For a moment, the noise of the courtyard—the chatter, the clink of ladles, the low hum of prayers—faded away. He saw the small smile on her face, the quiet warmth in her gaze. She held the basin steady, waiting.
He nodded once.
Mrinalini leaned forward and served him a generous portion. Her eyes stayed on him while his remained on the bowl. The kheer steamed gently between them, sweet and thick.
Vritraketu stood not far away, ladle frozen mid-motion. He had been serving another group of ascetics, but the moment he saw Mrinalini approach Karna, his hand clenched around the handle. He watched her smile, watched the way she lingered just a second longer than necessary, watched Karna accept the offering without looking away.
His fist tightened until his knuckles whitened.
Meanwhile, Dhavani continued moving through the rows, searching. She had not yet seen Karna. Her eyes scanned face after face, heart rising every time she thought she spotted him, then falling again when it was someone else. She wanted only to see him—to confirm he was here, safe, present. Talking could wait.
Karna felt Mrinalini's gaze linger longer than necessary. He had sensed her standing there for some time now, the faint rustle of her saree against the stone steps, the soft rhythm of her breathing among the murmurs of the pilgrims.
When he lifted his head, their eyes met again.
"Princess? Is there something?" he asked quietly.
Mrinalini blinked, coming out of her trance. She shook her head quickly, as though shaking off a thought.
"How is the kheer, Vasusena Mahodaya?" she asked, voice steady but a little softer than before.
Karna looked down at the half-empty bowl, then back at her. A small, genuine smile touched his lips.
"It tastes like my mother's," he said. "Whoever made this kheer is indeed a blessed soul."
Mrinalini's cheeks warmed slightly.
"I made it," she replied.
Karna blinked, clearly surprised. The smile deepened, reaching his eyes.
"Princess, I am very satisfied with the meal and impressed by your cooking skills," he said. "I have also heard that you are all doing this for the welfare of your father. That is something to be praised."
He paused, then added gently, "I pray to Mahadeva that you will have prosperity and happiness in your life."
Mrinalini inclined her head in thanks, but before she could speak, Karna continued.
"In eight days, Makara Sankranti will come. The time when Surya begins his northward journey is the most auspicious time for healing. If possible, bring your father to Prayaga. Perhaps Suryanarayana will bless him."
Mrinalini stared at him, surprise widening her eyes. She had not expected the suggestion, nor the quiet certainty in his voice. After a moment, she nodded slowly.
"I will try," she said. "Thank you."
Karna gave a small nod in return. He finished the last of the kheer, set the bowl aside, and rose to his feet. The pilgrims around him continued eating, unaware of the small exchange.
Mrinalini stepped back, still holding the basin.
"Until we meet again," she said.
Karna inclined his head once more.
"Until then, Princess."
He turned and walked away along the ghat, disappearing into the crowd of ascetics and devotees.
Mrinalini watched him go until he was out of sight. Only then did she turn back to her station, the basin heavy in her hands.
*
A couple of days later, Dhavani arrived at the dharmashala where Karna stayed. She had come alone this time, dressed plainly, a light shawl covering her head. The scout had told her where to find him, and she walked through the shaded courtyard until she saw him sitting under a banyan tree, eyes closed in meditation.
She waited until he opened his eyes.
"Maharaj Karna," she said softly.
Karna looked up. He rose at once, joining his palms. "Princess."
Dhavani stepped closer.
"I came to bid you farewell," she said. "I must return to Magadha soon."
Karna nodded. "I thank you again," he said, "for the enlightenment you gave me that day on the ghat. Your question helped me see my own words more clearly."
Dhavani smiled, small and sincere. "I am glad. I only spoke what I felt."
Karna looked at her steadily. "I pray that when the time comes, my relations with Magadha will not be destroyed by my enmity with Mathura."
Dhavani's expression softened. "I pray the same. Magadha values your friendship. And so do I."
