The summons arrived wrapped in courtesy.
An invitation to witness.To observe.To remain present without voice.
Aniruddha felt its weight the moment Krishna read it.
"The dice," Aniruddha said.
Krishna did not deny it. "They have already begun to roll."
The sabha of Hastinapura was built to endure—pillars carved with victories, floors polished to reflect authority back upon itself. It was a hall designed to remind all who entered that order had already been decided.
Aniruddha stood at its edge, unannounced.
The shadows noticed.
They gathered quietly in corners and beneath benches, thin and patient. Not creatures—permissions. Waiting for the moment when dignity would be declared expendable.
The game unfolded without haste.
Throw by throw, certainty hardened into arrogance. Lives became wagers. Silence learned to applaud.
Aniruddha's gaze moved beyond the dice—to Draupadi.
She had not yet been summoned.
But the air around her place trembled, as though the future had already chosen its posture.
"This is where it fractures," Aniruddha murmured.
Krishna's voice was calm. "This is where it attempts to."
The words were spoken.
The order given.
The hall leaned forward.
Aniruddha stepped.
He did not rush.He did not announce himself.
He crossed the invisible line before cruelty could claim inevitability.
When Dushasana reached for Draupadi, the torches dimmed—not extinguished, but uncertain as though light itself had reconsidered its role.
Dushasana laughed and reached again.
His arm stopped.
Not frozen.
Empty.
He frowned, confused, and tried to force it to move.
Aniruddha stood behind him.
"Do not," he said.
The voice was quiet. It carried.
Dushasana turned, rage already rising—then faltered.
The air around Aniruddha did not belong to the sabha. It carried ash and forest and refusal.
"This hall has already fallen," Aniruddha said evenly. "Do not make it bleed."
Shakuni laughed too quickly. "A threat, in the king's court?"
Aniruddha did not look at him. He looked at the elders.
Bhishma shifted.Drona's jaw tightened.
They felt it.
This was not defiance.
It was a boundary.
Dushasana lunged with his other hand.
Pain folded through him—not sharp, not theatrical, but absolute. His arm collapsed uselessly at his side, sensation gone as though something essential had been withdrawn.
He screamed.
The sound shattered the room's composure.
"Take him away," Aniruddha said.
No guard moved at first.
Then two servants stepped forward and dragged Dushasana back, terror widening their eyes.
Aniruddha turned to Draupadi.
She stood untouched.
Unreduced.
Her gaze met his—steady, burning, unafraid.
"You interfered," she said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because some moments summon wars," Aniruddha replied. "Others summon guardians."
The shadows recoiled, denied their feast.
Krishna stepped forward then, voice gentle and final. "The game is over."
Protests rose. Justifications followed. Words scrambled to regain ground already lost.
But the hall had changed.
It had not shattered.
It had refused.
Later, when the sabha lay empty and echoes faded, Draupadi stood alone beneath the pillars.
Aniruddha approached without sound.
"If war comes anyway," she said quietly, "do not let it forget why."
Aniruddha inclined his head. "I won't."
Outside, Hastinapura breathed again—uneasy, altered.
History had not broken.
But it had flinched.
And somewhere beyond sight, something patient withdrew its hand—
knowing the board was no longer as open as it had been.