She stands in the center of the court, her eyes not wet, her voice not trembling. Around her, the kings are silent. Warriors look away. Only the dice echo—wooden clatters over polished stone.
A man in royal robes sits frozen, his hand still extended toward the dice board, as if time has paused with his shame.
"You lost me," she says, voice like steel beneath silk. "But not your soul. That still remains. Or has even that been wagered?"
He cannot answer.
Her gaze shifts—not to him, but to the five who once vowed to protect her. One lowers his eyes. One clenches his fists. One burns with shame. One fights tears. One is already thinking of revenge.
"You swore to uphold Dharma," she whispers. "And here I stand. Stripped of it."
The torches flicker.
Far away, a conch blows.
And then—Krishna's voice, soft, eternal, final:
"That which has been broken will return in pieces. Scattered across time. Scattered across lives. But it will return. Dharma will demand it."
The vision fades. The dice stop rolling.
A young man named Aryan Sharma wakes up, his heart pounding.
He does not know why he feels like he has already failed someone.
But her eyes won't leave him.
Not yet.