The duel had transformed from a mere test into a breathtaking display of skill. Vidhi's smile remained unbroken as she drew her dagger; with a metallic click, the blade extended, becoming a full-length sword. In a silent pact of honor, Krishnapriya set aside her secondary weapon and tucked one arm behind her back, mirroring Vidhi’s stance.
They lunged at each other. The garden was no longer a place of peace but a forge of white-hot sparks. Every time their steel collided, the sound wasn't just a simple clink; it was a roar of thunder that echoed off the palace walls. The flashes of light were so brilliant they burned into the eyes of the watching dancers. They fought not as enemies, but as two halves of the same soul trying to remember one another.
Suddenly, a feathered arrow hissed through the air, thudding into the earth precisely between them. The vibrations of the arrow brought the world back into focus.
On a high stone platform stood Vrishali, silhouetted against the fading light. She looked like a goddess of war, her bow still taut. She leaped down with the lightness of a bird, landing between the panting combatants.
“Princess,” Vrishali said, turning to Vidhi with a gentle but firm admonition. “You let your passion cloud your vision. This is no intruder.” She then turned toward the masked warrior, her voice softening into a tremble. “I welcome you home, Princess. I have waited a lifetime for this moment.”
The name hung in the air like a prayer. Vidhi froze. She looked at the masked warrior—the stance, the way she held her sword, the fierce light in her eyes. The mask of the "guest" shattered.
“Didi?” Vidhi whispered.
The cold tension of the duel vanished, replaced by a warm rush of relief. It was as if a decade of drought had ended with a single, cooling rain. Vidhi didn’t merely greet her sister; she fell into her embrace, their eyes locked in a silent, tearful conversation that expressed all the years lost to distance.
The transition to the Royal Court was a blur of ritual. With hands trembling from joy, Vidhi applied the crimson tilak to her sister’s forehead, her movements a blend of reverence and sisterly affection.
When they entered the grand hall, King Vishvara sat upon his throne, surrounded by grey-haired ministers of state. The room was thick with the scent of incense and the heavy weight of governance. The King rose, confusion etched on his brow as he regarded the armored woman standing before him.
Vidhi’s voice rang out, clear and triumphant: "Just as a river finally finds the peace of the ocean, Varunaprastha finds its heart. Father, I present to you the eldest Princess, Krishnapriya."
The silence that followed was deafening. One by one, the ministers—men who had long forgotten how to weep—lowered their turbans and bowed their heads to the floor.
King Vishvara, usually a pillar of stoic granite, appeared as though he might crumble. Ten years of calculated dignity vanished in an instant. He didn't wait for a formal greeting or for the ministers to finish their prayers. He dismissed the court with a sharp wave of his hand, his eyes never leaving his daughter.
As the doors closed, the King rushed forward. He didn't embrace a warrior; he embraced his child. He held her tightly, as if she might turn back into a memory if he let go.
“A week of celebration!” the King commanded, his voice thick with unshed tears. “Let the fires of the Tridevi temple reach the heavens. My daughter has returned.”
