The settlement of the fisher-folk was a chaotic maze of drying nets, upturned boats, and the pungent smell of river mud. It was a world away from the marble silence of the palace.
Devavrata rode his white stallion through the narrow paths. He did not bring guards. He did not wear his crown. But even in simple riding leathers, he shone like a beacon. The villagers scattered before him, their eyes wide with fear. They knew who he was. The Silver Prince. The Warrior who stopped the fire.
He ignored them. His eyes were fixed on the riverbank.
She was there.
Standing at the edge of the Yamuna, looking out at the grey water, was a woman. She stood with her back to the land, rigid and still, like a statue carved from the earth itself.
Devavrata felt a strange pull. This is she, he realized. The woman who holds the King's heart.
He dismounted, his boots sinking into the wet sand. He calmed his horse with a touch and began to walk toward her. He moved silently, a habit of his training, but he did not need to make noise for her to know he was there.
"Stop right there, Prince."
The voice was low, sharp, and laced with iron. Satyavati did not turn around. She kept her gaze on the horizon, her back stiffening.
"If you have come to threaten me," she warned, her voice rising over the sound of the lapping water, "then save your breath. I am a daughter of the river. I have faced storms that would drown your chariots. I am not a woman who trembles because a man wears a sword."
Devavrata stopped.
He looked at the defiance in her posture. He saw the tension in her shoulders. She expected a tyrant. She expected the "Shark" of the palace to come and devour the "Fish."
Devavrata didn't draw his sword. He didn't shout.
He slowly brought his palms together in a respectful Pranam.
"Mother," he said softly.
The word hung in the air, fragile and confusing.
"I am not here to threaten you," Devavrata continued, his voice calm, carrying the melodic resonance of the Ganga. "How can a son threaten his mother? I am here to serve."
Satyavati whipped around.
Her eyes were blazing. "Do not call me that!" she snapped, stepping back as if the word burned her. "I am not your mother, Devavrata. And you... you are certainly not my son."
Devavrata lowered his hands, but his expression remained gentle. He looked at this fierce woman, trying to understand the invisible wall between them.
"You hold my father's heart," Devavrata said simply. "That makes you my mother in spirit, if not in blood."
He took a step closer, his grey-blue eyes searching hers.
"My father is dying, Lady. Not of sickness, but of silence. He sits on his throne, but his soul is here, on this riverbank. He loves you. And the wind tells me you love him."
Devavrata spread his hands, an open gesture of plea.
"Then why is there a shadow between you? Is there a debt? A war? An enemy?" His voice dropped, vibrating with the lethal promise of the greatest warrior of the age. "Tell me. I am the son of Ganga. There is no mountain I cannot move for him. There is no enemy I cannot defeat for you. Just name the problem."
Satyavati looked at him.
She looked at the perfect face, the broad shoulders, the terrifying grace of his stance. She saw the god-like aura that surrounded him—the very aura that would eclipse anyone who stood next to him.
She laughed. It was a dry, bitter sound.
"You want to know the problem, Prince?" she whispered, her eyes locking onto his.
She pointed a finger straight at his chest, right at the spot where the golden chain of the Crown Prince hung.
"The problem... is you."
"Me?" Devavrata asked, the single word heavy with confusion. "I am his son. I am his heir. How can I be the poison in his cup?"
Satyavati stepped closer, the smell of the river clinging to her skin. She didn't flinch away from his confusion; she dissected it.
"Because you are perfect, Devavrata," she said, her voice bitter. "You are the Crown Prince. The people worship you. The army fears you. You are the sun at high noon."
She gestured to her own stomach, to the future she was protecting.
"But if I marry the King... what becomes of my children? They will be born under your shadow. And do you know what happens to saplings that grow beneath a Banyan tree? They die. Or they become stunted, twisted things, forever reaching for light they can never touch."
"They will be my brothers," Devavrata argued, his brow furrowing. "I will protect them. They will live as Princes of the Blood. They will have honor."
"Honor?" Satyavati let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "They will be the sons of a fisher-woman. You are the son of a Goddess. The court will never see them as your equals. They will see them as your servants."
Her eyes blazed with a fierce, maternal panic.
"I am a mother, Prince. Even before I hold a child, I am a mother. And a mother does not birth slaves. I cannot watch my flesh and blood bow to someone who shares half their father but none of their struggle. I cannot see them stand in the back of the room while you sit on the throne."
She looked him dead in the eye, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"I want to secure their future. I want them to be Kings, not shadows. Am I wrong for that? Am I a monster for wanting my children to stand tall?"
Devavrata went silent. He looked at her—really looked at her. He saw the fear behind the ambition. He saw a woman fighting for the dignity of her unborn line.
"No," Devavrata said softly. "You are not wrong. You are a mother."
"Then you understand why I said no," Satyavati said, turning away toward the rushing water. "The King cannot give me what I need because he has already given it to you."
