41.
Night had deepened fully over Vanga by then.
The palace that spent entire days overflowing with servants, ministers, musicians, attendants, priests, guards, and restless visiting royalty had finally softened into quieter hours where even sound itself seemed gentler beneath the weight of midnight.
Beyond the towering sandstone walls of the royal palace, rainwater still dripped steadily from carved temple domes and flowering balconies after the evening monsoon shower, gathering along marble ledges before falling softly into lotus ponds below.
The air carried that unmistakable fragrance that arrived only after rain in Vanga—wet earth, jasmine vines, sandalwood smoke lingering from temple lamps, and the sweetness of night-blooming flowers opening beneath moonlight.
Inside the women's wing, most lamps had already been dimmed.
Only a few corridors still glowed faintly beneath low-burning oil diyas placed in alcoves along the walls, their golden flames swaying gently whenever cool wind drifted through the open arches overlooking the palace gardens.
Somewhere very far away, a veena still played softly within another courtyard before fading gradually into silence altogether.
And within her chambers—
Devasena was panicking.
Not visibly.
Not dramatically.
But internally—
absolutely.
Because Subhadra would not leave.
The Yadava princess had spent nearly the entire evening sprawled comfortably across Devasena's chambers surrounded by half-opened festival gifts, silk wrappings, jewelry boxes, flower garlands, and trays of sweets sent earlier from the kitchens for the arriving guests.
Her laughter still lingered warmly through the room even now while she sat cross-legged near the cushioned seating area beside the balcony, absentmindedly untangling strands of pearl chains she had somehow mixed together herself.
Meanwhile Devasena sat across from her pretending to embroider peacefully while internally guarding her soul.
Because hidden beneath the lower folds of clothing inside the carved sandalwood chest near her bed—
lay the midnight-blue angavastram.
The angavastram she absolutely should not have bought.
The angavastram she absolutely should not have imagined Krishna wearing.
The angavastram that felt so devastatingly personal she could barely look at it herself without embarrassment creeping beneath her skin.
And worst of all—
Subhadra was observant.
Dangerously observant.
"Your face keeps changing expressions," Subhadra remarked suddenly without even looking up from the pearls tangled between her fingers.
Devasena nearly stabbed herself with the embroidery needle.
"...What?"
Subhadra finally lifted her gaze slowly.
Suspiciously.
"You have looked guilty for the past half hour."
"I always look like this."
"No," Subhadra replied immediately. "Usually you look calm. Right now you look like someone hiding stolen treasure beneath the palace."
Devasena's heart stopped.
Momentarily.
Just briefly.
Unfortunately that reaction alone answered too much.
Subhadra narrowed her eyes instantly.
"...Devasena."
"It is late," Devasena said quickly. "Should you not sleep?"
"Do not change the subject."
"I am not."
"You are."
Rain tapped softly against the carved balcony railings outside while cool wind drifted through the gauze curtains, carrying moonlight across the polished marble floors in silver patterns that shifted gently whenever the lamps flickered.
Subhadra slowly placed the tangled pearls aside now.
Far more focused.
Far more dangerous.
"You have been acting strangely since returning from the temple festival," she announced calmly.
"I have not."
"You disappeared alone afterward."
"I went praying."
"Mhm."
"You doubt Mahadev himself now?"
"I doubt you."
Devasena stared at her in offense.
Subhadra stared right back.
Then—
slowly—
her eyes drifted toward the sandalwood chest near the bed.
And Devasena nearly ascended directly into the heavens from panic.
Absolutely not.
No.
Never.
Before Subhadra could even rise properly, Devasena stood abruptly.
Too abruptly.
"I suddenly remembered something."
Subhadra froze immediately.
"...That was the most suspicious sentence I have ever heard."
Devasena ignored her completely while moving toward the carved chest far too quickly for someone pretending normalcy. The sacred crystal diya resting near the bedside table flickered softly as she passed, its strange golden flame glowing brighter momentarily beneath the movement of night air.
Behind her Subhadra gasped dramatically.
"You ARE hiding something!"
"I am not."
"Then why are you standing in front of the chest like a palace guard?"
Because inside rested a garment so embarrassingly intimate that if Subhadra saw it she would never allow Devasena peace again for the rest of mortal existence.
