The sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows over the river as Devavrata rode alone toward the village of the fisherfolk. The air smelled of damp earth and brine, the faint murmur of waves lapping against wooden boats drifting through the evening hush.
Hastinapura's banners did not fly behind him; he had come without an entourage, without the weight of the royal court at his back. He came not as a prince demanding tribute, but as a son seeking answers.
The village was modest but well-kept—huts thatched tightly against the elements, fishing nets hung to dry, narrow boats rocking gently at the shore. Eyes followed him as he passed, cautious but unafraid. These were people who lived by their own law, who understood that power did not always come with golden crowns or jeweled thrones.
At the center of it all stood the hut of Dusharaj.
The man himself was already waiting.
Dusharaj sat on a low wooden stool outside his home, gutting a fish with slow, deliberate precision. The blade in his hand gleamed as he worked, his fingers steady despite the callouses that marked years of labor. He was older than Devavrata had expected—his beard streaked with gray, his eyes dark and knowing—but there was no mistaking the sharpness of his gaze.
Satyavati stood nearby, arms crossed, her chin tilted slightly in curiosity.
She was striking, as Shantanu had described. Not just for her beauty, though that was undeniable, but for the way she carried herself—straight-backed, unflinching, with a quiet confidence that even royalty would envy. She was not adorned in silk or gold, but she had no need for them. Her presence alone was enough to command attention.
Devavrata dismounted, leading his horse to a post before turning to face them.
"You ride alone," Dusharaj noted, voice rough as the river stones.
"This is a conversation for men," Devavrata replied evenly. "Not a spectacle for the court."
Dusharaj smirked, wiping his knife clean before setting it aside. "Then speak, prince. What does the son of Shantanu wish of a simple fisherman?"
"You already know," Devavrata said.
Dusharaj leaned back, clasping his hands over his knee. "I do. But I prefer to hear men say their truths aloud."
Devavrata met his gaze without hesitation. "My father loves your daughter. I have come to understand why. But he does not take what is not freely given, and you have named your price. I have come to hear it from your own lips."
Silence stretched between them, the hush of the river filling the space where words did not.
Dusharaj studied him, weighing the man before him. Then he spoke, voice calm but unyielding.
"Satyavati will not marry Shantanu unless her sons are made heirs to Hastinapura's throne."
The words were not a demand, but a certainty, spoken with the ease of a man who knew his own worth.
Devavrata did not blink. "You would ask me to relinquish my birthright."
Dusharaj shrugged. "I ask nothing of you, prince. I make my terms to your father. If he does not accept them, he may go back to his palace and his sorrow, and we will continue as we always have. It is no loss to me."
"You know it is a loss to him," Devavrata said sharply.
Dusharaj smiled, slow and knowing. "Of course. That is the price of love, is it not?"
Devavrata clenched his jaw. "You speak of love, yet your terms are rooted in power."
Dusharaj laughed, short and rough. "Power is what secures love, boy. Kings and princes may afford to separate the two, but we who live by the river cannot. A father must think beyond sentiment. If my daughter weds your father and bears his sons, what then? She remains a fisherman's daughter while her sons are denied their due? No. That is not how I protect my blood."
Devavrata turned to Satyavati then, searching her face for any sign of resistance, of reluctance. She did not look away.
"You are silent," he said.
She tilted her head slightly. "Would my words change anything?"
He frowned. "Do you agree with your father's terms?"
Her expression did not waver. "I understand them."
That was not the same as approval, but it was not rejection either.
"You would see me cast aside," he said, his voice quieter now.
Satyavati studied him for a moment before replying. "I would see my children safe."
Her tone held neither cruelty nor apology. It was simple, honest.
Devavrata exhaled, feeling the weight of it settle onto his shoulders. This was not the ambition of a mere fisherman grasping beyond his station. It was the demand of a father securing his legacy, of a woman ensuring the future of the sons she did not yet have.
A throne for blood.
A kingdom for love.
The choice lay before him like a blade.
Dusharaj watched him with sharp amusement. "So? What will it be, prince? A king's heart or a prince's crown?"
Devavrata met his gaze, his own expression unreadable. "I do not choose so quickly."
Dusharaj chuckled. "Then choose wisely. Because a man who tries to keep both often loses both."
Devavrata turned on his heel, striding toward his horse without another word. He could feel Satyavati's gaze on his back, steady and knowing.
As he mounted, Dusharaj called out one last time.
"You are your father's son, Devavrata. But soon, we will see if you are your own man as well."
The words followed him long after he had left the river behind.