"

Vishnu, unperturbed, swirled his Chakra, a faint, harmonious melody accompanying his words. "Or perhaps," he mused, his voice like the gentle flow of a cosmic river, "exactly as intended. The prophecy demands balance—light and shadow. A crucible for a greater purpose."

Lakshmi, her gaze softening as if seeing a beloved child, spoke then, her voice like the chime of golden bells. "And Ishani... she is of our own divine essence, a fragment of the celestial brought to the mortal plane. It is only fair, is it not, that she should find her way back to the heart of her true lineage, to the power that is her birthright?"

Parvati nodded, her expression firm. "Indeed. She carries the spark of the divine within her, a connection to us that cannot be severed. It is time for her to reclaim it, to understand the full measure of her heritage. It is only fitting that our daughter returns to us, in spirit and in power."

Indra, ever the pragmatist, cleared his throat, a subtle rumble of thunder. "While the sentiment is... understandable," he interjected, a hint of something akin to envy in his tone, "this 'connection' Karna feels for her... it is a dangerous variable. His devotion borders on obsession, and such uncontrolled power can be... problematic, even for one of divine lineage."

Shiva, silent until now, finally opened eyes. A blinding flash of pure cosmic energy illuminated the hall, silencing all other voices. His voice, when it came, was the deep, resonant hum of the universe itself, vibrating through their very beings. "Ishani must be trained. The Astras of the heavens will not yield to a mortal's hands... but she is more than mortal. She is our daughter. Our Pari has to find her way back to us."

A profound pause descended upon the celestial gathering, broken only by the faint, distant hum of creation. Then, Shiva's decree, final and absolute: "Prepare her. The war ahead is not just of men... but of gods. And she, our daughter, will be its fulcrum."

Hastinapur, 3 days later,

The palace gardens were bathed in the soft, ethereal glow of twilight, the air cool and fragrant with the scent of night-blooming jasmine. Duryodhana, his footsteps unusually quiet on the gravel path, found Ishani standing near the lotus pond, her back to him. Her fingers, long and slender, trailed idly over the water's still surface, disturbing the reflection of the nascent stars. A serene, almost melancholic aura surrounded her, a stark contrast to the vibrant defiance she usually projected.

"You're leaving," he said, his voice low, more a statement of observed fact than a question. There was a subtle tension in his posture, a hint of something he rarely allowed to surface.

She didn't turn, her focus seemingly absorbed by the shimmering water. "Astute observation," she replied, her tone flat, devoid of emotion.

A muscle ticked in his jaw, a tell-tale sign of his inner struggle. "Kosala isn't your home. Not truly." The words were an attempt to probe, to find a weakness, perhaps even to express a strange, possessive concern.

"And Hastinapur is?" She finally faced him, her eyes, usually so expressive, now narrowed to razor-thin slits. Her smile, when it came, was a mere sliver of white, devoid of warmth. "Spare me the false concern, Rajkumar. You'd rather I vanish from your sight, wouldn't you? One less complication."

Something flickered in his eyes—not just irritation, but a complex mix of intrigue, frustration, and a grudging admiration. He had encountered countless women, but none had ever dared to challenge him so directly, so fearlessly. "You're wrong," he countered, stepping closer, his voice lowering, imbued with an unusual sincerity. "I've never met a woman who dares as you do. Who stands her ground with such unyielding fire."

Ishani arched a brow, a flicker of genuine surprise in her gaze. "Careful," she drawled, her voice laced with a dangerous amusement. "That almost sounded like admiration, Rajkumar. Are you feeling unwell?"

Duryodhana stopped. The air around them thickened, charged with hidden agendas. "What if it was?" he murmured, his voice a low challenge, his eyes searching hers for a reaction.

She laughed—a cold, dismissive sound that grated on his ears, a sound that stripped away any pretense of vulnerability. "Then you're a fool," she stated, her voice sharp as a newly honed blade. "I don't play games with men." She took a step back, breaking the charged intimacy.

Her gaze, however, lingered on him for a moment longer, a new question entering her eyes. "What do you think your Jyesht would have to say about your unnecessary curiosity, Rajkumar?" she asked, her voice dropping to a low, piercing whisper.

Duryodhana stiffened, his face momentarily losing its composure. The question, so unexpected, struck a nerve. He opened his mouth, then closed it, a myriad of emotions warring within him.

Ishani turned then, her silk robes whispering against the marble as she walked away, leaving him standing alone by the lotus pond. He watched her go, his chest tight with something he refused to name – a bitter cocktail of unacknowledged admiration, frustrated desire, and the unsettling sting of her final, knowing question.

Kalinga,

On the outskirts of Kalinga, the air, usually vibrant with the calls of jungle birds, was thick with the humid stillness of a late afternoon. Ashwatthama, seeking a temporary reprieve from the stifling political currents , had come for a solitary stroll. He sat on the sun-dappled banks of the river, a place of quiet solitude, throwing pebbles against the rageful waves. Each splash was a small release for the boredom that gnawed at him, a dull ache beneath the surface of his warrior's discipline. Pita Shree had brought him to Kalinga, a kingdom with a long-standing treaty with Hastinapur. Ashwatthama had come unwillingly, bearing the whispers of awe and surprise that followed him like a shadow – whispers from those who gazed upon the legendary son of Drona, adorned with the divine gem on his forehead.

