Meanwhile, high above the sleeping plains of Bharatvarsh, the golden chariot cut through the night like a blade of sunlight.
Karna stood steady at the front, reins loose in his hands, the seven white horses flying toward their destination.
Below him the kingdoms passed in blurred succession: the dark forests of Munda, the fertile fields of Karusa, the ancient cities of Kosala where lamps still burned in a few late-night temples, the wide rivers of Vatsa reflecting faint starlight, the proud walls of Kayakubja rising briefly on the horizon, the southern edge of Panchala's Kampilya where the moon touched the Yamuna's banks one last time before vanishing entirely.
He was close now. Mathura's borders lay just beyond the next rise of low hills. The air grew thicker, heavier with the scent of the Yamuna and the distant smoke of a thousand cooking fires.
But then the chariot stopped abruptly.
Karna's grip tightened on the reins as a figure materialized from pure radiance before him. Tall, crowned with a halo of living flame, eyes like molten gold.
Lord Surya.
Karna's breath caught. He dropped to one knee in the chariot, head bowed low.
"Father…" His voice came out quiet, almost reverent. "You… at this time, and here…"
Surya's expression was not the usual stern warmth Karna knew from childhood visions. There was sorrow in those ancient eyes—deep, quiet, and a bit reluctant.
Karna rose slowly. He felt the shift in the air, the sudden weight pressing on his chest.
"Father, what is it?"
Surya spoke slowly, each word measured. "You must return to Kanipura, son. At once."
Karna frowned, confusion sharpening into something harder.
"Father… you cannot mean to shield a tyrant like Kamsa. Not now. Not after what he has done. If he has some boon protecting him… then you can tell me. I will not kill him. But that shouldn't stop me from bringing him to the edge of death and leaving him there, broken but breathing. I will not go against the laws of nature. But I will not let him get away with this act of it."
Surya shook his head. A faint, sad smile touched his lips. "No, my son. This is not about Kamsa."
Karna's heart gave a single, painful thud. "What, then?"
Surya's voice softened, almost gentle. "It is about your wife, Roshini. She has gone into labor."
The words landed like a blow at once, and Karna went still.
"Right now?" His voice cracked on the last word.
Surya only nodded once.
Karna stared at his father for a heartbeat longer—searching those golden eyes for any sign this was a test, a deception, anything but the truth.
Then he moved.
Without another word, he seized the reins. The horses responded instantly, wheeling in a tight arc that sent the chariot banking hard southward.
Surya boarded the chariot with him.
The golden chariot flew faster than thought. Rivers, forests, and mountains blurred beneath it. More than a hundred and ten yojanas (~1400km) crossed in under an hour. The night sky streaked past like falling fire. Karna stood rigid, jaw clenched, every muscle taut, willing the horses onward.
He felt nothing but the pounding in his chest, a mixture of nervousness and excitement.
When the chariot finally descended toward Kanipura, the palace grounds were lit by dozens of torches. Soldiers rushed forward as the wheels touched earth—boots pounding, spears clattering. They formed a hasty line and bowed low.
But no cheers rose.
No excited shouts of "The heirs are born!" or "Maharaj has returned!"
There was only silence. And from inside the palace, low, broken cries of grief were heard.
Karna's face changed in an instant. The fierce determination of moments ago shattered into something raw, fearful.
"What happened?" His voice came out hoarse, urgent.
The soldiers hesitated. Heads bowed lower. No one spoke.
Surya's voice came from behind. "Go ahead, son."
Karna's heart turned to lead. He leaped from the chariot and ran without any care for his image or anything.
The corridors blurred past him. Servants scattered out of his path. Maids knelt against the walls, faces buried in sarees, shoulders shaking. He heard their sobs grow louder as he neared the queen's chambers.
He slowed only when he reached the open doorway.
Inside, the room was lit by oil lamps and the faint gray of pre-dawn creeping through the lattice windows. Midwives knelt on the floor in a loose circle, heads bowed, tears streaming unchecked. Some rocked back and forth, whispering prayers. Others simply stared at the bed, hands pressed to their mouths.
Karna stepped past them like a man walking through water. For some reason, he felt as if his steps became heavier.
Roshini lay on the wide bed where they had shared so many quiet nights. However, the sheets were stained dark with blood.
Her face was pale—too pale—lips parted as though she had tried to speak one last time.
Her hair, always so carefully braided, lay loose and tangled across the pillow.
One hand rested on her belly, which is flat now, fingers curled protectively even now. The other lay limp at her side.
The silence in the room was deafening.
Karna reached the bedside in two slow steps. His knees buckled at once. He sank down beside her, one hand reaching out—hesitant, trembling—to brush a strand of hair from her cold cheek.
"Roshini…"
The word broke.
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers. A low, animal sound escaped his throat—half sob, half denial.
The midwives watched in helpless silence. One of them finally spoke, voice cracked and small.
"She… she fought so hard, Maharaj. The first child came… a boy. Strong. Crying loud. But the second… the second was turned wrong. The bleeding wouldn't stop. We tried everything. She kept asking for you. She kept saying your name until…"
Karna didn't move. He heard nothing of what the midwife was saying. His eyes were completely on his wife. His hand stayed on her cheek, thumb tracing the line of her jaw the way he had done a thousand times when she laughed, when she slept, when she rested her head on his shoulder after a long day.
The room seemed to shrink for him.
As he lifted his head slowly, silent tears tracked down his face, falling onto the sheet between them.
His hands—strong enough to draw Vijayadhanush, steady enough to slay asuras—shook visibly now as he grabbed her face.
"Roshini…" The name came out cracked, barely audible. "Roshini…"
He leaned closer, forehead pressing to hers the way he had done a thousand times when she teased him, when she rested after a long day, when she whispered secrets only they shared.
"Roshini…"
*Uwaaaa*
Just then, a cry broke his attention at last. He lifted his head, eyes red-rimmed, and looked toward the crying infants. The maid holding them swallowed hard.
"What… what about them? Are they healthy?" he asked, hoarse, barely able to form the words.
The maid's lip trembled.
"It's a boy and a girl, Maharaj. Both strong. Both completely healthy."
Karna stared at the bundles—the tiny fists waving, the red faces scrunched in newborn fury. His son. His daughter. The children he had dreamed of holding with Roshini beside him, laughing, naming them together.
He wiped his face roughly with the back of one hand, smearing tears and dust across his cheek.
"No," he said quietly.
The word hung in the air.
He rose—slow at first, then with sudden, terrible purpose.
"No. I do not accept this."
Taking everyone by surprise, he walked past the weeping maids, past the trembling soldiers at the door, straight to the wide balcony that overlooked the palace gardens and the sleeping city beyond.
Karna stepped to the railing, gripped the stone until his knuckles whitened, and shouted upward with a voice raw and broken.
"Elder Brother! I want to see you right now!"