That was why.
But aloud she only answered stiffly,
"There are private things inside."
Subhadra blinked once.
Then suddenly grinned.
Dangerously.
"Oh gods."
Devasena immediately knew that expression meant disaster.
"You have love letters."
"I do not!"
"A secret admirer?"
"No!"
"Jewelry from someone forbidden?"
"Subhadra!"
The Yadava princess burst into delighted laughter while Devasena felt heat rise violently toward her face. Outside thunder rolled softly somewhere beyond the palace walls while rainwater continued dripping rhythmically from the flowering vines hanging across the balconies below.
Still laughing, Subhadra rose finally from the cushions.
And began walking toward her.
Devasena's soul nearly left her body.
"Stay there," she ordered immediately.
Subhadra stopped mid-step.
Slowly.
"...You are definitely hiding something."
"I am protecting my dignity."
"That statement has only made this more interesting."
Devasena closed her eyes briefly in suffering.
Gods.
This was punishment.
Surely.
Subhadra folded her arms now, silver bangles chiming softly together beneath lamplight while moonlight rested across the embroidered blue silk draped around her figure.
"Tell me one thing honestly," she demanded. "Is it about a man?"
"No."
Too fast.
Subhadra gasped loudly enough to wake ancestors.
"YOU SAID THAT LIKE A LIAR."
"I did not!"
"You absolutely did!"
Devasena groaned softly beneath her breath.
This was exactly why she needed to hide the angavastram elsewhere.
Because once Subhadra discovered it, the entire palace would somehow know within two days.
And if Bhima learned about it—
gods help her.
Worse—
if Krishna learned about it from someone else—
No.
Absolutely not.
That thought alone sent fresh panic through her instantly.
Subhadra noticed at once.
And suddenly—
her expression shifted.
Not teasing now.
Curious.
Deeply curious.
"...Wait," she murmured slowly. "Someone already knows?"
Devasena immediately looked away.
Mistake.
Terrible mistake.
Because Subhadra's eyes widened instantly with horrifying realization.
"Oh my gods."
"It is nothing."
"You told someone before me?!"
"I told no one anything!"
"Then why do you look guilty?"
Because if Krishna had already seen it beneath moonlight near the lotus pond while teasing her until she nearly collapsed from humiliation.
But she absolutely could not say that.
Never.
Instead Devasena moved suddenly toward the balcony.
"Look," she announced desperately, "the rain has stopped."
Subhadra stared at her in disbelief.
"...You are trying to distract me with weather."
"It is very beautiful weather."
"You are unbelievable."
Yet fortunately—
the distraction worked just enough.
At least temporarily.
Subhadra eventually sighed dramatically before following her toward the open balcony where cool night wind moved softly through the gauze curtains around them.
Together they leaned lightly against the carved marble railing overlooking the sleeping palace gardens below where hundreds of tiny lamps still glowed faintly along the pathways surrounding the lotus ponds.
For several moments neither spoke.
The quiet felt softer now.
More peaceful.
Until Subhadra suddenly murmured beside her,
"You know... whoever he is, I hope he deserves you."
Devasena's breath caught faintly.
Not because of the teasing.
Because suddenly—
unwillingly—
Krishna's face crossed her mind again.
Moonlight against dark curls.
Amused eyes watching her panic.
That soft dangerous voice murmuring—
"I fear I was something significantly worse."
Warmth bloomed painfully beneath her ribs again.
And gods—
that itself frightened her most of all.
The palace slept.
Not completely—royal palaces never truly did—but enough that silence had finally begun settling into the spaces between corridors and courtyards like soft dark silk laid carefully across restless grandeur.
The last musicians had stopped playing hours ago.
The ceremonial fires near the outer courtyards had dimmed into low amber glows beneath the watch of drowsy attendants, and the endless movement surrounding Prince Dhairya's naamkaran had at last surrendered to quieter midnight hours where only guards, temple priests, and sleepless hearts remained awake.
Moonlight silvered Vanga beautifully tonight.
Rain from earlier still lingered across marble pathways and lotus leaves, leaving the palace gardens shining faintly beneath the night sky while cool monsoon wind wandered through flowering vines heavy with jasmine and madhavi blossoms. Somewhere in the distance, water trickled softly from carved stone fountains into moonlit ponds, blending with the endless chorus of crickets hidden among the wet gardens below.