She paused, then turned back, a challenge in her eyes.
"Unless... can you reject it? Can you tear the sun out of the sky? Can you take that gold from your neck and throw it away?" She shook her head, answering her own question. "I know you can't. Men love power more than breath. No warrior throws away a crown."
Devavrata stared at the river. The water rushed by, uncaring, just as it had when his mother left him.
"I met my father after sixteen years," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "I have not seen his face since I was an infant. I spent my life in ashrams, dreaming of the man who would one day hold me."
He looked at Satyavati, his grey eyes swimming with a profound, ancient sadness.
"And when I finally met him... I saw sadness. I saw a man hollowed out by grief. I thought I was the cure, Mother. But now I see... I am the disease."
His hand moved to his chest. His fingers curled around the heavy, golden chain of the Yuvaraja—the symbol of absolute power, the promise of the Kuru throne.
"I was born to the River Goddess," he said, his voice gaining strength. "I was raised on the cold peaks of the Himalayas. I do not crave soft beds or golden chairs. I do not wish for a life where my existence causes my father pain."
Click.
The sound was small, but it echoed like a thunderclap.
Devavrata unclasped the heavy chain. He pulled the gold from his neck, letting it pool in his hands like a coiled snake.
Satyavati's eyes widened. Her breath hitched.
He took a step forward and held it out to her.
"Take it," Devavrata commanded.
"Prince..." she stammered, staring at the fortune in his hands.
"This is the Crown of the Yuvaraja," Devavrata said, his voice steady as a rock. "It belongs to the heir of Hastinapura. And that heir is not me."
He pressed the gold into her trembling hands.
"I renounce my claim. I reject the throne. From this day forth, I am not the Crown Prince. Your sons... and only your sons... will sit on the throne of Bharata."
Satyavati held the gold, the weight of it dragging her hands down. She looked up at him, stunned. He had done the impossible. He had given away an empire as if it were a handful of dust.
But she didn't smile. Because deep down, she knew—giving up the crown was the easy part. The real danger was not the metal; it was the man.
Satyavati looked at the gold chain in her hands. It was heavy, worth more than her entire village. It was the symbol of the Crown Prince.
But she did not smile. She let the chain slip through her fingers, letting it fall into the wet sand with a dull, meaningless thud.
"Promises are made of air, Prince," she whispered, stepping over the gold. "And air changes direction with the wind."
Devavrata frowned. "I have given you my word. I have given you the symbol of my rank. What more is there?"
"Trust?" Satyavati's voice rose, trembling not with anger, but with a terrifying clarity. "How can I trust you? Look at yourself, Devavrata! You stand there in human clothes, but you are not a man."
She began to pace around him, listing his attributes like accusations.
"You are the son of the River Goddess Ganga. Your veins flow with celestial water. You wield weapons gifted by Indra, the King of Gods. You were trained in the art of war by the Great Sage Parashurama, the man who slaughtered the warrior caste twenty-one times!"
She stopped in front of him, looking up into his face.
"And my sons? They will be mortal. They will bleed. They will age. But you..." Her voice dropped to a hush. "I have heard the rumors. You possess the Ichha Mrityu. You have the boon of death-at-will. Death does not touch you until you invite it. You are basically immortal."
She gestured helplessly to the sky.
"My sons will be children playing in the dirt. You are a Titan who refuses to die. What happens in ten years? What happens when the court whispers that the 'Fisher-Princes' are weak? What if you change your mind? What if you decide you want the power back?"
"I would never—" Devavrata started.
"You might not!" she cut him off, her eyes blazing. "But what of your sons? A tiger does not sire a sheep, Devavrata. You are a warrior. Your children will be warriors. They will grow up seeing my children on the throne that belonged to their father. They will hate us. They will rebel. And when the grandson of Ganga fights the grandson of a fisherman... who do you think will survive?"
She shook her head, backing away.
"I cannot build a house on a foundation that can crush me. Unless you can guarantee that no drop of your blood will ever challenge my blood... I cannot trust you."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Devavrata looked at her. He heard the logic. It was cruel, paranoid, and absolutely flawless. As long as he had the potential for lineage, he was a threat.
She is right, he thought. Renouncing the crown is not enough. I must renounce my humanity.
A strange calm settled over him. It was the calm of a man who realizes he is already dead.
Devavrata looked down at his hands. They were strong, young hands—hands meant to hold a sword, yes, but also hands meant to hold a bride.
For a heartbeat, the silence of the riverbank stretched into a lifetime.
In his mind, he saw the ghost of a life he was about to strangle. He saw the face of a woman he would never meet—a queen who would have waited for him by the fire. He heard the phantom laughter of sons who would never be born. He felt the weight of a grandson on his knee, the pride of watching his own bloodline grow strong and tall like the cedars of the Himalayas.
