The sky was still dark, only the faintest line of gray showing in the east. The three rivers met in quiet confluence, their waters black and still.
Mrinalini's eyes wandered across the ghats, searching the silhouettes of the few figures already present—pilgrims bathing, ascetics sitting in meditation, priests arranging lamps. The low visibility made it impossible to make out faces. All she saw were shapes against the dim light.
Her father leaned more heavily on her arm. She tightened her hold, whispering words of encouragement as they approached the water's edge.
Meanwhile, Karna stood alone at a secluded bend of the Sangam, far from the main bathing steps where the royal party and early pilgrims had gathered.
The hour of Brahma had just begun; the sky was still the deep velvet of night, edged with the faintest thread of gray in the east.
He looked up at the sky for a long moment, feeling the shift in the air—the subtle change when the pre-dawn stillness deepened into something sacred.
Sensing the exact moment Brahma Muhurta arrived, he lowered himself to the riverbank, legs crossed, back straight against a smooth stone. He closed his eyes and drew a slow, deep breath.
With his palms resting lightly on his knees, Karna turned inward.
He called upon the Divya Sankalpa Siddhi—the divine manifestation technique Lord Parashurama had taught him long ago.
It was not an astra of destruction, but a siddhi born of accumulated divinity, tapasya, and pure devotional energy: the power to transform intention into existence. With this technique, he can manifest anything from a simple block of wood to even a palace.
However, the limitation of this technique is that whatever materializes cannot be permanent. It only stays for a limited time.
He visualized the veena clearly in his mind and let his energy flow toward that image.
Golden and light-blue light gathered in his palms, soft at first, then brighter. It swirled upward, shaping itself layer by layer until a radiant veena rested across his lap. The instrument shimmered faintly, its strings humming with latent sound even before he touched them.
Karna then joined his palms once more, bowing his head low.
"Mahadeva," he whispered, "grant success to this act of mine. Father, lend your light and blessing to me."
He then lifted the veena and began to play.
The first note rose pure and clear, cutting through the pre-dawn silence like a blade of light.
Then came the raga—Mahadeva's own healing melody, slow and deep, each phrase drawn out with deliberate care.
The sound spread across the water, over the ghats, through the mist that clung to the riverbank. It was not loud, yet it reached everywhere, carried by the divine energy woven into every vibration.
At the main bathing area, the king had just been helped into the shallow water.
Soldiers supported him on either side while the queen and Mrinalini stood close by.
Just then, the first notes of the veena reached them like a sudden breeze—soft, yet impossible to ignore. Everyone paused. Pilgrims froze mid-prayer. Priests lowered their lamps. Even the river seemed to slow its flow, listening to the melody that filled the entire region.
Flowers that usually waited for sunrise opened their petals early.
Buds on the nearby trees unfurled in silent wonder.
Every person present felt the music enter their hearts—worries melting, old aches easing, minds growing still.
They closed their eyes without thinking, letting the sound wash over them.
The music continued for nearly an hour, steady and unbroken, until the first true light of dawn touched the horizon.
When the last note faded, silence held for a breath.
Then the miracles began.
A woman who had limped to the water walked back upright, tears streaming down her face.
A man whose skin had been covered in sores watched in disbelief as the marks faded before his eyes.
Children who had coughed through the night breathed clear and deep.
Pilgrims who had come bent with age straightened slowly, wonder on their faces. Everywhere, bodies healed—diseases retreating, pain vanishing, strength returning.
The crowd erupted into cheers, voices rising in a single chant:
"Bhagwan Suryanarayana ki jai! Bhagwan Suryanarayana ki jai!"
Mrinalini stood in the water beside her father. She had felt the healing too—the tightness in her chest easing, a quiet warmth spreading through her limbs. But her eyes were searching the distant bank.
And eventually, as the last notes were struck, Karna lowered the veena, ending the music. The instrument dissolved into golden motes that drifted upward and vanished. He rose, adjusted the cloth around his shoulders, and began walking away along the river's edge.
Mrinalini finally managed to capture his image but before she could take a step toward him to meet, in the waters, her father let out a soft cry of joy, getting her attention. She turned. The king stood upright in the water, color returning to his face, breath steady and strong. Tears streamed down the queen's cheeks as she reached for him. The soldiers around them bowed their heads in awe.