And through one of the side corridors of the women's wing—
Devasena crept like a criminal.
Carefully.
Quietly.
Utterly betrayed by her own embarrassment.
The folded midnight-blue angavastram rested clutched tightly against her chest beneath a pale shawl while the sacred crystal diya glowed faintly within her other hand, its strange golden flame flickering softly each time cool wind brushed against it.
This was absurd.
Completely absurd.
Yet she could not sleep knowing that garment remained hidden inside her chambers where Subhadra could uncover it at any moment through sheer curiosity and catastrophic timing.
Because the Yadava princess had become suspicious already.
Very suspicious.
And Devasena would rather willingly throw herself into the ocean than survive the humiliation of Subhadra discovering a garment chosen specifically because she unconsciously imagined Krishna wearing it.
Gods.
Even thinking that sentence made heat rise beneath her skin.
She moved quickly through the quieter garden pathways behind the inner palace, her anklets muted beneath the folds of her saree while moonlight shifted softly across the wet marble beneath her feet.
This section of the royal gardens remained almost entirely abandoned at night, hidden further behind the women's chambers where lotus ponds stretched quietly beneath flowering trees and carved stone benches overlooked the water.
Perfect.
No one came here at this hour.
Devasena exhaled softly in relief while kneeling beside one of the low ivory chests built discreetly into the garden pavilion walls where ceremonial items were sometimes stored during festivals. If she hid the angavastram here temporarily, she could retrieve it later before departing for Dwarka or—
A voice spoke behind her suddenly.
"Did I scare you?"
Devasena gasped.
Actually gasped.
Her entire body jolted violently enough that the folded garment slipped straight from her hands onto the marble floor, the silk unraveling instantly beneath moonlight in one devastating sweep of dark blue fabric and silver embroidery.
For one terrible second—
absolute silence.
Then slowly—
very slowly—
Krishna's gaze lowered toward it.
Gods.
No.
No no no no—
His brows lifted faintly.
"...Is that a—"
"No, it is not," Devasena answered immediately.
Far too quickly.
Far too horrified.
Which unfortunately only made everything worse.
Moonlight rested across Vasudev beautifully tonight in ways Devasena wished her heart did not notice so easily anymore.
His dark hair remained partially untied from earlier festivities, soft curls shifting lightly in the night wind while deep blue silks rested loosely across broad shoulders still adorned faintly with ceremonial sandalwood markings from the evening prayers.
Gold glimmered subtly against his wrists and throat beneath silver moonlight while amusement flickered immediately behind his eyes.
But beneath the amusement—
something else entered his expression too.
Something quieter.
Something sharper.
Krishna bent gracefully then before she could stop him, lifting the fallen angavastram carefully between long fingers while the midnight-blue silk unfolded fully beneath the moonlight.
The silver embroidery shimmered softly like ocean waves at night.
And immediately—
immediately—
he recognized it.
Not the garment itself.
What kind of garment it was.
Intimate.
Personal.
Chosen carefully.
The sort of thing gifted not through politics—
but affection.
His heartbeat slowed strangely.
For reasons he disliked instantly.
"Oh," Krishna murmured softly.
Devasena wished the earth would open beneath her immediately.
"It is not what you think."
"That depends," he replied mildly, eyes still resting upon the fabric, "on what exactly I am thinking."
She opened her mouth.
Closed it again.
Because unfortunately she had no idea what he was thinking.
Only that something in his face had changed.
Subtly.
Enough most people would never notice.
Devasena noticed anyway.
The teasing softness in his eyes had dimmed slightly.
Not vanished.
Just... tightened.
As though some invisible distance had quietly entered him all at once.
Krishna ran his fingers lightly across the silver embroidery.
Beautiful craftsmanship.
Beautiful choice of color too.
Ocean-dark blue.
The exact shade Dwarka's waters became beneath moonlight.
Something unpleasant curled faintly beneath his ribs before he could stop it.
A ridiculous feeling.
Entirely irrational.
Yet suddenly all he could think was—
Someone else.
Someone had inspired this softness from her.
