"Elder Brother… I apologize. I raised my voice, my weapon, my anger against you instead of listening to your words. I troubled the keeper of dharma when I should have trusted the balance you maintain. I promise you—never again will I act in a way that brings disturbance to your realm."
Lord Yama regarded him quietly.
"Even Mahadeva said you were without fault in this matter. Who am I to judge you more harshly?"
He paused, then continued in a softer tone.
"But I will admit something. You complained against me—loudly, fiercely—and yet you never once tried to use force against me personally to return your wife's soul. That… that is something commendable."
Karna bowed his head.
Lord Yama stepped closer.
"On your sixteenth birthday, I wanted to give you a gift. But Father's divine astra reached you first. So, let me take this occasion to give you mine now."
He raised both hands. His lips moved in a low, resonant incantation—words older than the mountains, heavy with the finality of death itself.
Soon, a pitch-black arrow took shape between his palms—long, slender, its edges so dark they seemed to drink the faint red light of Naraka.
"This is the Mrityustra," Lord Yama said. "It carries the power of my own Yamapaasha. When it strikes a mortal body, death is instantaneous. No boon, no curse can protect from this divyastra."
He extended the arrow toward Karna and added, "However, it can be used only once. So, tread it carefully."
The arrow slowly dissolved into wisps of shadow and flowed into Karna's chest. He felt a brief, cool weight settle behind his heart.
Karna looked up, surprised, then bowed deeply. "Thank you, Elder Brother."
Lord Yama placed a hand on his shoulder—the same gesture Shiva had used, but heavier, more solemn.
"Go back to your children, Karna. They need their father now. And the world… it still needs you."
Karna straightened. For the first time since he had knelt beside Roshini's body, a faint measure of calm returned to his eyes—not peace, not yet, but the beginning of resolve.
He nodded once.
Then he turned and boarded his chariot, and it flew away back to the mortal realm.
Narakaloka grew quiet again.
*
By the time Karna returned to Kanipura on his celestial chariot, he saw his parents waiting.
Lord Surya and Goddess Sangya stood near the entrance, their divine forms dimmed to appear more mortal—Surya in simple golden robes, Sangya in flowing white with a veil of light around her shoulders.
Beside them were the Gandharva King Chitrasena and his queen. Each held one of the newborns carefully, wrapped in soft silk cloths embroidered with protective mantras.
Sangya moved first. She hurried forward and pulled Karna into a tight embrace, her arms strong despite her gentle appearance.
"My son…"
Karna let her hold him for a moment, then gently pulled back. His voice came out steady, though his eyes were still shadowed.
"I am fine, Mother."
Lord Surya stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. His golden eyes searched Karna's face.
"I know what happened in Narakaloka, my child. It is alright. You don't have to apologize."
Karna nodded once, short and sharp. He couldn't meet his father's gaze for long. Instead, he walked past them all, straight into the chamber where Roshini lay.
The room was unchanged—lamps still burning low, air thick with incense meant to honor the departed. Maids had cleaned what they could, but the bloodstains on the sheets remained, a dark reminder.
Roshini's body had been prepared for the rites—washed, anointed with sandalwood paste, dressed in her favorite red saree embroidered with golden threads. Her face looked peaceful now, almost like she was sleeping.
Karna knelt beside the bed again. He took her cold hand in both of his, pressing it to his forehead.
"Roshini…"
The word was a whisper, full of everything he couldn't say.
Then he looked up. Chitrasena and his queen had followed quietly, each cradling one infant. The babies had quietened and fallen asleep.
Karna didn't reach for them. He didn't even extend a hand to touch his children.
Instead, he spoke hoarsely, "Father-in-law…"
King Chitrasena looked up, surprised. "Yes, son?"
Karna's voice was low and measured, having a firm resolve in his tone, as he said. "I will hand over my children to your custody."
The words hung in the air like a thunderclap.
King Chitrasena's eyes widened. His queen gasped softly, pulling the baby girl closer to her chest. "What are you saying, Karna?"
Lord Surya asked, "Karna, you are abandoning your children?"
Karna kept his gaze on Roshini's still face as he answered. "I am afraid, Father. Afraid that in my grief, I might ignore them. Or worse—hate my own children. Unknowingly blame them for taking my wife away. I cannot bear that thought. It would destroy me… and them."
Tears welled up in his eyes again, spilling over as he forced himself to look at Chitrasena.
"Father-in-law, when I took your daughter from you, I promised you that I would keep her safe from any harm, but in the end, I couldn't keep my promise. At the very least, if they grow up in your keeping, I will feel some peace thinking that I have compensated for your loss, somehow.
He looked away then, toward the balcony where the morning sun was climbing higher.
"This is the punishment I will bear for leaving her in that precious moment. If I had been here… I could have saved her somehow. I could have called upon my brothers, the Ashwini Kumaras, to heal her. I could have even used my penance power to shield her from death's grasp. But I wasn't there."
Lord Surya stepped forward, his hand resting heavily on Karna's shoulder.
"You did only what you had to do, son. Do not punish yourself like this. The world needed you that night. If you hadn't gone, thousands of innocents would have died. Roshini's soul wouldn't blame you."
Karna grabbed his father's hands suddenly, gripping them tight.
"After this… after the rites… I would like to go on a pilgrimage, Father. I will first travel to Kashi for the Asthi Visarjan. Once I immerse Roshini's ashes in the river Ganga, I intend to visit other temples until some peace returns to this restless heart of mine."
He turned to Sangya, voice softening.
"Mother… do not think badly of me for giving your grandchildren to Gandharva Raj Chitrasena and not you. I am indebted to him and his queen for everything. And I know they will have to return to me one day. And also, I do not want you to go through that same pain of separation again, which happened to me."
Sangya's eyes filled with tears. She pulled him into another embrace, sobbing quietly against his shoulder.
"Son…"
Chitrasena and his queen exchanged glances. The Gandharva king opened his mouth, then closed it again, nodding slowly instead.
"We will care for them as our own," he said at last. "Until the time comes for them to return home."
*
After the eleventh day, Karna had arranged a grand Annadana in his kingdom: tables laden with rice, dal, vegetables, sweets, and fresh fruits. He moved among the people himself, serving portions with his own hands, listening to their condolences, accepting their tears as his own.
Donations flowed freely to the citizens—gold for the poor, clothes for the orphans, seeds and tools for the farmers whose fields had been trampled in the chaos of grief. The air smelled of jasmine garlands and cooked spices, a bittersweet feast to honor the departed queen.
When the last person had eaten, and the courtyard began to empty, Karna stood at the palace gates.
He had changed into simple clothes like a commoner with no crown, no jewelry, save his eternal golden earrings. His face was drawn, eyes hollow from sleepless nights, but his steps were steady.
Timmarasu, the Prime Minister—a wise, elderly man with a beard streaked gray—knelt before him.
"Maharaj… the throne will wait for your return."
Karna placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Rule in my absence as you would in my presence. Protect our people and be kind. When Rajguru returns, inform him of my departure and tell him that I asked him to help you."
Timmarasu bowed deeper.
"As you command."
Karna turned then, walking away from the palace without looking back with the vase filled with Roshini's ashes. The gates closed behind him with a soft thud.