35.
"Ma! I have taken a decision," Devasena declared the moment she entered the chamber, voice carrying that odd mixture of firmness and childlike impatience that always betrayed how tightly she had been holding her thoughts all day, her silk sleeves still dusted faintly with palace incense as she stood near the threshold of her mother's sitting chamber where Queen Vaidhei sat calmly by the window, entirely unshaken, embroidering intricate golden patterns across a deep red shawl as though the world outside politics, kingdoms, and wars did not know how to disturb her hands at all.
Vaidhei raised her brows only slightly, not even pausing her needlework, as if she had already heard half the sentence before it was spoken.
Devasena stepped further inside, exhaling sharply like someone who had been forced into silence for too long and had finally found air again.
"Before we visited Hastinapur... I promised myself I would go to Mahadev's mandir.
Now that the Namkaran week is proceeding, I should go now.
Otherwise I'll be held back again." She paused, then added with a small frustrated huff, "And it has been so long.
.. I even snuck out of the palace once before.
Pitashri has already restricted my movements because of that arrogant king.
" The words left her lips sharper than she intended, but the exhaustion beneath them softened the edge immediately.
She dropped onto the edge of the low seat near her mother, watching the embroidery threads move like patient rivers under Vaidhei's fingers.
Subtle silence followed, only broken by the faint rustle of silk thread and the distant call of temple bells somewhere beyond the palace walls.
Vaidhei finally spoke without looking up. "You are not going to the mandir because you are restless, or because you are avoiding something?"
Devasena stiffened slightly.
"...I am going because I promised Mahadev," she answered quickly, too quickly.
A pause.
Vaidhei's needle paused for the first time.
Devasena continued softer now, almost as if convincing herself more than her mother. "Subhadra's letter said they will arrive early. I will be occupied after that. I just... want to go now."
Vaidhei finally lifted her gaze. Calm. Studying. Knowing in a way only mothers are.
"And this 'arrogant king'?" she asked gently. "Does he also occupy your thoughts so much that you must escape them in temples?"
Devasena's face flushed instantly.
"No."
Too fast again.
Vaidhei's lips curved faintly, though she said nothing more, returning to her embroidery as if the conversation itself had already answered itself. Vaidhei pitied her daughter , nothing more.
Outside, wind slid through the carved lattices of Vanga's palace, carrying distant sea air and the faint scent of lotus ponds. Somewhere far away, servants moved quickly preparing for the arrival of Dwarka's royal family, unaware that inside this chamber a war of quieter things had already begun.
Devasena, however, stood abruptly again.
"I will go tomorrow morning," she declared, more firmly this time, almost stubbornly, as if saying it twice would make her heart obey it better.
And yet even as she spoke—
her mind betrayed her.
Because it did not go to Mahadev's temple.
It slipped, uninvited, back to Hastinapur.
To a pavilion of marble and lotus light.
To a flame that should have been ordinary but wasn't.
To dark eyes that had not looked at her like a king looks at a princess—
but like something ancient trying to remember her.
And somewhere far beyond her awareness, across oceans and kingdoms and the distance of divine intent itself—
Dwarka moved under the same restless sky.
Krishna sat in silence that night longer than he should have, fingers unmoving against his flute, gaze lost somewhere between sea and memory, where names he should not have known seemed to echo too clearly in his mind without permission.
Not longing yet.
Not desire yet.
Something far more dangerous.
Recognition that had no explanation.
And absence that had no reason to feel like loss.
Morning light filtered slowly through the towering black stone pillars of the Mahadev mandir, turning drifting incense smoke into pale rivers of gold that curled endlessly toward the carved ceilings above.
Bells swayed gently in the river wind while chants echoed through the sanctum in deep rhythmic waves, ancient enough to feel older than kingdoms themselves.
Devotees moved quietly around the temple carrying flowers, sacred ash, milk offerings, and oil lamps toward the inner shrine where the great Shivling rested beneath garlands of white lotus and bilva leaves glistening with holy water.
Yet despite the peace surrounding her—
Devasena's thoughts refused stillness.
She stood near the outer mandap beside one of the temple courtyards overlooking the riverbanks below, fingers wrapped loosely around the crystal diya resting against her palms while the sacred flame within it glowed steadily beneath the soft morning wind.
