Dawn broke over Rajagriha, spilling molten gold across the city's towering spires and palace walls. The great hall buzzed with a restless energy—yesterday's contest had ended in Magadha's triumph, but the echoes of that victory stirred unease beneath the surface.
The alliances of Magadha, Avanti, and Panchala stood firm, their bonds forged in blood and marriage. Vasumati, sister to the king of Avanti and queen to Jarasandha, sat beside Padmavati, her eyes steady but shadowed with worry. Drupada of Panchala exchanged a solemn glance with the king of Avanti, their silent communication a testament to the unity of their kingdoms.
Yet, in the far corner of the hall, beneath banners darkened by old rivalries, a figure rose. His armor gleamed like the scales of a serpent, and his eyes burned with the fire of long-held resentment. The murmurs hushed as he stepped forward, voice ringing clear and sharp.
"Let the king of Magadha prove his worth by the sword!" he thundered. "Yesterday's contest was but a game of strength and spectacle. If Jarasandha is truly invincible, let him face me in open combat!"
The hall fell into a tense silence. The laws of Aryavarta were clear—no king could refuse a direct challenge before the council. Jarasandha rose, his gaze calm and unyielding, the weight of his kingdom resting on his shoulders.
"I accept," he declared, voice resonant and steady as a temple bell. "Let the gods be witness."
The duel was arranged at the center of the hall, a circle cleared and sanctified by chanting priests. The assembly pressed close, eyes wide with anticipation and dread. The clash of steel rang out, a fierce storm of sparks and fury. The rival champion fought with reckless desperation, each blow fueled by hatred and ambition. Jarasandha met him with measured might, his movements precise and unyielding, his face a mask of unreadable calm.
But beneath the surface of the duel, darker forces stirred. Shadows flickered along the marble walls, and cloaked figures whispered in corners. The loyal guards shifted uneasily, sensing a threat beyond the duel.
Suddenly, chaos erupted. From the shadows, assassins struck—blades flashing toward Jarasandha's queens and children. Padmavati cried out, shielding young Sumana with her body. Vasumati's brother, the king of Avanti, leapt to defend his sister, sword drawn and fury blazing. Drupada's voice thundered across the hall.
"To arms! Protect the royal line!"
The assembly dissolved into pandemonium. Allies of Magadha formed a living shield around the royal family, while the rival kingdom's conspirators pressed their attack. The duel became a storm within a storm, steel clashing amid screams and shouts.
In the chaos, the rival champion seized his moment. With a cry of triumph and treachery, he broke through Jarasandha's guard and, in a single, terrible stroke, severed the king's head before all Aryavarta.
Time froze. The king's crown tumbled to the marble floor, rolling to a halt at Vasumati's feet. Blood pooled like a dark omen. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then Padmavati's scream shattered the silence—a sound so raw and full of anguish that even the gods must have wept. Vasumati collapsed, her brother catching her as she fainted. Drupada and the Avanti king stood over the fallen queens, swords drawn, faces carved from stone.
The rival champion, wild-eyed and blood-soaked, raised Jarasandha's severed head high for all to see.
"Behold!" he roared. "The legend is ended! Magadha's king is no more!"
The council erupted—some in horror, some in triumph, many in disbelief. The laws of Aryavarta had been broken, and a shadow darker than night fell over the hall.