Someone she thought about carefully enough to choose fabric this intimate.
Someone she imagined closely enough to know what colors would suit him.
The realization settled strangely inside him.
Heavy.
Unwelcome.
And gods—
jealousy looked uglier from inside than he had expected.
"How unfortunate," he said lightly, though his voice had grown quieter somehow. "I fear I interrupted something important."
Devasena blinked rapidly.
"What?"
"The hiding of secret gifts beneath moonlight seems rather serious."
"It is not serious."
"Mhm."
He folded the garment slowly now, almost too carefully.
"For whom?" he asked casually.
The question struck harder than it should have.
Devasena immediately looked away.
"That is none of your concern."
Krishna smiled faintly.
But the smile did not fully reach his eyes now.
"Then it is indeed for someone."
"It—"
She stopped herself too late.
Disaster.
Complete disaster.
Because Krishna noticed instantly.
And suddenly the strange tightness beneath his calm deepened further.
Ah.
So there truly was someone.
How fascinating.
How deeply irritating.
The night wind shifted between them, carrying the scent of lotus water and rain-soaked jasmine through the garden pavilion while somewhere far beyond the palace walls thunder rolled faintly again across the distant sea.
Krishna handed the folded angavastram back toward her.
Politely.
Too politely.
"Well," he said softly, "whoever he is appears fortunate."
The words should not have hurt him.
Yet they did.
Slightly.
Enough.
Because suddenly memories returned uninvited—
Devasena laughing softly beside Bhima during dinner.
The way Arjuna watched for her reactions instinctively.
How gently she spoke to people she loved.
And now this.
This hidden midnight meeting with a garment chosen for another man.
Krishna almost felt insulted by the intensity of his own reaction.
Absurd.
Completely absurd.
He barely knew her.
Yet the thought of her looking at someone else with that same softness unsettled him immediately.
Meanwhile Devasena stood frozen in mounting horror because—
gods.
He misunderstood.
Completely.
And somehow that felt worse.
"I think you should sleep, Rajkumari," Krishna continued gently, already beginning to step away now. "Your secret remains safe with me."
"No—wait."
He paused.
Turned slightly.
Moonlight caught the sharp line of his profile while wind shifted softly through dark curls near his temple.
Devasena's throat tightened instantly.
Because now that he believed it belonged to someone else—
for reasons she could not explain—
she suddenly could not bear it.
"It is not..." she started weakly.
Krishna waited.
Calm.
Patient.
Dangerously unreadable.
Devasena stared at the folded angavastram in mortification before finally speaking so quietly she almost hoped the wind would steal the words away before reaching him.
"...there is no someone."
One dark brow lifted faintly.
"No?"
"No."
"Then why hide it from Subhadra as though it contains state secrets?"
Because it contained her dignity.
Because it revealed too much.
Because she had chosen it while imagining him.
Gods.
Heat flooded her face violently.
Krishna noticed immediately.
And suddenly—
very suddenly—
something shifted behind his eyes again.
Interest.
Dangerous interest.
He took one slow step closer.
"Devasena," he murmured softly, "for whom is the garment?"
The use of her name nearly destroyed whatever composure remained.
She looked everywhere except at him.
The pond.
The marble.
The moonlight.
Anywhere.
Unfortunately Krishna waited patiently.
Entirely too patiently.
And after several unbearable moments of silence—
she finally whispered awkwardly,
"...for you."
Silence.
Real silence.
The kind that swallowed sound completely.
Krishna stared at her.
Actually stared.
And for perhaps the first time in years—
Vasudev Krishna looked genuinely surprised.
His eyes lowered slowly toward the folded angavastram in her hands.
Then back toward her burning face.
Then finally—
he laughed.
Softly at first.
Warmly.
Beautifully.
Not mocking.
Far worse.
Delighted.
"Oh?" he murmured.
Devasena covered her face instantly.
"Please forget I said that."
"I fear that may no longer be possible."
"It was a mistake."
"A very thoughtful mistake."
"You are enjoying this."
"Immensely."
Gods.
His eyes had changed completely now.
The earlier tightness gone.
In its place remained something unbearably soft and amused and quietly pleased in ways he himself probably had not expected.