I am killing them, he thought, the realization cold and sharp in his chest. I am erasing them from the tapestry of time before they even take a breath.
He thought of the loneliness. To walk the halls of Hastinapura alone while others feasted. To grow old without a hand to hold. To watch his father's new children play while he stood guard, an eternal spectator in his own home.
It was a terrifying price. It was a price no man should pay.
But then, he thought of Shantanu. He thought of the King sitting in the dark, dying of silence. He thought of the father who had embraced him in the mud and called him "perfect."
What is a wife compared to a father's joy? Devavrata asked himself. What is a son compared to a King's honor?
The vision of his future family flickered and died. He let them go. He buried them in the depths of his duty. The fear vanished, replaced by a resolve harder than diamond.
If I must burn to light his world, then let me be the pyre.
"You fear my blood," Devavrata said softly. "You fear the sons I might have. You fear the future."
He turned away from her. He walked into the Yamuna.
He didn't stop at the edge. He waded in until the cold, dark water swirled around his waist. He stood at the confluence of the elements—the water below, the sky above.
He cupped his hands, dipping them into the river. He lifted the water—the sacred witness—high into the air. He looked up at the blazing Sun, his eyes unblinking, burning with a fierce, terrifying resolve.
"Then hear me!"
His voice exploded from his chest, rolling across the water like thunder. It wasn't the voice of a boy. It was the voice of a legend being born.
"I, Devavrata, son of Shantanu and Ganga, take this oath in the presence of the Sun, the Earth, and the River!"
Satyavati covered her mouth, her eyes wide. The air around him seemed to vibrate.
"You fear my children? Then I shall have none!"
He poured the water through his fingers, letting it fall back into the river.
"I vow to remain a Brahmachari! From this day until the day I die, I will not marry. I will not know the touch of a woman. I will father no sons to claim the throne. My lineage ends with me!"
He scooped the water again, his voice rising, cracking the sky.
"You fear I will take the throne? I vow that I shall never sit upon it! But I will not leave it unguarded!"
He turned to face Satyavati, the water dripping from his hands, his silhouette framed by the blinding sun.
"I will be the Guardian of Hastinapura! I will be the wall that no enemy can breach! Whoever sits on that throne—be it your son, or your son's son—will have to go through my wrath before they touch the crown!"
He clenched his fist, pressing it against his heart.
"I will serve the Kuru throne, but I will never own it. I give you my life. I give you my manhood. I give you my future."
"This is my oath!" he roared. "My word is my rule. And the world knows that the Son of Ganga never breaks a rule!"
The oath hung in the air, heavier than the water dripping from his clothes.
There was no thunder. There were no flowers from the sky. There was only the rushing sound of the Yamuna, witnessing the end of a dynasty that had not yet begun.
Devavrata lowered his hands. The fire in his eyes cooled into a steel-grey resolve. He waded back toward the bank, the water churning around his waist, then his knees, until his boots sank into the wet sand.
He stood before Satyavati. He was soaked, his silver robes clinging to his frame, his hair plastered to his forehead. He had given away his kingdom, his lineage, and his happiness in a single breath.
But he did not look broken. He looked terrifyingly calm.
Satyavati stared at him, her mouth slightly open, the gold chain still lying at her feet. She had asked for security, but she had received a sacrifice so absolute it frightened her.
"Devavrata..." she whispered, her voice trembling. "What have you done?"
"I have cleared the path," Devavrata said simply. His voice was devoid of emotion. It was the voice of a soldier reporting a completed mission. "The shadow is gone, Mother. The Banyan tree has cut its own roots."
He did not wait for her gratitude. He turned his head, looking toward the distant line of trees where he had left his horse.
"The Royal Guards are waiting beyond the ridge," he informed her, his tone formal and distant. "I will summon them."
Satyavati blinked, trying to process the sudden shift. "The guards?"
"Yes," Devavrata said. He looked at the fishing nets, the smell of the mud, and the rough boat behind her. He shook his head slowly.
"You are the bride of Shantanu now. You carry the future of the Kuru dynasty in your fate. It is not fitting for you to walk."
He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her.
"Leave the nets, Satyavati. Leave the boat. Leave this life of bargaining with the river."
He gestured toward the horizon, toward the capital that was now hers.
"You will not enter Hastinapura as a fisher-woman. You will not enter as a guest. You will enter as the Queen Mother. And I..."
He paused, looking down at the gold chain in the mud—the crown he had worn only hours ago.
"...I will walk beside your chariot as your shield."
He bowed—a low, deep bow of a servant to his mistress. It was the final seal on his promise.
"Prepare yourself, Mother. The King waits."
Without another word, Devavrata turned and walked toward his horse, his wet robes trailing in the dust, leaving Satyavati alone on the bank with the weight of the empire now resting squarely on her shoulders.