Usually temple visits calmed her completely.
Ever since childhood, Mahadev's mandirs had always felt like the only places where her mind quieted properly, where expectation loosened its hold around her breathing, where she could exist without kingdoms constantly watching her.
But today—
her thoughts wandered elsewhere again.
To Dwarka.
To sea wind.
To dark eyes that carried too much awareness.
Devasena frowned faintly at herself.
Ridiculous.
Truly ridiculous.
Because she did not even know what exactly unsettled her this much.
Krishna had done nothing improper.
Nothing.
If anything, he had been respectful to the point of restraint. Gentle. Observant. Calm in ways most powerful men never truly were.
And yet something about him lingered beneath her thoughts with unbearable persistence, not loudly, not dramatically, but quietly enough to become dangerous. Like a melody remembered unconsciously long after the musician had already left.
She hated that she did not understand it.
More than that—
she hated the strange guilt accompanying it.
Because Krishna was not merely a man.
He was Dwarka's king.
Beloved by the world.
And already bound to lives far greater than hers.
Rukmini.
Satyabhama.
Jambavati.
Three queens whose names entire kingdoms spoke with reverence, women who stood beside him not merely through affection but destiny, politics, devotion, and years of shared existence. Women who belonged beside him naturally in ways Devasena never could.
So then why—
why did her heart behave strangely every time she remembered his voice?
Why did silence feel different after meeting him?
Why did she keep searching Subhadra's letters for mentions of him before even realizing she was doing it?
The questions exhausted her.
Because none of it made sense.
Not when her own heart had already belonged elsewhere for years—
to someone she had never even met.
Her gaze lowered slowly toward the sacred flame.
The flame blessed by Mahadev.
The flame bound to the promise spoken over her life since childhood.
Her promised soul.
The one destined for her.
Devasena had grown up with that certainty quietly woven into her existence. Every prayer whispered over her cradle, every temple blessing, every cautious conversation among elders carried the same underlying belief—that the sacred flame would one day recognize the soul meant for hers.
Not through politics.
Not through kingdoms.
Not through desire.
Through something deeper.
Something eternal.
And perhaps because of that—
Devasena had always wanted one thing more fiercely than royal grandeur or power or alliances.
To be loved completely.
Not admired.
Not possessed.
Loved.
She wanted the kind of love that did not feel conditional upon kingdoms or beauty or usefulness. The kind that saw her fully and stayed anyway. The kind where silence itself became safe.
The thought made her chest ache unexpectedly.
Because somewhere recently—
dangerously—
Krishna's presence had begun resembling fragments of that feeling without permission.
And that frightened her.
Not because she loved him.
Surely not.
How absurd.
She barely knew him.
But because something within her softened around him instinctively before her mind could stop it.
Like her soul recognized warmth while the rest of her still stood confused outside the door.
The temple bells rang louder suddenly as priests opened the inner sanctum further for morning darshan, chants rising stronger beneath the stone ceilings while sunlight spilled across the black polished floors in widening streams of gold.
Beside her, Ruti spoke softly. "Rajkumari?"
Devasena blinked once, pulled from thought.
"You have been staring at the flame for a long time."
Had she?
She looked down again.
The sacred fire burned strangely alive this morning.
Not violent.
Not unstable.
Almost expectant.
And for reasons she could not explain—
the sight unsettled her deeply today.
Because sometimes lately, when she thought of Krishna, the flame reacted before she did.
Tiny things.
A sudden brightness.
A sharper flicker.
Warmth spreading through the crystal edge beneath her fingers.
She had noticed it twice already.
No.
Three times.
The realization made her immediately look away from the diya again.
Impossible.
She was imagining things now.
She had to be.
And yet—
somewhere far away beneath another sky, Krishna sat beside an open balcony in Dwarka while sea wind moved slowly through his chambers, his flute resting forgotten beside him as his thoughts wandered again toward someone he had only met twice and should not have been thinking about at all.
Especially not like this.
Especially not when every attempt to dismiss her only made her return more clearly.
Like moonlight on restless water.
Like prayer lingering after the temple empties.
Like something unfinished between souls that had not yet remembered why they recognized each other.