The skies over Dwarka darkened without warning. People seemed to notice the fore brooding and retreat wisely into the confines of their homes.

One moment, the sun had hung golden over the cerulean waves; the next, a bruise-purple storm swallowed the horizon, churning the sea into frothing fury. The palace courtyards, usually alive with the laughter of courtiers and the chime of anklets, fell silent as the air itself seemed to thicken with malice.

Ishani stood at the balcony of her guest chamber, the wind tearing at her unbound hair. Below, the white-capped waves clawed at the cliffs as if something beneath them sought to rise.

Something was coming. And it didn't seem friendly.  

Behind her, the door creaked open.

"You should be resting." Karna's voice was rough, as if he had spent the night shouting. She didn't turn. "I don't need rest. I need answers."

A pause. Then footsteps, slow and deliberate, until he stood beside her, his warmth seeping into the cold space between them. She sighed tiredly, gripping the balcony rods as she was aware of Karna's unflinching gaze on her. She knew there existed something between them, a tension that she didn't want to feel. But her emotions and heart had always been traitors, while she paid the price. 

But this time, she wouldn't make the same mistakes. Men may be good, but they all broke women's hearts at the cost of themselves.

"We'll get them," he murmured.

She wanted to believe him. Yet Ishani knew Karna would face a harder path than hers, a one she didn't know how to explain to him.

Then the world exploded. The first tremor sent mosaics shattering from the walls. The second split the marble floors like kindling. By the third, the screams began.

Ishani stumbled, her hands flying to her ears as a roar—inhuman, guttural—ripped through the palace.

"What in the name of—"

Karna grabbed her wrist, yanking her behind him as the balcony doors burst inward.

It slithered through the wreckage—a creature of smoke and sinew, its too-long limbs bending at impossible angles, its mouth a yawning pit of needle teeth.

"Ishani," it crooned, its voice the scrape of rusted chains. "Little lady. We've been waiting."

Karna's snarl was barely recognizable as human. "You don't touch her, you monster."

The demon laughed. "Oh, Vasusena. You always were the protective one, but no match to that bastard's obsession. I shall feast upon this celestial before that coward Devajit gets her."

Then it struck, but Karna shot celestial arrows that seem to slow the monster down. Ishani stood behind Karna as his kavach glowed, absorbing all the magic and weapons the monster tried to inflict. 

"Ahh you trickster! So you still hide behind that pathetic shield the Gods gifted you! You're a disgrace to the race of the demons." It screeched horribly as it became clear who was losing. Karna's eyes clouded in confusion as it talked about the Gods giving him the Kavach, but before he could say a word, Ishani screamed.

"Stay behind me, Ishani!" He roared, swiftly releasing arrows behind him as he gripped her nape and swung her around to his side. Her eyes were full of horror as Karna's arrows killed the huge snake that had tried to wound itself around her torso and squeeze her to death. It writhed in endless agony as the demon already lay dead, its body decomposing into dust and sand.

A roar shattered the night. The doors of the palace exploded inward, and through the smoke nothing could be glimpsed. A sound like the world splitting apart.

The balcony beneath her feet shuddered, the marble cracking like eggshell. Ishani stumbled, but Karna was there, his arm wrapping around her waist, yanking her back into the chamber just as the railing gave way, crashing into the churning sea below.

The wind howled through the shattered doorway, carrying with it a voice that was not a voice—a sound that slithered into the mind rather than the ears.

"Pari."

Karna's grip on her tightened. "Don't listen."

But it was too late.

The shadows in the room coalesced, twisting into a figure—tall, broad-shouldered, his form wreathed in smoke and embers. His face was Karna's, but wrong—sharper, crueler, his eyes twin pools of liquid night .He was Karna, and yet not. His skin etched with veins of molten gold, his eyes twin voids where stars had gone to die. They held more lifelessness that Karna's. The air around him warped, as if reality itself recoiled from his presence. Her cold skin felt like a thousand needles pricking as his eyes tried to unravel hers.

Devajit.

The Overlord of hell stepped forward, his bare feet leaving scorch marks on the marble.

"At last," he murmured, his voice a lover's caress. "My goddess."

 She clenched her fists in anger. She wasn't a toy to be fought and handed over to a demon or a victor or anyone for that matter. She felt like a useless woman, watching in fear while men..the beings she loathed the most fought over her.

Karna moved before she could blink, his spear aimed at the entity's throat. How dare this manipulative demon take his form and twist their minds?

Devajit laughed—a sound like shattering glass—and flicked his wrist.

Karna flew backward, crashing into a pillar with a crack that echoed through the courtyard. He steadied himself with a glare, his Kavach protecting him. "You may have illusory power, but you forget I am the Bhargava's pupil." Devajit only rolled his eyes, as if he were hearing to a boring sermon.

"Pathetic," Devajit sighed. "You always were the weaker half."

"Enough."

Krishna appeared between them in a ripple of blue silk, his flute held like a blade. His once soft eyes had turned into fierce red coals that seemed to burn everything He consumed. Krishna walked towards Karna, who held Ishani fiercely to his chest as she seemed disoriented and tired. He pressed his hands on Karna's temples, who instantly relaxed, his hold on her loosening.

"Kanha, what is all this? Why.." Krishna shushed her, holding her by the shoulder. But her eyes seemed to shift to Devajit's, whose eyes melted as she saw her. Karna clenched his fists in rage as he saw himself smirking and messing with her head.

Devajit's smile was a knife's edge. "Ah, Achyuta. Come to spin more diplomatic white lies?"

Krishna's gaze never wavered. "Ishani. Look at me."

She forced her eyes away from Devajit, though the pull was magnetic.

