Indraverma's sword lowered. "He is Karna? The one who defeated Maharaj Jarasandha?"
Mrinalini nodded slowly. "No doubt about it."
Indraverma stared at the man in the center of the yard. The anger had left his face. In its place came something new—wide-eyed respect.
Karna walked forward without hurry. He reached the nearest corpse and knelt. With steady hands he pulled the mask away.
A young face stared up—clean-shaven, eyes open and empty.
One of the Kashi soldiers stepped closer, peering over Karna's shoulder. His breath hissed out.
"Kaliya."
Karna looked up. "You know him?"
The soldier nodded, voice rough. "He was one of us, Mahodaya. A soldier of Kashi. Served in the palace guard for three years."
Karna's eyes narrowed. He moved to the next body, pulled the mask free. Another familiar face. Then the next. And the next.
The soldiers gathered around, murmuring in shock.
"They are all ours," one said. "Every one of them."
Karna stood. His face had gone still, the way it did before a battle he knew he must win.
"Remove all the masks," he said. "See if any are left alive."
The soldiers obeyed at once. No one questioned him. There was something in his voice—quiet, certain—that made obedience feel natural.
The last of the masked bodies had been dragged away to the edge of the courtyard.
The soldiers worked in silence, faces grim, piling the corpses near the outer wall where they would be dealt with at first light.
The disciples moved among the wounded, binding cuts and offering water. The cows had been calmed and retied; the horses stood with heads low, sides still heaving.
Mrinalini crossed the yard with quick steps, Indraverma hurrying to keep up.
The prince's sword was still in his hand, knuckles white around the hilt. When they reached the cluster of soldiers near the main hut, Mrinalini's eyes swept over the scene—the blood on the ground, the broken pots, the scorch marks on the wall.
"What's going on?" Indraverma demanded, voice cracking with leftover fear.
One of the Rathi-class soldiers stepped forward. His armor was splashed with dark streaks. He saluted briefly.
"Traitors, my prince. All of them. Men from our own guard. They turned on us tonight."
Mrinalini's face went still. She looked at the nearest unmasked corpse—Kaliya's face, pale and empty in the firelight.
Her voice came out cold, each word precise.
"It should be the work of our dear Uncle Mallikarjuna. With our father sick, as long as you are killed and I am sent away to Mathura, he can claim the throne."
Indraverma's eyes flashed. "This is outright rebellion!"
Mrinalini shook her head once. "We have no proof. Only dead men who cannot speak."
The soldiers shifted uneasily. No one contradicted her. They had all seen the masks come off, all recognized the faces.
Karna stood a little apart, near the tulsi plant, watching the exchange.
He listened in silence, arms folded across his chest. Mrinalini's voice carried the same calm certainty of someone who was used to being in command.
It is strange because women, especially the royal women, don't usually have that trait.
Whether Karna likes it or not, it is an undeniable fact that royal princesses were typically used as a bargaining chip, a tool for two kingdoms to form an alliance, and hence, from a young age, they were only taught cooking and such things; they were taught how to be gentle like a flower.
However, this woman didn't seem like a gentle flower. She looked like a sword that was merely hiding in the sheath. She felt like a general hearing the report of his subordinates.
He found himself quietly impressed. This was not the gentle princess he had first imagined.
And soon, the soldiers finished clearing the last body. One of them approached Karna, head bowed.
"Thank you, Mahodaya. If not for you, many more would have died tonight."
Others joined him—disciples, soldiers, even a few of the younger boys who had hidden during the fight.
They bowed, murmured thanks, some pressing their palms together in namaskar. Karna acknowledged each one with a small nod, saying little. His face remained quiet, almost distant.
Mrinalini noticed. She took Indraverma by the arm and walked over.
"Thank you, Warrior," she said simply, meeting Karna's eyes.
Karna inclined his head. "You can consider the debt repaid, Princess. You allowed me shelter. And I helped you."
Just then, Indraverma opened his mouth, excitement breaking through his earlier anger. "Mahodaya, are you truly Sury—"
Mrinalini's hand shot out and covered his mouth. She shot him a sharp look.
