The war drums had quieted. The swords, sheathed. For the first time in what felt like lifetimes, Parth stood not in the court, nor in the training yard—but beneath the open sky, where stars blinked like old friends.
A soft hum came from the riverbanks outside Hastinapur. The moonlight shimmered across the water's surface. It was a sound only he could truly hear now—a pull older than kingdoms.
His nakshatra was shifting.
And then, the voice came.
A warm, familiar one.
"Parth?"
He turned, and his face broke into a smile he hadn't worn in a while.
"Grandma."
Satyavati stood beneath a flowering tree, her silver braid glinting in the moonlight. She looked just the same—and yet, older somehow. As if time was folding around her gently.
They walked without words for a while, feet tracing the riverbank where they had once met long ago. The water carried whispers, but tonight, it spoke only to the two of them.
"You've changed things," she said at last, touching his arm lightly. "You've held back the tides."
Parth looked at her, something boyish flickering in his gaze. "I think I've bought us time. Real peace may still be far, but… this war, I stopped it. For now."
She smiled faintly. "And sometimes, child, 'for now' is all history needs to be rewritten."
They sat near the water's edge, the reeds swaying. She took out a small box, something carved of sandalwood and memories.
"I've brought you something," she said.
Inside was a folded paper. A riddle. Written in her hand.
"The arrow that flies forward returns not, yet its shadow walks back.
When the bow rests, and the war sleeps—
Where does the archer go?"
Parth frowned, half-smiling. "You always speak in poetry."
"I speak only in truths disguised," she replied. "You'll understand it... later."
He didn't press. Something in his heart stirred with the knowing—an ache for a moment that hadn't arrived yet.
"Will I see you again?" he asked quietly.
Satyavati did not answer directly. She simply leaned forward and kissed his forehead.
"You already have. And you always will."
They sat for a while in silence, just a boy and his grandmother, watching the stars ripple across the water.
---
Elsewhere in the palace, the wind changed.
Krishna stood on a terrace, gazing at the same moonlight river, when soft steps approached behind him.
"You've always known, haven't you?" Satyavati said.
Krishna smiled without turning. "I knew he would carry my flame into a world that needed light."
"You were clever to place him there," she whispered. "Even I couldn't see the end of your threads."
"He chose it.And neither can I," Krishna admitted. "But sometimes, the loom needs no pattern. Just the right hands."
They stood side by side—avatars of time and wisdom.
"Do you think he will return?" she asked.
Krishna's eyes twinkled. "He never left."
---
The next morning burst into giggles.
The palace had not yet risen fully when Subhadra came sprinting barefoot down the corridor, her dupatta trailing behind her like a flag of joy.
"HE'S GOING TO BE A FATHER!" she shouted, barely catching her breath. "Did you hear? Didi—Draupadi—she's—she's with child!"
She stopped in front of Bheem and Sahadev, who blinked like owls.
"Yudhi bhaiya's son!" she clarified, throwing her arms up.
Then she ran on.
Down the marble halls she went, spreading laughter and shock and confused excitement wherever she passed.
Draupadi, graceful even in her new softness, stood at the balcony, a hand on her stomach. Yudhishthir stood behind her, silent as always—but his smile was real, wide, and utterly human.
In one wing, Nakul and Sahadev whispered about baby names.
In another, Parth smiled quietly to himself, watching Subhadra declare the news to a startled minister, a sleepy cowherd, and a confused cook.
No fanfare. No omen in the sky. Just a dawn.
A quiet one.
But enough.
---
Poetry — The River Remembers
The river met the boy once more,
Where moonlight kissed the sandy shore.
He'd changed the course, unbent the bow,
Yet where he came from, none could know.
A riddle danced upon the breeze,
Of time, of fate, of shifting seas.
But love remains, though names may fall—
The river remembers. It sees it all.
---