Krishna stepped closer beneath the moonlight then, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
"And here I spent several tragic minutes believing another man inspired this much attention from you."
Devasena made a horrified sound.
"You believed I was meeting someone secretly in the gardens?"
"You were hiding intimate clothing at midnight," he replied reasonably. "The evidence was compelling."
"It is not intimate!"
Krishna glanced meaningfully at the angavastram.
Then at her.
"...Rajkumari."
She wanted the pond to drown her instantly.
Instead Krishna only smiled again—slowly now, teasing lingering warmly beneath every glance while moonlight silvered the edges of his expression.
"You know," he murmured softly, "if you wished to gift me something, you could simply have done so."
Devasena looked scandalized.
"How was I supposed to hand you this directly?"
Krishna's smile deepened immediately.
"Ah," he said gently, "so you realized exactly what kind of gift it was."
Her face burned hotter instantly.
"I did not realize anything."
"You hid it beneath moonlight."
"Because of Subhadra."
"You imagined me wearing it."
Devasena nearly choked.
"I absolutely did not."
Krishna's eyes darkened with quiet amusement.
"Then why," he asked softly, "did you choose ocean-blue silk embroidered like moonlit waves?"
She opened her mouth.
Stopped.
Because unfortunately—
there was no answer that would save her now.
Krishna stepped closer again then, slow enough for her to notice every movement. The monsoon wind shifted softly through the pavilion between them, carrying sandalwood and rainwater toward her while moonlight flickered silver against the gold around his throat.
"You chose something soft enough for resting chambers rather than court," he murmured. "Not ceremonial. Not royal. Personal." His gaze lowered briefly toward the folded garment before lifting back toward her face again. "And somehow I am expected to believe imagination was not involved?"
Gods.
The worst part was that he sounded pleased.
Not arrogant.
Not smug.
Something quieter.
Something warmer.
As though some restless part inside him had unexpectedly settled the moment she confessed the truth.
Devasena tightened her hold on the angavastram helplessly.
"You are impossible."
"And yet," Krishna replied lightly, eyes never leaving hers now, "you still bought it."
The lotus pond behind them rippled softly beneath drifting flower petals while rainwater continued dripping rhythmically from the pavilion roof. Somewhere far away thunder rolled again beyond Vanga's sleeping palace.
Neither moved.
Neither stepped away.
And suddenly Devasena became terrifyingly aware of how close he stood now.
Close enough that she could smell sandalwood lingering faintly against his skin beneath rain and night air.
Close enough that every word spoken softly by him seemed to settle directly beneath her ribs.
Close enough that moonlight caught within his eyes whenever he looked at her.
Gods.
This had gone terribly wrong.
Krishna's gaze drifted once more toward the midnight-blue angavastram before returning slowly toward her face.
"You know," he murmured after a moment, "I nearly disliked this mysterious man."
Devasena blinked rapidly.
"What?"
"The fortunate recipient."
"You cannot say that after accusing me for half the night."
"I was suffering."
"You were dramatic."
"I was wounded," Krishna corrected solemnly. "Deeply."
Despite herself—
despite everything—
a startled laugh escaped her.
Soft.
Warm.
Beautiful enough that Krishna's expression changed instantly the moment he heard it.
Not visibly.
Not enough anyone else would notice.
But something inside him softened immediately at the sound.
And Devasena unfortunately noticed that too.
Which only worsened everything further.
"You are enjoying my humiliation," she accused weakly.
"A little."
"A little?"
"Perhaps more than a little."
She looked scandalized again.
He looked delighted by her scandalization.
The night itself suddenly seemed gentler around them now, the earlier tension dissolving slowly into softer teasing warmth while moonlight silvered the pavilion into quiet intimacy neither of them had intended to create.
For several moments neither spoke again.
And somehow—
that silence felt far more dangerous than conversation.
Because now there existed something between them that had not existed before tonight.
Knowledge.
Krishna knew she had imagined him while choosing something intimate enough to hide beneath moonlight.
And Devasena knew—
with terrifying certainty—
that the thought of her gifting such softness to another man had unsettled him deeply enough to make even Vasudev Krishna jealous.
The realization breathed quietly between them like another living thing.
Warm.
Dangerous.
Unnamed.
And neither seemed entirely willing to step away from it yet.