They stood in silence for a moment. The courtyard was quiet, only the rustle of leaves overhead and the distant sound of the river.
"Safe journey home, Princess," Karna said.
She bowed slightly, turned, and walked away.
Karna watched her go until she disappeared beyond the gate.
Then he returned to his seat under the banyan tree.
That evening, he walked down to the river once more. Without hesitation, he stepped into the water and let it close over his head. He sank deep, deeper than before, until the world above was only a faint shimmer of light.
For the next three days, he remained there—motionless, eyes closed, breath held in the stillness of meditation. The current moved around him, gentle and ceaseless. He drew strength from it, letting the river carry away what it could of his grief, filling the empty spaces with quiet devotion.
On the fourth morning, he emerged.
Water streamed from his hair and beard as he walked to the shore. The divine energy around him warmed the air once more, drying his clothes and skin in moments.
He gathered his small bundle—the empty urn now a simple keepsake—and made his way to the riverbank where boats waited.
He chose a modest one, paid the boatman with a few coins, and stepped aboard.
The boat pushed off into the current.
Karna sat at the stern, eyes on the receding ghats of Kashi.
*
A few more days passed in quiet succession.
Prayaga, Kashi Kingdom;
On the morning of Makara Sankranti, when the sky was still the deep indigo of pre-dawn, Mrinalini stepped out of the royal tent at Prayaga. The air carried the sharp chill of early winter, the kind that settled into the bones and made every breath visible. She had dressed warmly, a thick woolen shawl wrapped over her saree, but the cold still found its way through.
Inside the tent, her father lay on a low cot, pale and thin, barely able to lift his head. The queen sat beside him, holding his hand. When Mrinalini entered, the queen looked up with tired but hopeful eyes.
"He is ready," the queen said softly.
Mrinalini nodded and moved to her father's other side.
Two soldiers stepped forward to help, but she gently waved them back. She slipped her arm under his shoulders and supported his weight as he rose. He leaned heavily on her, breath shallow, steps unsteady.
Together, they guided him out of the tent and toward the Sangam.
The soldiers formed a loose circle around them, spears upright, eyes scanning the darkness. Prince Indraverma had remained behind in Kashi to guard the palace, as Mrinalini had not dared leave the throne in the hands of Uncle Mallikarjuna, not after the attack at the Ashram. The crown prince was safe; his secret guards were loyal and unseen anyway, and even Mallikarjuna, for all his ambition, could not move against her brother without consequence.
As they stepped into the open air, Vritraketu was waiting near the entrance, arms crossed, face set in displeasure. His wrist was still bandaged from the encounter at the ghat, though he kept it hidden beneath his sleeve. He watched them emerge and shook his head.
"It was foolish enough to listen to the nonsense of that commoner," he said, voice carrying across the quiet ground. "And now you are taking Father-in-law to the waters at such an hour? It isn't even dawn yet. Even for normal people, this month, the water temperature is very cold."
The queen glanced at him, but her eyes turned to Mrinalini instead.
Mrinalini met her mother's gaze for a moment, then looked back at Vritraketu.
"I trust Vasusena Mahodaya's words," she said simply.
Vritraketu scoffed, loud enough for the soldiers to hear. "It seems you have greater trust in the words of another man than in your own soon-to-be husband."
Mrinalini's expression did not change as she replied. "He is my savior, Prince Vritraketu. If not for him, my brother and I would have been killed by those bandits. And he is a friend I have known for months. I am confident in his character and in my judgment."
Vritraketu's jaw tightened. Inwardly, he sneered—fine, whatever you say. You will not return home from here anyway. And neither would that man of yours. But outwardly, he stayed silent, unwilling to argue further in front of the queen and the soldiers.
Mrinalini supported her father as they walked toward the Sangam. The soldiers surrounded them in a protective ring, keeping the few early pilgrims at a respectful distance. The area had already been cleared for the king; no one would approach too closely.