The seventh night did not announce itself.
It arrived like all the others, quietly, slipping into the palace on the heels of routine. Lamps were lit. Servants moved through corridors with trained softness. Somewhere beyond the walls, the river continued its patient course.
The eighth child had been born at dawn.
Shantanu did not see him then. He did not go to the chamber. He did not ask after his health. These omissions were not indifference. They were defense. He had learned, painfully, that anticipation sharpened loss.
Still, the knowledge sat in him, heavy and unavoidable.
Another son.
Another seventh night approaching.
As dusk fell, Shantanu found himself restless. He walked the palace halls without direction, his steps echoing faintly against stone. The walls felt closer than usual. The air thicker.
When he reached the outer courtyard, he heard the sound of water carried on the wind.
The river was louder tonight.
He turned back before the thought could form fully.
Ganga came for him as she always did.
She stood at the threshold of his chamber, the child wrapped against her shoulder. The boy was awake, his eyes open, unfocused but searching, his small hand gripping the edge of her garment.
"I am going to the river," she said.
The words were familiar. Worn smooth by repetition.
Shantanu looked at the child.
Something in the boy's gaze caught him. Not recognition. Something quieter. An awareness without understanding.
"No," Shantanu said.
The word escaped before he could stop it.
Ganga did not move.
"You gave your word," she said.
"I know," Shantanu replied. His voice was unsteady now, stripped of the discipline that had held it together for years. "I know what I said."
He stepped forward, stopping just short of reaching for the child.
"I have remained silent," he continued. "I have obeyed. I have not questioned you, not once. But this cannot continue."
The vow pressed against him, sharp and insistent.
Not in thought.
Not in word.
He ignored it.
"I am king," he said. "And I am a father."
The words hung between them.
Ganga studied him for a long moment. Not with anger. Not with surprise. With something like acknowledgment.
"So," she said quietly, "you have chosen."
The river answered for her.
The air shifted.
Shantanu felt it then, the sudden understanding that this moment had always been moving toward him, waiting patiently for him to break.
"Why?" he demanded. The word tore free of restraint. "Why take them? What purpose does this serve?"
Ganga lowered her gaze to the child in her arms. Her expression softened, just briefly.
"There are reasons older than your kingdom," she said. "Older than your vows."
"That is not an answer," Shantanu said.
"It is the only one you would not accept," she replied.
The silence stretched.
Then she straightened.
"You have broken your word," she said. "And so I am released from mine."
She placed the child into Shantanu's arms.
The weight was real. Solid. Alive.
"He stays," she said. "He is yours now."
Shantanu held the boy instinctively, fear and relief colliding in his chest. The child stirred, let out a small sound, then settled again, warm against him.
"What are you saying?" Shantanu asked.
Ganga stepped back.
"I was bound to you by your silence," she said. "Now that silence is broken."
The river surged, sudden and loud, as if summoned by the words.
"I will not return," Ganga said.
Shantanu took a step toward her. "You cannot just leave."
She smiled then, faintly.
"I always could," she replied.
She turned toward the river.
Shantanu watched her go, the child clutched against him, his mind struggling to hold onto too many truths at once. He wanted to call after her. To demand explanations. To beg. To command.
He did none of those things.
The river took her as it had taken the others.
But this time, it gave something back.
Shantanu stood alone long after she vanished, the child asleep in his arms, the night pressing in around him.
The vow was broken.
The silence was shattered.
And the cost had already been paid.