The palace of Hastinapura stood wrapped in a silence that held its breath, as if the very stones knew of the storm that churned both within and beyond its walls. Eight years had passed since Ganga had entered Shantanu's life, a woman of ethereal beauty and unfathomable depths. She had been a mystery, a love that filled the hollowness of his lonely reign, yet with each passing year, that love had become a cruel paradox. Seven sons she had given him, each radiant, strong, and full of promise. And seven times, she had walked to the banks of the river, her hands steady as she released them into the Ganga's depths.
"One debt paid," she had whispered the first time, her voice a ripple over the water. And each time after, her words had continued their dreadful count, six, five, four, until the seventh vanished beneath the waves, leaving only one child yet to be born. Shantanu had stood by, bound by the vow he had made, his anguish a silent scream in his chest. Seven times he had let the river take his blood, but the weight of each loss had carved cracks into his resolve, and now, as the eighth child stirred within her, something within him broke.
The palace thrummed with tension, an unease that seeped into the very air. Courtiers murmured in hushed tones, casting wary glances at their king. Priests burned incense in the shrine, their chants a ceaseless hum that offered no solace. Shantanu paced the grand hall, his crimson robe trailing behind him like the shadow of a man he once was. His hands clenched and unclenched, his mind a battlefield of grief, anger, and the embers of defiance. This time, he swore, the river would not take his son.
The storm outside mirrored the turmoil within. Thunder growled in the heavens, and rain lashed against the palace walls. When the child's first cry split the air, it was a sound like the breaking of chains, a sharp and piercing declaration of life. Shantanu did not wait. He pushed past attendants, their startled gasps lost in the tempest's roar.
There, in Ganga's arms, lay his son. A child unlike any other, his skin faintly radiant as if he carried a piece of divinity within him. His tiny fists clenched as if already grasping for his fate. But it was his eyes, dark, piercing, knowing, that struck Shantanu the hardest. Those were not the eyes of a newborn; they were the eyes of something greater, something bound to a destiny beyond mortal comprehension.
"A son," Shantanu breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "A prince."
Ganga, serene and unchanged by the years, gazed down at the infant. "His name is Devavrata," she said, her tone carrying the weight of prophecy.
Shantanu reached for him, but before his hands could close around the child, Ganga turned, swift and deliberate. "I must take him."
The words sent a bolt of fear through him. "Where?" His voice came sharper than intended, but the dread curling in his stomach demanded answers.
"To the river."
Shantanu's world tilted. The palace corridors blurred around him as she moved with quiet, unyielding purpose. He followed, his heart pounding against his ribs. The storm raged outside, winds howling through the trees as lightning split the sky, casting jagged shadows along the walls. Servants pressed themselves against the stone, unwilling to meet his gaze, as if afraid his grief would consume them as well.
At the river's edge, Ganga stood poised, the child cradled against her chest, her silk robes billowing in the wind like the tide preparing to reclaim its own. The Ganga roared beneath her feet, swollen and turbulent, a merciless force of nature. Shantanu halted, his breath ragged, his body trembling.
"Stop!" he shouted, his voice raw. "I will not let you take this one too!"
Ganga turned to him, her gaze deep and unreadable, the fathomless expanse of the river reflected in her eyes. "You swore an oath, Shantanu."
"I break it now!" The declaration came as a roar, his fury drowning out the storm. Rain streamed down his face, mingling with the tears he had refused to shed for years. "Seven sons you have drowned, seven pieces of my soul! But this one, this Devavrata, I will not lose! Spare him, Ganga, or I will take him from you myself!"
For a moment, the storm seemed to hush, as if the universe itself held its breath. Then, Ganga spoke, and her voice was neither cruel nor kind, but something vast, something unshakable.
"These sons were not yours to keep, Shantanu." Her words were gentle, but they struck like lightning. "They were the Vasus, divine beings cursed by the sage Vashishtha for their transgression. I took mortal form to free them, to return them to the heavens. Seven have been released. But this eighth one, Devavrata, he alone must live."
Shantanu staggered back, the truth crashing over him like a tidal wave. The Vasus? Divine? Cursed? He had spent years grieving for children who had never truly belonged to this world, and yet the pain had been no less real. His anguish, his helplessness, his rage, had all of it been preordained?
Ganga's voice softened. "I bore this duty so you would not have to. But Devavrata's path is not yours to shape. I will take him where he must go, to be raised in the realm of the divine, trained by the gods themselves. And when he is ready, I will return him to you."
"No," Shantanu whispered, his voice barely audible against the rain. "He is all I have left."
Ganga stepped into the river's embrace, the water rising around her like a living shroud. The infant, calm in her arms, did not cry. The river surged, swirling with divine energy, and in a blink, she was gone, vanished beneath the waves, leaving no ripple, no trace. Only the storm remained, its fury echoing the emptiness in Shantanu's chest.
He fell to his knees, his hands sinking into the mud, his heart hollow and aching. "Bring him back to me," he whispered, his plea swallowed by the wind. "I cannot lose him too."
But the Ganga flowed on, indifferent to the anguish of kings, and the storm raged overhead, its thunder rolling like a dirge. And Shantanu remained at the river's edge, alone, stripped bare by the waters that had taken everything.