Night had settled over Hastinapura, but sleep eluded Devavrata. He stood on the terrace outside his chambers, staring at the darkened sky, his thoughts a tempest of duty, love, and sacrifice. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine, but it brought no comfort.
His father's sorrow weighed upon him like a stone.
Earlier that day, he had ridden back from the fisherman's village with Dusharaj's words echoing in his mind:
"A king's heart or a prince's crown—choose quick, boy."
Devavrata had not answered then, but deep down, he had already known the truth. He had seen it in the way Shantanu's eyes dulled with each passing day, in the silent agony of a love he dared not claim.
He could not allow it to continue.
Summoning his resolve, Devavrata turned from the terrace and strode through the dimly lit corridors of the palace, his feet moving with purpose. He needed to see his father.
Shantanu's chambers were unguarded at this late hour—no one expected an assassin in the heart of the palace. Devavrata pushed open the heavy doors and stepped inside.
Shantanu sat alone, his back to the entrance, his shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his unspoken grief. A single oil lamp flickered on a nearby table, casting long shadows against the walls. Before him, untouched, lay a goblet of wine, forgotten in his misery.
He did not stir as Devavrata entered, nor did he acknowledge his presence.
For a long moment, the prince simply watched his father.
This was not the Shantanu he had known—the fearless warrior, the just ruler, the father whose laughter had once echoed through the halls. This was a man bound by longing and loss, defeated not by war but by his own heart.
Finally, Devavrata spoke. "Father."
Shantanu stiffened but did not turn. "It is late, my son."
Devavrata stepped closer. "I have spoken to the fisherman."
Shantanu's hand trembled where it rested on his knee. "I see."
A heavy silence followed. Devavrata could hear the unevenness of his father's breath, the quiet struggle to remain composed.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, Shantanu said, "It is an impossible thing he asks."
Devavrata took a deep breath. "And yet it is the only thing he will accept."
Shantanu's grip tightened. "I cannot ask this of you."
"You did not," Devavrata said softly. "You never would."
At last, Shantanu turned. His eyes, once sharp as the edge of a blade, were red-rimmed and weary.
"I tried to forget her," he admitted, his voice breaking. "I told myself it was a passing desire, that a king cannot afford such weakness. But each time I ride to the river, each time I see her…" He exhaled shakily. "I know I will never love another as I love her."
A tear slipped down his cheek, unbidden.
Devavrata, who had seen his father ride into battle without fear, who had watched him strike down enemies with unmatched skill, felt his own heart clench at the sight.
This was not the plea of a king.
This was the cry of a man.
And a son could not turn away.
Long after their conversation ended, Devavrata found himself by the banks of the Ganga, kneeling upon the cool earth. The river stretched before him, vast and eternal, its waters carrying the whispers of ages past.
He closed his eyes.
His mother had come from these waters. The river was a part of his blood, his very being. He sought its guidance now, as he had done since childhood.
What would you have me do, Mother?
The Ganga did not answer in words. It never did.
But as he listened to the river's pulse, as he let himself sink into its steady rhythm, he felt his path become clear.
His father had given him everything—love, protection, a kingdom to call his own.
It was time to give something back.
Slowly, Devavrata opened his eyes. The decision had been made.
He would forsake his claim.
For his father's happiness.
For the good of Hastinapura.
For duty.
His hands curled into fists as he whispered the words, letting the river bear witness to his resolve.
"Let this oath bind me—forever."
At dawn, Devavrata summoned Aruni and Vikrama to the palace gardens.
The air was crisp, the world still waking, but he wasted no time with pleasantries. "I have made my decision."
The two men exchanged glances, sensing the gravity of his tone.
Aruni spoke first. "You mean to yield the throne."
"Yes."
A sharp inhale. A silence heavy with unspoken emotions.
Then Aruni turned away, his hands trembling at his sides. When he spoke, his voice was thick. "It is not fair."
Devavrata sighed. "Fairness has no place in matters of duty."
Aruni's shoulders shook. "You were born to rule, Devavrata. No man in Hastinapura questions that. Yet now, you—" He broke off, shaking his head. "What of your own life? Your own future?"
Vikrama, who had remained silent, exhaled slowly. "He is thinking not of himself, but of the kingdom."
Aruni's gaze snapped toward Vikrama. "And you accept this?"
Vikrama met Devavrata's eyes. "It is a heavy thing, to surrender one's birthright. But I will not stand in the way of a choice made for love."
His voice held no mockery. Only respect.
Devavrata nodded. "This is not a loss, Aruni. It is my path."
Aruni's throat bobbed as he swallowed, struggling for words. "Then let it be known," he said finally, voice shaking, "that there was once a prince who could have ruled, but instead chose to serve."
A single tear slipped down his cheek before he quickly wiped it away.
Devavrata placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hastinapura will endure, my friend. That is all that matters."
That afternoon, Devavrata prepared to ride to the fisherman's village once more. The weight of his choice settled upon him, but there was no doubt, no hesitation.
As he mounted his horse, he looked to the horizon, where the river met the sky.
Shantanu would know joy again.
The kingdom would know peace.
And his own name would be remembered—not as a king, but as a son who had given everything.
With one last glance at the palace he had once been destined to rule, Devavrata spurred his horse forward, riding toward the fate he had chosen.