Mrinalini looked down at Karna. "You need not suffer hunger on our account."
Karna met her eyes. "It is not suffering, Princess. It is part of the vrata. I made the vow when I left my home. Fruits and water sustain me. That is enough."
She studied him for a moment, then nodded.
"As you wish."
She returned to the palanquin. The attendants returned soon after with armfuls of fruit—ripe mangoes, custard apples, and a few wild jamuns. They placed them near Karna on a clean leaf. He took only a single mango, broke it open with his hands, and ate slowly while keeping watch.
The troop rested for an hour, then moved on.
By late afternoon, the road began to widen.
Fields gave way to small settlements, then to the first stone markers of the city. Kashi appeared on the horizon—temple spires rising above the trees, the distant sound of temple bells carried on the breeze. The Ganga flowed broad and steady to the east, its waters catching the slanting sun.
As the group neared the city gates, Karna slowed his pace. The palace entourage would enter through the main road. He prepared to turn aside.
Mrinalini stepped down from the palanquin again. She walked straight to him.
"Vasusena Mahodaya, thank you for your escort," she said. "As thanks, I invite you to the palace for a meal once you complete your asthi-visarjan. A simple feast. Nothing grand. But if we do not offer you even that much after all you have done—saving us at the Ashram, escorting us safely here—we would feel too burdened."
Karna looked surprised. "There is no need, Princess."
She smiled, small but firm.
"It is not about need. It is about gratitude and hospitality, Warrior. We will not insult a warrior who commands a celestial chariot by offering mere material rewards. But a meal shared in peace—that we can give."
Karna's eyes widened in surprise, "How did you..."
Mrinalini's expression held no triumph, only quiet certainty as she pointed at his ears.
"Your golden earrings," she said. "The Surya tilak. The divine bow you summoned last night. Your mastery of archery. And most of all, I saw paintings of you in Princess Dhavani's private chamber in Magadha. I didn't recognize you because you look like an ascetic, but I recognized you the moment you drew that bow."
Indraverma then nodded eagerly. "You are Sangyaputra Karna. The one who defeated Maharaj Jarasandha. We will be truly honored if a warrior like you comes to our palace as a guest."
Karna exhaled slowly.
"I intended to keep my identity secret during this journey, Princess," he said. "I was not a king on this path. I was only a husband taking his wife's ashes to the Ganga. However, I did not lie to you. Vasusena is also my name."
Mrinalini inclined her head. "Regardless, you have stepped into our capital city. Once your ritual is complete, you will be Maharaj Karna again. And as our guest, you will come to the palace for the feast. That is only proper."
Karna looked toward the city gates. The Ganga flowed beyond them, wide and silver in the late sun. He felt the urn against his chest—lighter now, somehow, with the end of the journey so near.
He looked back at Mrinalini.
"Alright," he said. "When I have completed my pilgrimage and am ready to return home as king once more, I will visit your palace for the feast. That I promise."
Mrinalini's smile returned, warm and genuine.
"That is enough."
The soldiers around them had gone quiet. Whispers moved through the ranks—Karna's name repeated in hushed awe. Who wouldn't know about this Maharathi, the last disciple of Lord Parashurama himself, and the one who defeated the mighty Jarasandha in wrestling? Some stared openly. Others pressed palms together in silent respect.
Mrinalini then turned to her attendants.
"Let's go."
She stepped back into the horse carriage. Indraverma gave Karna one last wide-eyed look before following.
The troop moved forward toward the gates.
Karna stood where he was for a moment longer. The city rose before him—spires, temples, the endless flow of the Ganga. He touched the urn once.
"Soon," he whispered.
Then he started walking again, alone but no longer unseen.
*
The sun had just cleared the eastern bank when Karna reached Dashashwamedh Ghat.
The morning crowd was thin—only a few early bathers, priests arranging lamps, and one or two mourners waiting their turn. The Ganga flowed steadily and wide, its surface catching the first gold of the day.
He approached a priest near the water's edge. The man was old, shawl draped over thin shoulders, tilak fresh on his forehead. Karna bowed slightly and spoke in a low voice.
"I have come to perform asthi-visarjan."
The priest looked at the clay urn, then at Karna's face. He nodded without question.
"Come, son."
They walked down the steps together. Karna removed his outer cloth and stood in the shallow water. The current tugged gently at his ankles. He dipped himself three times, letting the cold river wash over his head, his chest, his arms. Each time he rose, he felt the weight of the past months loosen—just a little.
Back on the steps he performed a small puja. He lit a single lamp, offered a few grains of rice and tulsi leaves, and began the mantras. His voice was quiet, steady, carrying only to the priest and the water itself.
"O Mother Ganga, guide this soul to peace. Let her find the liberation she deserves. Let her journey end in your embrace."
He lifted the urn. His fingers pressed against the clay for a long moment. Then, slowly, he tilted it.
The ashes slipped out in a soft gray stream. They touched the surface, spread in widening circles, and vanished into the current. Karna watched until the last trace was gone.
He closed his eyes.
The river flowed on, unchanged. His heart, though, still felt the same quiet storm.
Just then, a soft light rose from the water. Not bright, not sudden—just a gentle glow that gathered before him. When he opened his eyes, Mother Ganga stood there, waist-deep in her own current. Her saree shimmered like flowing water, hair dark and loose, eyes kind and ancient.
Karna folded his hands at once.
"Sangyaputra greets Mother Ganga."
Ganga smiled, small and knowing. "Thousands come to me every day, Karna. Some drink my water to cleanse their bodies. Some offer the ashes of their loved ones to free their souls. I am where life and death meet. And yet your heart remains restless."
She stepped closer. The water parted around her without a ripple.
"Perhaps the answer is not in farewell alone. Spend time here on my ghats. Watch the pyres burn. See the families grieve. Sit in my waters and meditate. One day you may find what you seek."
Karna bowed his head lower.
"I will do as you say, Mother Ganga."
The light faded gently. The river continued its steady flow. The priest beside him had not seen her—he only saw Karna standing still, eyes closed, hands joined. He waited in respectful silence.
Karna opened his eyes at last. The sun was higher now. The ghats were beginning to fill with pilgrims.
He turned away from the water and started walking along the bank.
Far above, in the palace of Kashi, Mrinalini stood on the balcony overlooking the city. The moon hung low, silver against the dark sky. A cool breeze moved through her hair. She leaned on the stone railing, arms folded, gaze distant.
Her thoughts drifted to the traveler—Vasusena, or Karna, or whatever name he carried. She remembered the way he had summoned the bow in the Ashram, the golden arrows that found only the guilty. She remembered his quiet voice when he spoke to her brother, the calm that never wavered even when blades were drawn.
Her heartbeat rose a little. She felt it clearly now—warm, quick, insistent.
Her face stiffened.
"What are you thinking, Mrinalini?" she whispered to herself. "Have you gone mad?"
She pressed a hand to her chest.
"You are betrothed to the prince of Mathura. And even if you were not, how could you think of another man like this? Not to mention… he is the one Princess Dhavani loved first."
She raised her hand and slapped her own cheek—sharp enough to sting.
A maid nearby startled, stepping forward.
"What happened, Princess?"
Mrinalini shook her head quickly.
"Nothing. It was nothing."
She turned back to the railing, staring at the moonlit river far below.
The thought would not leave her.
She drew a slow breath. "I need to write a letter," she said to the maid. "To Magadha."
The maid bowed and hurried to fetch paper and ink.