His thoughts drifted back to Hastinapur, to his friends, or what passed for them in that treacherous court. Two weeks had passed, and no letter had reached him. He could only hope they were well, remembering his recent trip to Dwaraka. He had heard too many whispers of a sutaputra and a woman wreaking havoc on the court, but rumors couldn't be trusted. He had also heard that Brihadbala had returned, with a daughter who seemed too beautiful to be mortal.

Suddenly, a shrill, piercing female voice sliced through the forest's tranquility, sharp as a dagger. "You manwhore!" Ashwatthama winced, the raw fury in the cry making him recoil. It seemed to emanate from the other side of the riverbank, a desperate, unbridled rage. Before he could fully process the words, a loud, guttural growl of pain, unmistakably a man's, ripped through the air.

His contemplative mood shattered. He quickly dusted the clinging mud from his clothes, his warrior instincts seizing control. He moved with a silent, predatory grace, hurrying towards the other side of the riverbank. He was not one to typically involve himself in another's affairs, preferring the solitude of his own thoughts, but this sound... this felt serious. This felt like blood.

He reached the dense foliage, parting the leaves just enough to peer through. His eyes fell upon a stark, horrifying tableau. The silhouette of a woman stood over a prone figure, her form like polished midnight against the fading light. In her hand, a dagger dripped with fresh, dark blood. Ashwatthama quietly inched closer, his eyes widening in pure shock as he gazed at the man choking on his own lifeblood. He recognized the face from a portrait he'd seen in the Hastinapur court; it was Rajkumar Eshwar, the Crown Prince of Avanti. The murder of a prince was a capital and first-class offense, punishable by immediate death and execution. A cold dread settled in Ashwatthama's gut, but beneath it, a fierce curiosity burned. What could possibly drive a woman to murder a crown prince in cold blood?

He had a chilling guess: a relationship, perhaps, gone terribly, fatally wrong. He was about to quietly make his way out, to retreat into the shadows and leave this grim scene undisturbed, when he saw her flinch. A subtle tremor ran through her body, a sudden realization. For the love of Rudra, she would have surely sensed him. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his dagger, ready to leap up in case she launched an attack. But he waited, a strange stillness settling over him.

He could hear her quiet intake of breaths, ragged and shallow, but then, a raw, guttural sob tore from her throat. It was followed by another, and another, until she burst into loud, desperate sobs, screaming her lungs out, a primal lament that echoed through the silent forest. He heard the metallic clatter of her dagger as it dropped to the blood-soaked earth. Ashwatthama felt a pang of sympathy wash over his usually brooding, hardened heart. He understood that sound, that desperate release. His own first kill hadn't been so smooth either. He had been haunted by nightmares, bathed in the phantom blood of his victim, for weeks after he had first cut the throat of a traitor.

"I know you are watching." Her voice, when it came, was startlingly calm, a stark contrast to her recent, violent sobs. The unexpected composure in her tone made him swallow deeply. He should have known. His presence, even in the shadows, was rarely truly hidden.

He hesitantly stood up, pushing away the thick bushes that had concealed his formidable frame. The woman turned, and Ashwatthama stilled. His heart skipped a beat, more than once, not from fear, nor solely from her beauty, but from the raw pain and agony that her obsidian eyes, like smoldering coals, failed to hide. They were eyes that had seen too much, felt too deeply.

His gaze remained fixed on her face, and they stood like that for a long, silent minute, two figures caught in the grim tableau. She was beautiful, in her own unique way. Her skin was like polished midnight, a deep, rich bronze that seemed to absorb the twilight's last light. There looked to be gold dust sprinkled across her cheeks, enhancing her bronze shade, but then he realized they were freckles, tiny and glittery, like scattered stardust. One of her parents, he mused, must surely be from the southern lands, where the sun kissed the earth with magnificent shades of bronze and flame.

"If you breathe a word of this to any soul, living or dead," she began, her voice still calm, though a tremor ran through it, "I shall not hesitate to rip that head off your neck." Her words were sharp and unyielding, a direct threat, yet he saw the flicker of curiosity in her eyes as her gaze lingered on the radiant gem embedded in his forehead. Everyone else looked at him with disgust or fear, but this reaction was quite unexpected. He found himself almost smiling. His hands, which had been resting on his dagger, now tucked the weapon back into his waistband. He sighed, a soft exhalation, as he looked at her.

"It is not my business to interfere, nor to speak about it," he replied, his voice a steady, deep baritone. A frown appeared on her nearly perfect face, her nose scrunching up in suspicion. He felt an inexplicable urge to reach out, to smooth away that frown.

"How can I believe the mere words of a stranger," she challenged, her words sharp and swift, cutting through the silence, "when the offense I have committed is punishable by death?" Her defiance, even in her vulnerable state, caused a genuine, if fleeting, smile to appear on his usually blank face.

