Vritraketu's legs trembled as he backed toward the door, one hand pressed to the wound in his chest. Blood seeped steadily between his fingers. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one pulling fresh pain through his ribs. The wine that had fueled his courage now only made the room tilt and spin.
Before he could reach the threshold, Mrinalini raised her free hand.
A trishula materialized in her grip all of a sudden, causing ripples in Vitraketu's heart. Divinity was pouring out of the weapon, as though it belonged to the Gods. She leveled it at him, tip steady, eyes unyielding.
"You seem drunk, Prince Vitraketu," she said, voice low and even. "And owing to the fact that I am betrothed to you officially, and the fact that you are a guest at my home, I am leaving you alive. Now, get lost before I change my mind."
Vritraketu stared at the trishula, then at her face. The arrogance that had carried him into the room was gone. In its place was raw shock, and beneath it, a flicker of something close to fear. He staggered backward, shoulder scraping the doorframe, and turned toward the entrance.
"Wait," Mrinalini said.
He froze, half-turned.
She reached behind a pillow on the bed and drew out a small wooden box. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it to him. Vritraketu caught it reflexively, wincing as the motion jarred his wound.
"Apply the healing ointment on the wounded part," she told him. Then she pointed the trishula toward the balcony. "And leave the way you came, not through the entrance."
Vritraketu grunted, clutching the box against his chest. He did not speak. He only gave her one last look—half hatred, half disbelief—before limping to the balcony. He swung himself over the railing and vanished into the night.
The moment he was gone, Mrinalini lowered the trishula. The weapon dissolved into faint silver motes that drifted upward and disappeared.
"Now get up," she then said to the room.
The two maids, supposedly dead, on the floor stirred at once. They sat up smoothly, reaching to their necks and pulling the needles free without a sound. No blood followed. The tips had been blunted; the poison had been a harmless sedative meant only to make them appear dead.
Because it is the city of Kashi, and blessed by Mahadeva, the serpents were a common sight in the city, especially around the temples.
And because of the threat from the Naga race, from a young age, the maids of the royal palace were given small amounts of poison to become immune to them. Also, as Mrinalini's maids themselves were a part of the female warrior force that Mrinalini herself secretly developing since she was 14, they were strong.
They merely acted as if they died as a part of the plan. The moment their princess is in trouble, these two would get up and make a surprise attack on the enemy. Luckily for them, it didn't happen.
Back to the present;
"Princess," one of them said, voice quiet.
Mrinalini looked at them both.
"No one should know about this. Understand? Especially Mother."
The maids bowed their heads in unison.
"Yes, Princess."
Mrinalini exhaled slowly. She walked to the balcony and closed the lattice, then returned to the bed. The trishula had already vanished from her hand. She sat on the edge, staring at the rumpled sheet where Vritraketu had fallen.
"Why can't women fight in wars?" she murmured. "If only we were allowed… Because of Mother's stern order and worry about the so-called family reputation, my years of training, the blessings from Devi Durga—all went to waste. Forcing my filial piety to submit myself to a kingdom like Mathura. To a life I do not want... Sigh..."
She closed her eyes for a moment. The silence of the room pressed in around her.
Then she remembered Karna's words from earlier that day—his calm warning about Kamsa, about the consequences of standing too close to adharmic men. The way he had spoken without anger, without bravado, was the truth.
A small sigh escaped her.
"I don't want to hope like this," she whispered to the empty chamber, "but it would really be nice if Karna could truly kill Maharaj Kamsa before my marriage."
She opened her eyes again. The lamp burned steadily. Outside, the palace slept.
Mrinalini rose, walked to the window, and looked out at the dark river.
Meanwhile, Vritraketu staggered back to his guest chamber, one hand pressed hard against the wound in his chest.
Blood soaked through his fingers and down the front of his silk kurta, leaving dark streaks on the marble floor. He shut the door behind him with his shoulder and leaned against it, breathing in short, painful bursts.
The room spun slightly from the wine and the loss of blood, but the humiliation burned hotter than either.
He looked down at his trembling hand—the same wrist Karna had crushed earlier that day. The skin had turned deep purple, veins standing out like cords. Every flex sent fresh pain shooting up his arm.
"That damn woman…" he growled through clenched teeth. "How dare she… Did she think I couldn't defeat her? If I hadn't been in her room, if I hadn't been holding back, I would have broken her in half."
He pushed away from the door and paced the chamber, steps uneven.
"First, that man at the ghat. Now this princess. Everyone thinks they can just run over me."
He stopped in front of the bronze mirror on the wall. His reflection stared back—pale, furious, eyes bloodshot.
"Mrinalini," he spat the name like poison. "You really think I won't do anything to you? Forget marriage. A shameless, dangerous woman like you is not worth keeping at my side. I won't marry you."
A dangerous glint appeared in his eyes.
"But I will make sure no other man marries you either."
He turned away from the mirror and sat heavily on the edge of the bed, mind racing. The pain in his chest throbbed with every heartbeat, but the anger kept it at bay. He would not leave Kashi empty-handed. Not after this.
The next morning, the palace courtyard had been transformed.
Long rows of mats had been spread under wide canopies.
Massive vessels of rice, dal, kheer, and vegetables steamed in the shade.
Attendants moved quickly between them, filling leaf plates for the thousands of pilgrims who had already begun to arrive. The Annadana had started at sunrise, and the line stretched far beyond the gates.
Vritraketu appeared among the volunteers, dressed in simple white cloth to blend in, though the bandage wrapped tightly across his chest was impossible to hide completely under the kurta. He carried a basin of kheer, moving among the seated pilgrims with forced calm.
When Mrinalini saw him from across the courtyard, her face darkened for a moment. She stood near one of the serving stations, ladle in hand, but her eyes narrowed as she watched him distribute food to a group of ascetics. She kept her expression neutral, but inside her chest tightened.
She did not object to his participation. She could not—openly barring him would only create a scene, and she needed the event to proceed smoothly.
Karna arrived quietly among the pilgrims, dressed in the same simple cloth he had worn for months. He took a seat on the far side of the courtyard with a group of other ascetics, accepting the leaf plate of rice and dal without a word. He ate slowly, eyes down, lost in his own thoughts.
Mrinalini and Dhavani had been searching for him since the event began. They moved through the rows, serving food, smiling at the pilgrims, but their eyes kept scanning the crowd.
After nearly an hour, Mrinalini spotted him.
She took a deep breath, picked up a fresh basin of kheer from a servant, and walked toward his row. Dhavani followed a few paces behind, heart beating faster.
Karna was eating the last of his rice when Mrinalini's voice reached him.
"Would you like more kheer, Mahodaya?"
Karna raised his head.
Their eyes met.