Indraverma made a muffled sound but fell silent.
Mrinalini turned back to Karna. "Thank you for the help. Again."
Karna tilted his head slightly, noticing the sudden interruption but choosing not to press. He gave a small nod.
After a pause, Mrinalini spoke again.
"You said you are going to Kashi, correct?"
"Yes."
She smiled, small but steady. "Then come with us tomorrow. We have many horses. You will reach the city faster."
Karna looked at her for a moment. The offer was kind and practical. But something in him resisted.
"I am on a pilgrimage, Princess. I cannot ride in any vehicle. I must walk till Kashi."
Mrinalini nodded, as though she had expected the answer. "Then you do not have to ride our horses. You can continue to walk while accompanying us."
Karna blinked. "Why?"
Mrinalini did not look away. "As you can see, there is a threat to our lives here. Having a great warrior like you accompany us will make us feel safe and secure."
Indraverma's eyes widened, but he stayed quiet under his sister's warning glance.
Karna hesitated. The night was still, the fire low. He could feel the weight of the urn against his side, the pull of the road ahead. Dharma tugged at him in two directions—his solitary vow to walk alone, and the clear need standing before him.
Mrinalini pressed forward gently.
"I am asking you for help, O great warrior Vasusena. If you bring us safely to the palace, we will be indebted to you."
Karna sighed inwardly. The words were simple, but they carried the quiet power of someone who understood how to ask without demanding. And dharma would not let him refuse a woman who asked for protection—especially one who had already given him shelter.
He met her eyes.
"Alright," he said. "I will accompany your troop, Princess. But not to the palace. Only to the city."
Mrinalini's smile returned, soft and grateful.
"That is fine."
She turned to Indraverma, who still looked half-stunned, half-awed. "Go back to the tent," she told him. "We leave at first light."
Indraverma hesitated, then nodded and walked away, casting one last glance at Karna.
Mrinalini lingered a moment longer. "Rest well, Vasusena. Tomorrow is going to be a long journey."
Karna inclined his head.
"Rest well, Princess."
She walked back toward her tent. Karna watched her go, then returned to his blanket near the wall. He lay down, the urn beside him, and stared up at the stars visible through the branches.
*
The next morning broke clear and cool.
The Ashram stirred early—disciples sweeping the courtyard, soldiers checking horses, attendants packing the royal tents with quiet efficiency.
Karna rose before first light, rolled his blanket, secured the clay urn against his chest, and waited near the gate. He had spoken little since the night's attack. The others moved around him with a new kind of respect—eyes lowered, voices soft.
When the troop set out, Karna walked at the rear, a few paces behind the last soldier.
The princess and the prince rode in a carriage drawn by two horses and covered by the curtains. The soldiers formed a loose ring around the group, spears ready, eyes on the trees lining the path.
They traveled in near silence for hours. The road wound through low hills and scattered villages. The sun climbed higher, warming the air.
Around noon, the attendants called a halt in a shaded clearing beside a small stream. They spread mats, built a quick fire, and began preparing the midday meal—rice, dal, vegetables brought from the Ashram, flatbreads baked on an iron tawa.
Karna sat apart under a banyan tree, back against the trunk, watching the surroundings. His eyes moved steadily across the tree line, the path ahead, the distant fields. He missed nothing.
One of the attendants approached, carrying a leaf plate filled with rice and curry.
"Mahodaya," the man said respectfully, "please eat."
Karna shook his head gently.
"No. I am under a vrata during this pilgrimage. I eat only fruits and take water—nothing else."
The attendant looked uncertain, then bowed and retreated.
Mrinalini stepped down from her palanquin. She had changed into a simpler cotton saree for travel, hair tied back, but the ruby still gleamed at her parting. She walked over to Karna.
"You heard him," she said to the attendant without turning. "Go into the forest and gather fresh fruits. Whatever you find—mangoes, guavas, bananas, whatever grows here. Bring enough for our guest."
The attendants hurried off at once, disappearing into the trees.