The sun hung high over Hastinapura, its golden light spilling over the streets and casting long shadows across the palace walls. But for all its warmth, a chill rested in Devavrata's chest, the weight of his father's sorrow pressing against his thoughts.
The woman on the water—Satyavati. She was the reason for Shantanu's quiet suffering. And yet, it was not mere love that bound his father's heart in silence. There was something more. Something unspoken.
And Devavrata would uncover it.
The market along the Yamuna's edge was alive with movement, the air thick with the scent of river fish, spices, and damp reeds. Traders called out their wares, fishermen mended their nets, and boats rocked gently in the water, waiting to carry goods along the winding river.
Devavrata walked with purpose, his presence alone parting the crowd as people stepped aside, bowing their heads in quiet respect. He was known here—not just as the crown prince, but as the one who would inherit the throne.
And it was that very inheritance that stood between his father and happiness.
He approached an older man seated beneath a cloth awning, his hands deftly carving into a block of wood. The man's skin was weathered by the river's touch, his fingers calloused from years of trade. His eyes, however, were sharp, betraying a mind that had seen much.
"Rajan," the man greeted, setting down his carving and folding his hands in a respectful gesture.
"Chandram," Devavrata acknowledged. "You have traded along this river for many years. You know its people well."
The trader's lips curled into a faint smile. "The river tells many stories, if one knows how to listen."
Devavrata met his gaze. "Then tell me of Dusharaj."
Chandram's fingers tensed slightly before he reached for his carving once more, running his thumb along the smooth wood. "A clever man," he said after a pause. "A fisherman, yes, but not just any fisherman. He rules his people with the mind of a king."
"And he is Satyavati's father."
Chandram nodded. "A daughter unlike any other. Some say she carries the river in her very soul, that fate itself flows through her veins." His gaze flickered upward. "But you already know that, don't you?"
Devavrata remained silent.
The trader sighed, setting down his work. "The king desires her, that much is clear. But Dusharaj is no fool. He has spent his life on the water, learning to read its depths. And like the river, he knows how to carve his own course."
"What does he want?"
Chandram hesitated before answering, his voice quieter. "A future for his bloodline. A place in history."
Devavrata's brows furrowed. "Explain."
The trader studied him for a moment before leaning forward. "He does not wish for mere riches or favor. No, Dusharaj has demanded a promise—a binding one. That Satyavati's sons will inherit the throne."
The words settled over Devavrata like a weight of stone.
So that was the price.
A king's love, bought with a prince's crown.
His father had always been a man of honor, a king who carried his duty with unwavering resolve. Shantanu would never cast aside the rightful succession. Not for love. Not even for her.
Devavrata exhaled slowly, his thoughts steadying.
"I see," he murmured.
Chandram watched him carefully. "He has not asked you, has he?"
Devavrata shook his head.
"He will not," Chandram said simply. "Because the cost is too great."
Devavrata stood in silence for a moment before inclining his head. "You have my thanks."
The trader dipped his head in return. "May the river guide you, Prince."
Devavrata turned, his steps purposeful as he left the market behind.
The path ahead was clear.
He would speak to his father.
Shantanu stood on the palace balcony, his gaze lost in the distant horizon. The sky burned with the colors of dusk, but his eyes remained dim, his thoughts elsewhere.
Devavrata stepped forward, his voice quiet yet firm. "Father."
Shantanu did not turn immediately, but when he did, his expression was unreadable. "Devavrata."
The prince studied him carefully. "You love her."
A pause. Then, a slow breath. "Yes."
The admission carried no hesitation, no shame. Only quiet truth.
Devavrata did not falter. "And yet, you turn away from her."
Shantanu's gaze darkened, though not with anger. With sorrow.
"Some desires are not meant to be fulfilled," he said.
"Because of Dusharaj's demand."
The king tensed ever so slightly.
Devavrata continued, his tone unwavering. "He asks for more than a marriage. He asks for an heir."
A heavy silence stretched between them.
Shantanu closed his eyes for a brief moment, then opened them, his voice low. "I will not ask that of you."
The weight of those words pressed against Devavrata's chest.
His father would sacrifice his own happiness before he would ask his son to relinquish the throne.
It was a love that spoke not in demands, but in silence.
And yet, in that silence, there was suffering.
"You have given everything to this kingdom," Devavrata said. "And yet, this is the one thing you cannot take for yourself."
Shantanu did not answer.
Devavrata watched him for a long moment. His father—the great king of Hastinapura—stood before him, not as a ruler, but as a man. A man who had led armies, shaped destinies, but now found himself powerless before the one thing he could not command.
His own heart.
"A king's heart or a prince's crown," Devavrata thought to himself.
What was the cost?
The answer lingered, unspoken, in the fading light of day.
And yet, in his heart, Devavrata already knew.