He chuckled slowly, the sound deep and resonant, a rumbling baritone that made her blink for a moment in confusion. "You may not know me, Devi," he said, his voice carrying a hint of wry amusement. "But I believe I go by the name of Drauni."

Her eyes widened in utter shock. Of course, she knew Drauni. He was said to be ruthless and cruel to his enemies, a force of nature on the battlefield, but surprisingly compassionate to the weaker ones, especially Brahmins and women. Now, she remembered those whispers about him: that he possessed a gem, a blessing from Mahadev Himself, a divine mark that set him apart.

Dilara found herself at a loss for words, her earlier defiance replaced by profound astonishment. Then he smiled softly, a gentle, almost tender expression, as if he expected this reaction of hers. What had she just done? Threatened the very man who had ensured her tribe shelter and protection in these lands!

Hastinapur,

The grand courtyard of Hastinapur was a flurry of activity, yet a somber air hung heavy, anticipating the departure of Princess Ishani. Draupadi, her eyes glistening, clasped Ishani's hands tightly, her grip firm and desperate. "Come back," she pleaded, her voice thick with emotion, "or I'll storm Kosala myself to drag you back here." A fierce loyalty shone in her gaze as she already felt the loss of such a woman who understood her so well. Dushala, usually demure, stepped forward with a mischievous smirk. "And when you do Ishani," she chirped, a rare lightness in her tone, "be sure to bring sugar figs next time. These court cooks are utterly devoid of imagination."

Ishani's laughter, bright and clear, cut through the tension. She pulled both women into a fierce, encompassing hug, a silent promise of enduring friendship. "I'll send a chariot for you both," she whispered, her voice filled with genuine affection. "We'll burn the market down together next time, just for sport."

The Pandavas watched the farewells with a mix of emotions. Yudhishthira offered a respectful nod, acknowledging the departure of a powerful ally. Bhima, for once quiet, simply crossed his arms, a grudging respect for Ishani evident in his posture. Arjuna, a flicker of admiration in his eyes, gave a slight bow. Nakula and Sahadeva exchanged wistful glances, already missing her vibrant presence.

The Kauravas, led by Duryodhana, observed from a distance. Duryodhana's expression remained unreadable, a complex mask of relief that a disruptive force was leaving, yet a lingering intrigue for the woman who had so effortlessly challenged him. Some of the younger Kauravas whispered amongst themselves, still reeling from Ishani's charm and their brother's smitten expression.

In a quieter corner of the courtyard, away from the main throng, Kunti approached Karna. Her face was etched with a profound sorrow, and she clutched his arm, her fingers trembling. "Putra," she whispered, her voice a raw plea, "you must forgive me. My heart aches with the burden of my past transgressions."

Karna's jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the distant gates. The pain of a lifetime of abandonment was a raw wound, and forgiveness, a luxury he could not yet afford. "I cannot, Rajmata," he said, his voice rough, as if dragged through gravel. The word was a heavy stone, dropping between them. Yet, his gaze softened almost imperceptibly as it flickered towards Ishani, who was now moving towards her waiting chariot. "But I will... try. For her sake." His eyes hardened then, a steel resolve entering their depths. "But Ishani's choices are hers. No more schemes, Rajmata. No more manipulations. Her path is her own."

Kunti's shoulders slumped, fresh tears tracing paths down her aged cheeks as he gently disengaged her hand and walked away, his stride purposeful, heading towards Ishani.

Bhishma, his brow furrowed with concern, stepped forward, Vidura by his side. "Karna," Bhishma began, his voice firm, "your place is here, in Hastinapur."

Vidura, ever the voice of quiet reason, added, "Indeed, Putra. Your presence is vital. The stability of the Kuru lineage depends on strong, wise counsel."

Karna paused, turning to face them. His expression was respectful, but unyielding. "My apologies, Pitamah, Kaka Shree," he replied, his voice calm, yet resolute. "My duty, for now, lies elsewhere. The Emperor of Kosala has commanded my presence, to remain with Rajkumari Ishani for the time being, to ensure the smooth transition of this new alliance. I am bound by my word to him, and to her." It was a diplomatic answer, yet the subtle emphasis on "her" was not lost on the astute elders. 

Dhritarashtra, seated on a makeshift throne near the gates, offered a weary wave. "Farewell, Karna. May your journey be safe. And Princess Ishani," he called out, his voice echoing slightly, "may this alliance bring prosperity to both our kingdoms." Gandhari, veiled and silent beside him, inclined her head in a gesture of solemn farewell.

As Karna ascended the steps of Ishani's chariot, his gaze swept over the courtyard, a flicker of thought crossing his mind. Shakuni, for now, had escaped. But how long would he continue to try and send men after Ishani was the issue. Somebody apart from his minister in the court had to be on his side. 

Inside the chariot, the plush cushions muffled the sounds of the departing crowd. Ishani, her earlier bravado softened, looked at him. "Karna, if you wish to stay here, you could." she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. 

He turned to her, his eyes, usually so fierce, now filled with an overwhelming tenderness. He reached out, his hand gently cupping her cheek. "Where you go," he replied, his voice a low, unwavering vow, "I will."