The night lay heavy upon the land, thick with mist that curled around the trees like whispers of an unseen force. Devavrata rode in silence, his horse's hooves muffled by the damp soil, his breath steady despite the tension tightening his chest.
Shantanu had left the palace without an escort, slipping into the night as he had done many times before. But this time, Devavrata followed.
The rumors had unsettled him. A king who vanished in the evenings, who returned to his halls with a quiet sorrow in his eyes. The whispers of guards and stablehands had painted a picture of something—someone—waiting beyond the city's reach.
And so, Devavrata pursued the truth in silence, his presence a shadow trailing his father's path.
The road stretched long and winding, the trees standing tall like sentinels watching over their passage. The chill in the air was sharp, but it did nothing to cool the quiet heat of curiosity burning within him.
Then, the forest thinned.
Ahead, the trees parted, revealing the great Yamuna, its waters silver under the moon's glow. The river stretched wide and deep, its slow-moving current whispering secrets only the night could hear.
Shantanu slowed his horse and dismounted, his movements practiced, deliberate. He did not hesitate, nor did he glance over his shoulder. He walked toward the river's edge with the certainty of a man drawn by something beyond reason.
Devavrata pulled his own horse to a stop, slipping off in one fluid motion. He kept to the shadows, stepping lightly, his breath quiet as he watched his father from behind a copse of trees.
At first, nothing disturbed the night.
The river flowed as it always had, its surface smooth and endless, reflecting the moon in scattered fragments.
Then—
A ripple. A soft splash.
Devavrata's eyes sharpened.
A boat drifted into view, gliding across the water like a creature of the deep. It was small and simple, built for the river's calm rather than the sea's fury. But it was not the boat itself that held Devavrata's attention.
It was the woman standing within it.
She moved with effortless grace, her oar cutting through the water in steady, measured strokes. Her posture was unshaken, her balance precise. The river did not resist her; it yielded.
Even from a distance, he could see that she was striking. Not in the way of noblewomen draped in silks and adorned in gold, but in a way that felt unshaped by man's hands. Her hair was long and dark, untamed by jewels or combs, flowing freely behind her like the river itself. Her skin, kissed by the sun, held a warmth that defied the night's chill.
And then she sang.
Her voice rose over the water, low and rich, threading through the air like a melody woven into the wind. The song was unfamiliar, yet it carried an old sorrow, a story told not through words but through the very soul of the sound.
Devavrata found himself caught in its pull.
And then he turned his gaze to Shantanu.
The king stood motionless at the river's edge, his shoulders drawn tight, his hands curled into fists. His breath was deep but uneven, as though steadying himself against the weight of something unseen.
But it was his eyes that held Devavrata still.
There, within them, lay something rare. Something unguarded.
Awe. Longing.
And pain.
But Shantanu did not move closer. He did not call out to her.
He only watched.
Devavrata's mind spun. He had seen his father in war, in court, in grief. He had seen him command armies and shape the course of a kingdom. But never had he seen him like this—standing at the water's edge, caught between devotion and restraint.
Then, as the song faded into the night, Shantanu took a slow breath.
And he turned away.
Devavrata strained to hear the words his father murmured to himself, but they reached him nonetheless.
"Too high a price."
The words hung in the air for a moment, as if unwilling to fade, before Shantanu mounted his horse and rode away.
Devavrata remained.
His eyes lingered on the woman in the boat, watching as she continued her passage down the river, her movements unhurried, her expression unreadable.
The fisherman on the shore greeted her as she passed, bowing their heads, speaking in hushed voices as if in the presence of something more than mortal. She offered them a faint smile, her words brief but kind, before guiding her boat away into the darkness.
The river swallowed her presence, and she was gone.
Devavrata exhaled slowly.
He did not know who she was.
But she was the reason for his father's sorrow.
And he would find out why.
The return to Hastinapura was a quiet one.
Devavrata's mind churned as he rode, the steady rhythm of his horse's hooves doing little to settle the storm within him. The woman on the water was no ordinary fisherman's daughter. That much was clear.
The way she moved, the way the river seemed to embrace her, the way Shantanu looked at her from the shore—all of it told a story he had yet to understand.
But if there was one truth Devavrata knew, it was this: his father was a man of will. A king whose desires shaped the fate of kingdoms. And yet, tonight, he had turned away.
Why?
The answer lay in the words Shantanu had whispered to himself.
"Too high a price."
A price.
What price could be too great for a king?
The thought dug into Devavrata's mind like a thorn, refusing to be ignored.
When he arrived at the palace gates, the torches were still burning, their flames casting flickering shadows across the stone. The guards nodded as he passed, their gazes curious but silent. They were used to the prince's late returns.
Inside, the halls stretched quiet, the echoes of the day's courtly affairs lingering in the air.
Shantanu's chamber lay at the end of the corridor.
Devavrata hesitated.
A conversation now would bear little fruit. His father would not yield easily to questions, not when his silence had already spoken so loudly.
He would wait.
But not for long.
The next morning, Devavrata rose early. He found Vikrama in the courtyard, sparring with the younger soldiers, his movements fluid as he parried each strike with effortless precision. Aruni stood nearby, arms crossed, his gaze sharp as he observed.
They both turned as Devavrata approached.
"You're up early," Vikrama said, lowering his wooden blade. "Or did you never sleep?"
Devavrata ignored the remark. "I need information."
Aruni's brow lifted slightly. "On?"
"The king," Devavrata said. "And the Yamuna."
A glance passed between the two warriors, brief but knowing.
"You followed him," Vikrama guessed, wiping sweat from his brow.
Devavrata nodded. "I saw her."
Aruni let out a slow breath. "Then you know why he's been restless."
"I know there's more to it than longing," Devavrata said. "This isn't a simple matter of affection. He wants her, but something holds him back."
Aruni rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "The fisherman's daughter. That's who she is."
Devavrata's gaze sharpened. "You know of her?"
"Only through whispers," Aruni admitted. "The river folk call her Satyavati. Some say she was born from the river itself. Others claim she carries the scent of the earth after rain, a sign of divine favor."
"And her family?" Devavrata pressed.
"A fisherman rules over them," Vikrama said. "A stubborn one. He holds his people's loyalty as firmly as any king."
Devavrata exhaled through his nose. A fisherman. A simple man, yet one who had managed to halt Shantanu himself.
"Find out what you can," he said. "Quietly."
Aruni inclined his head. "And you?"
Devavrata's expression was set.
"I will speak to my father."
The morning sun climbed higher, its golden light spilling across the palace walls.
The answers Devavrata sought would not come easily.
But he had never been one to turn away from the river's pull.