Mrinalini's gaze flicked back toward Karna. But he was already farther away, his figure growing smaller against the dawn light.
Meanwhile, Vritraketu stood a short distance away, having emerged from his own stunned silence. He had felt the music too—the unwanted peace that had brushed against his anger—but it had not soothed him. It had only sharpened his resentment. He watched the king stand tall, healthy, and whole.
His fists clenched at his sides.
His displeasure deepened into something darker.
He had come to humiliate Mrinalini.
Now he decided he would do more.
He would kill them all.
*
Later that evening, the royal camp had been set up deep in the woods a few miles from the Sangam.
Vritraketu had insisted on the location, saying it would be safer and quieter than staying near the crowded ghats.
More than a hundred Kashi soldiers formed a wide perimeter around the tents, torches planted at regular intervals, flames flickering against the darkening trees.
The king's large tent stood at the center, flanked by smaller ones for the queen, Mrinalini, and the prince.
Servants moved quickly between them, arranging mats and lamps, preparing a simple evening meal.
The sun had just slipped below the horizon. The sky turned a deep bruised purple. A cool wind moved through the branches, carrying the faint smell of woodsmoke and river water.
Then, without warning, the rakshasas appeared.
They stepped out of the shadows as though the darkness itself had given birth to them—hulking figures with red eyes, tusks gleaming, claws flexing. Some carried crude iron maces; others wielded curved blades that caught the torchlight like teeth. They came from every direction at once, silent until the moment they were seen.
Panic rose instantly.
Pilgrims who had been resting near the camp screamed and scattered. Soldiers drew their weapons, forming a hasty ring around the royal tents. Shouts of alarm filled the air.
Vritraketu stood near the king's tent, sword already in hand. He stepped forward, placing himself between the approaching rakshasas and the royal family like a defender. His voice rang out, loud and righteous.
"How dare you ambush us like cowards!" he shouted, pointing the blade at the nearest demon. "Show yourselves properly if you have the spine!"
Mrinalini's face darkened. She clenched her fists at her sides, eyes narrowing as she watched him. Something in his tone, in the way he positioned himself so perfectly between her father and the threat, felt very off.
However, it isn't the time to think about him. The Rakshasas have infiltrated these forests of Prayag.
The soldiers tightened their circle, shields raised, spears leveled. The rakshasas slowed, growling low, but not taking a single step yet as if they were waiting for something.
Vritraketu turned his head slightly, as though checking on the king behind him. His lips curled into a thin, satisfied smile.
And then, he moved.
The sword swung sideways in one smooth, practiced arc.
No one saw it coming.
The blade passed clean through the king's neck.
The head rolled across the ground, eyes still open in shock, mouth parted as though about to speak. Blood sprayed in a wide arc, soaking the grass and the hem of the queen's saree.
A stunned silence fell over the camp.
"Dear..."
Then the queen screamed.
Mrinalini's breath stopped in her throat. Her hand flew to her mouth.
"Hahahahaha..."
Vritraketu then lifted his foot and casually kicked the head that fell on the ground and laughed—loud, triumphant, the sound echoing through the trees.
"Vitraketu..." A gluttaral roar escaped Mrinalini, her eyes turning red a she stared the Mathura's Prince.
But Vitraketu has already put his next move in motion.
In the same breath, he raised his free hand. Dark energy crackled around his fingers.
"Rakshasa Bandhana!"
Black tendrils erupted from his palm—thick, writhing chains of shadow that shot outward like living serpents.
They struck the Kashi soldiers from behind, wrapping around throats, wrists, and ankles. The men gasped, weapons dropping from suddenly numb hands. One after another, they were yanked off their feet, pinned to the ground, immobilized as the chains tightened.
Vritraketu then rose into the air, dark power lifting him above the chaos. His eyes burned red in the torchlight.
And then the rakshasas finally roared and surged forward, blades raised.
Mrinalini stared at the severed head of her father rolling slowly to a stop near her feet again.
Then she looked up at Vritraketu.
Her hands curled into fists, her entire body trembling in rage as tears welled up in her eyes.