A Change of Fate

The Monster in the Mirror

(Vasusena's POV)

The judgment had been passed.

And Vasusena felt nothing. Even after the conversation he had with Arjuna and Acharya he still felt aimless.

The world was a hollow murmur as he walked forward, each step slow, deliberate, as though the earth itself sought to drag him down. The air pressed close, heavy with whispers—his name, spoken not with hatred, but with something worse. Regret. Uncertainty.

The same city that once spat "Radheya" like a curse now let it fall from trembling lips, soft and uneasy, unsure whether to despise or revere. But Vasusena knew the nature of men—the sweetness of gratitude always turned bitter. Praise curdled into scorn. Reverence, into indifference. In the end, he would be abandoned. That was how it always ended.

Then—hurried footsteps. A voice, raw with desperation.

The boy's parents—Sadava's parents—collapsed before him, their bodies bent low against the earth, faces streaked with tears. The mother's voice cracked as she choked on her sobs, her hands reaching, trembling, clutching at the edge of his garment as if he were a god who could grant miracles.

"You saved our son, Radheya," she wept, her voice shattering against the silence. "You saved him... when no one else would."

Vasusena's eyes fell upon her, and memory struck. He remembered her gaze from days past—cool, cutting, averted as though the sight of him stained her. The slight curl of her lip, the disdain hidden beneath courtesy. No plea for his kindness then. No thanks. No name on her tongue—only the charioteer's son.

And now she knelt. Now she begged. Now she wept.

How fate loved its cruel ironies.

"Thank Prince Suyodhana..." he murmured uncomfortably before trying to step out of the conversation. He just filled his quota of socialising with people with Arjuna and Kripacharya today and he had no wish to speak with anyone.

But then—

A touch. Small. Soft. Unshakable.

A child's hand. His palm, warm and fragile, wrapped around Vasusena's calloused fingers.

Sadava.

The boy stood before him, his eyes wide—not with fear, nor awe, but something purer. Something that scraped against every guarded piece of Vasusena's soul.

Hope.

"How can I be like you?"

It was a question—simple. And yet it gutted him.

The world contracted to that single, fragile moment. Vasusena's chest seized with a pain he could neither swallow nor escape. His throat burned with the weight of everything he could never say. What could he tell this child, who still believed that strength was glory, that victory was salvation? How could he stain such innocence with the truth—that the path to power was paved in ash, and every triumph reeked of blood?