"What you are about to hear will change everything," Krishna said softly. "But you must listen with your soul, not your fear."

A flick of his wrist. Then the world dissolved.

She stood in a garden of crystal trees, their branches heavy with fruits that pulsed like hearts. The sky was gold, the air thick with the scent of amrita. A place outside time. Outside pain.

"Vaikuntha," Krishna's voice echoed. "Your true home."

The vision shifted. A younger Ishani—no, not Ishani, but Pari, her divine form radiant as dawn—stood before a celestial court. The Trimurti watched as she knelt, her hands outstretched in offering.

"A daughter born of our will," Brahma intoned. "A bridge between realms."

But then—darkness. A demoness, her face twisted in grief, her curse a venomous hiss. Her husband and her son had been brutally killed by the very God who gave them life and boons.

The ever merciful Mahadev had been the one to strike His trident against His very devotees. And bound by angst, she cursed the Trinity's very own daughter to fall. The balance she had to restore shattered, and the curse bore the very punishment of imbalance.

"Let her know mortal suffering. Let her be betrayed by those she loves."

The blow struck true. Pari fell, her light dimming as the curse dragged her into Kali Yuga's embrace. She suffered at the hands of  the man she once trusted. And then the world who devoured the light of her soul. 

And through it all, one presence lingered—a shadow in the void, watching, waiting.

Devajit.

But Karna saw something entirely different. The very same childhood and the curse by the Bhargava, but there was no Ishani. He sided the Kuru Prince, acting as his loyal dog for bestowing a kingdom upon him. Years of bitterness and revenge had made him a soulless monster who was only capable of deceit and killing. And when the cousins fought, he learned that he was the abandoned eldest son born out of wedlock and curiosity. But he still fought against them and died by his brother's hands and a weeping birth mother who stayed silent for her reputation.

The vision shattered, leaving Ishani gasping on the floor of the chamber. Devajit crouched before her, his burning fingers inches from her cheek. Karna staggered as Krishna held him, his eyes holding infinite sadness.

"Vasudev.." 
"I know. That was you too."

"You see now?" he whispered. "I have loved you since before the stars had names. While he—" A sneer at Karna, who stood frozen, his face a mask of agony. "—was content to let you suffer."

Karna's voice was raw. "That's not true. I never remembered until now!"

Devajit froze, until he laughed. " It doesn't matter, you dim wit. Let me tell you: You stood silent while I begged  you to tell the Gods to let her go. You chose to uphold some rules because apparently, that was the Gods' orders? And for what? Her suffering?"

Karna stepped forward, his eyes pleading towards them, while Krishna stood silent, waiting.

"I choose a lifetime of staying away from her so that I could bear one-fourth of her agony in the another world! And so I did. I died like a worthless warrior while I tried to pull out my wheel out of the earth! I stood by the wrong side because I was given a reputation after years of humiliation!"

"Karna is right, Devajit." Krishna's stern voice made Devajit's frame shake in fury and irony.

"It was your doing, Narayan! You condemned him to 9 lifetimes of such disastrous fates while I waited and waited for her to take birth! You separated me from myself, and talk as if one is right and wrong. I shall again unite with Karna and take her away. None of us deserve another cruel ending!"

Ishani's hands trembled.  So the epic she had been reading wasn't the original one as she thought? She remembered reading the ancient text named Yoga Vasishta when she stumbled upon a theory. 

"I saw the bharata occur 9 times before it was lost to the mankind into oblivion." Kakabhushundi, the eternal being spoke, but she hadn't grasped the meaning of his words. Ishani had assumed it was another translation error, and moved on.

The memories of Kali Yuga surged—Arjun's fists, the basement's damp walls, the endless, gnawing loneliness.

Devajit saw it. His expression softened, almost human.

"Come with me," he begged, his voice breaking. "Naraka is yours to rule. No more pain. No more betrayal. Just power and my devotion."

His hand, when it brushed hers, was not the scorching brand she expected, but warm—reverent.

"I would burn the cosmos to ash for you," he murmured. "Say the word."

Krishna stepped forward, his flute now glowing with a light that made the shadows scream.

"She is not yours to claim."

Devajit's snarl shook the palace. "You Gods abandoned her first, Narayan. With what rights do you claim that I cannot take her away? So I must again watch those worthless mortals try to gauge her and use her as a mere political pawn? That Pasha obsessed bastard doesn't understand whom he dared to send mercenaries against."

The two forces clashed—Krishna's divine radiance against Devajit's all-consuming dark. The chamber trembled, tapestries bursting into flame, the very air splitting with their fury.

Karna staggered to Ishani's side, his hands gripping her shoulders. Ishani closed her eyes in pain and confusion, not knowing what to do. She felt the weight of Karna's burden, but staggered under the truth of her own life.

Her entire life was built on lies. And treachery.

"Listen to me," he ground out. "He's not— I'm not—"

The conflict in his eyes was unbearable.

Devajit was him. A part of his soul. His darkest self, given form.

Karna staggered to his feet, blood trickling from his temple. "You're me," he rasped.

"The part of you that remembers," Devajit corrected. "The part that knows what we are owed."

And he wanted her.

In the gardens  of Dwaraka, Radha clutched her shawl tighter as the palace shook. She had come to Dwarka expecting peace, a quiet life by the sea. And she did experience it. 

But the truth was undeniable.

Her son—her sweet, stubborn Radheya—was no mere mortal.

Her son.

And yet—

"He was never just mine, was he?" she murmured.

"No. But he loves you all the same." The winds whispered as the sea churned at the bitter truth.

Radha swallowed around the lump in her throat as she gripped the ends of her uttariya tightly.

Some things, she supposed, were greater than a mother's love.