The next morning, Jarasandha awoke before dawn to the distant clang of temple bells and the aroma of roasted barley. He stretched, savoring the unfamiliar strength in his limbs. For a moment, he almost forgot he wasn't in his bed in Ahmedabad—until he saw the golden thread of the Veda Sutra hovering in the air and the palace's stone ceiling painted with scenes of gods and demons.
He grinned. If this were a dream, he never wanted to wake up.
After a brisk bath, he dressed in a fresh dhoti and a deep red angavastram. He chose a single ring and a thin gold chain—enough to look regal, not enough to feel weighed down. Kingship, he decided, should be comfortable, if nothing else.
A servant brought his breakfast: flatbreads, honeyed curds, and a bowl of sweet sesame-jaggery balls. Jarasandha popped one into his mouth, savoring the nutty sweetness. He'd never had anything like it in Ahmedabad, and he made a mental note to compliment the palace cook, assuming he survived the day.
He was about to head to the council chamber when a soft knock came at his chamber door. It was Padmavati, his queen. She entered with the quiet confidence of someone who belonged at the center of power. Her sari was a deep green, her eyes gentle but sharp, and her posture regal even in private.
"Good morning, Maharaja," she said, her voice low. "You're up early."
Jarasandha smiled, trying to recall the right balance of affection and formality. "The world doesn't wait for kings to wake, Padmavati. And neither do you, it seems."
She sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on his. "The girls are worried. They miss their husbands. They miss you."
A pang of guilt—real and borrowed—twisted in his chest. Jarasandha had daughters, two of whom had been married to Kamsa. Now, both were widows, their fates forever altered by Krishna's hand. The old Jarasandha would have raged and plotted revenge. Abhijith—now Jarasandha—felt a more complex ache: anger, yes, but also a fierce need to protect what remained of his family.
"I'll see them today," he promised. "They shouldn't have to bear this alone."
Padmavati squeezed his hand. "They need their father. And so do I."
He looked at her, really looked, and saw the strength beneath her sorrow. She was more than a queen—she was his partner, his anchor in a world spinning out of control. He resolved, silently, not to let his new life make him forget that.
After Padmavati left, Jarasandha made his way to the women's quarters. His daughters—Sumana and Asti—sat together, their faces pale and drawn. They rose when he entered, bowing formally.
He waved off the gesture. "No need for that. Not today."
Sumana, the elder, spoke first. "Father, what will happen to us now?"
Jarasandha knelt beside them, lowering his voice. "You are still princesses of Magadha. No one will harm you here. And your pain is my pain. I promise you, I will not let Krishna's actions go unanswered."
Asti's eyes brimmed with tears. "We miss him. Even after everything."
He hugged them both, feeling their grief and his own. "We will find a way forward. Together."
He left them with a promise to visit again soon, his resolve hardening. Family was not a weakness, he decided. It was the reason to fight, to outthink, to survive.
The council chamber was already alive with whispers when he arrived. Arya stood at the window, sunlight glinting off her bangles, her gaze fixed on the city below. She looked up as he entered, her eyes sharp with curiosity.
"Ready to play detective, Maharaja?" she asked, her tone light but her posture alert.
Jarasandha grinned. "Only if there's a puzzle worth solving."
She handed him a list of names—servants, scribes, and minor nobles. "There's talk of a traitor. Everyone's pointing fingers. If you want to keep your throne, you'll need to find the real culprit before rumor does more damage than any sword."
He glanced over the list, then at Arya. "Let's make this interesting. Loser owes the winner a favor."
She arched an eyebrow, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "Confident, aren't you?"
"Always," he replied, and the game was on.
They began their investigation with the palace staff, offering sweetmeats and kind words in exchange for gossip. Arya's questions were precise, her gaze unwavering. Jarasandha, meanwhile, played the fool—cracking jokes, feigning ignorance, and coaxing laughter from even the most anxious servant. It was a dance of contrasts: Arya's intellect and Jarasandha's charm, working in tandem.
By midday, they had narrowed their suspects to three: a scribe with ink-stained fingers, a steward with a nervous twitch, and a minor noble who always seemed to know more than he should. Jarasandha orchestrated a "chance" encounter in the palace gardens, inviting the suspects for a midday meal beneath the shade of a neem tree.
As they ate, Arya peppered them with questions about the previous night's council meeting. The scribe fumbled his words, the steward sweated, but the noble—Rudra—answered too smoothly, his eyes darting to Arya every time she pressed him.
Jarasandha leaned forward, voice low and calm. "Rudra, you seem to have a remarkable memory for council business. Tell me, how did you know about the king of Kashi's secret envoy before I did?"
Rudra's face paled. Arya's gaze sharpened. "Perhaps you'd like to explain, my lord?"
Cornered, Rudra stammered out a confession. He'd been feeding information to a rival court in exchange for promises of gold and a future position. Jarasandha listened, then waved a hand. "Exile him. But let it be known—Magadha's king is not so easily deceived."
The council buzzed with the news. Arya and Jarasandha retreated to the palace terrace, sharing the last of the sesame sweets as the city below bustled with life.
Arya broke the silence. "You handled that well. Most kings would have made a spectacle of it."
Jarasandha shrugged, watching a flock of birds wheel above the river. "I prefer my victories quiet. Besides, if you punish one traitor too loudly, you only teach the rest to hide better."
She smiled, a genuine warmth in her eyes. "You're not the king they expected."
He grinned, tilting his head. "Expectations are overrated. I'd rather keep people guessing."
Arya studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Magadha might just need a king like that."
They sat in companionable silence, the city's noise drifting up on the breeze. For the first time, Jarasandha felt a sense of belonging—not just to the palace, but to the game itself. He wasn't just surviving; he was starting to enjoy himself.
As the sun dipped low, Arya rose. "There will be more secrets, more plots. Are you ready?"
Jarasandha smiled, the golden thread of the Veda Sutra pulsing at the edge of his vision. "I was born ready. Or at least, I am now."
She left, her laughter echoing down the corridor. Jarasandha watched her go, heart light. He had allies, he had enemies, and he had a system that promised power—if he was clever enough to use it.
He was no one's pawn. Not the gods', not the sages', not even destiny's. He would play this game his way. And tomorrow? Tomorrow he'd start rewriting the rules.
That evening, he returned to his private chambers. Padmavati was waiting, her eyes searching his. He took her hands in his, the weight of the day's choices settling on his shoulders.
"We'll get through this," he promised quietly. "For our daughters. For Magadha."
Padmavati nodded, her strength steadying his own. "And for ourselves, my king."
As night fell over the palace, Jarasandha felt, for the first time since waking in this strange new world, that he might truly belong here, not just as a king, but as a father, a husband, and a man determined to shape his own legend.