The child was born at night, when the palace corridors were quiet and even the guards spoke in murmurs.
Shantanu did not attend the birth.
It was not custom for a king to be present, and he told himself that customs existed for good reason. Still, he remained awake, seated at the low table in his chamber, listening to the sounds of movement beyond the walls. The muted steps of servants. The soft urgency of voices trained not to carry.
When the cry finally came, it was brief. Strong. Alive.
A servant entered moments later and bowed deeply. "A son, my king."
Shantanu closed his eyes. Only for a breath. Relief came carefully, as though he did not trust it yet.
He rose and went to the queen's chambers.
Ganga lay propped against cushions, her expression calm, untouched by exhaustion. The child rested beside her, wrapped in cloth the color of river stone. He slept without fuss, one small hand curled against his chest.
Shantanu approached slowly.
He had held a child before. He remembered the weight. The warmth. The brief, fragile certainty that something new had entered the world.
"This one cries loudly," he said, attempting lightness.
Ganga looked at him. Her gaze was steady, unreadable.
"He will not for long," she replied.
Shantanu did not understand the words. He smiled anyway.
The days that followed were quiet.
The court celebrated as expected. Offerings were made. Blessings spoken. The birth of a prince was good news, and good news traveled quickly. Shantanu received congratulations with practiced composure. He thanked priests and ministers alike, though he found himself distracted, listening for sounds beyond the hall.
Ganga moved through the palace with the same certainty she always had. She held the child often, but not possessively. When servants offered help, she accepted or refused without explanation. There was no anxiety in her movements. No visible attachment.
On the seventh day, she came to Shantanu's chamber before dawn.
The child was in her arms.
"I am going to the river," she said.
Shantanu paused, the words not yet forming fully in his mind. "Now?"
She nodded once.
The child stirred, let out a small sound, then settled again.
"I will come with you," Shantanu said, already reaching for his cloak.
"No," Ganga replied. Not sharply. Simply.
He stopped.
The vow surfaced then, uninvited but unmistakable.
You must never question my actions.
Not in thought.
Not in word.
Shantanu lowered his hand.
The river was close. He could hear it faintly through the open window, a constant presence he had long accepted as background to his life.
"I will wait," he said.
Ganga inclined her head and turned away.
Shantanu stood alone as the door closed behind her.
He told himself there was no reason for unease. The river had always been part of their lives. Ganga knew it better than anyone. The child was safe in her arms.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
The sky began to lighten.
A distant sound reached him then. Not a cry. Not a shout. Just the water, louder now, closer, as if the river itself had shifted.
Ganga returned just as the first servants began their morning rounds.
She was alone.
Shantanu looked at her, waiting for explanation that did not come.
"The river takes what it must," she said.
The words were not cruel. They were not kind. They were final.
Shantanu felt something tighten in his chest, sharp and immediate. His mouth opened.
Then closed.
The vow held.
He did not shout.
He did not ask where.
He did not ask why.
He turned away, slowly, as though sudden movement might break something unseen.
The palace woke fully soon after.
Servants discovered the absence. Whispers began, tentative at first, then urgent. A prince had been born. A prince was gone. No body was found. No explanation offered.
Shantanu addressed the court later that morning.
"There was a complication," he said. "The child did not survive."
It was not a lie. It was not the truth.
The court bowed their heads. Rituals were prepared. The day moved on.
Only Shantanu noticed that the river ran a little faster than usual.
That night, he stood at the terrace again, looking down at the dark water.
He told himself that silence was still the better choice.
He told himself that restraint had preserved the kingdom before, and would do so again.
And somewhere beyond sight, the river listened.