Murderer. Gambler. Thief. Seductress. Liar. A woman made of masks. King. Warrior. Brahmin. Son. Friend. A man born of legacy. 𝘞𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘍𝘪𝘳𝘦. They should've destroyed each other. And yet, here he was. Freshly anointed. A kingdom in his hands. A crown on his head. ...and a snake in his dungeons. They'd warned him: 𝘋𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬. 𝘙𝘪𝘱 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵, 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯. Unfortunately, Ashwathama was 𝗵𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗲 at following instructions. Their story didn't start with love. It started with lies. With wounds. With a game no one was supposed to win. And a few millenia down the line, through the ache of memories and the weight of years, he stops to think, 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙛 𝙄 𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙣'𝙩 𝙢𝙚𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙩 𝙖𝙡𝙡? "𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲." "𝐍𝐨. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝐭𝐨." She was just trying to survive He was just trying to rule Somehow they ended up inside each other 🫶 DISCLAIMER: this isn't meant to hurt anyone's religious sentiments in any way. everyone's beliefs deserve respect, and if u feel something is hurtful, lemme know.

They say history celebrates its heroes, remembers its villains, and erases its 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔. But nothing erased stays hidden. Mistakes are meant to burn. Suffocate. Ache. They coil around the finger until it bleeds-or are carried by a yuga-but they never stay buried. An ordinary girl, Tarika Singh, entered Dwaparyug-and learned fire does not always burn. Sometimes- The scorching heat is Karn, the abandoned giver. The silent flare is Yudhishthir, the puppet of dharma. The cackling flame is Bheem, the weapon of vengeance. The curling smoke is Arjun, the dancer of battlefields. The biting spark is Nakul, the healer of destruction. The glowing coal is Sahdev, the foreseer of destiny. They say, fear the villains. As if they began it all. As if the world were not threads - pulled, twisted, strangled - each cutting the other. Some thread tightens like Duryodhan, desperate for the crown. Some knots itself like Dushasan, loyal until he forgets where he ends. Some loosens itself like Vikarn, questioning even the blood in his veins. It is law...threads burn when touched by flame. Only she decides whether they bind or snap. But She is no longer Tarika here. And the myth is no longer myth. 𝑨𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒚𝒂. Daughter of the Sun. Sister of warriors. The ruiner... or the redeemer? It depends on who tells the tale. Because, To hear of the Mahabharata is one thing. To live it, surrounded by unknown faces, is another. Among the 'unknown', two men became her world, standing beside her, one like a vow, the other like a sin. Both willing to fall, if it meant she would not stand alone. "I wonder if the stars are jealous- they've never been looked at the way I look at her." "If the gods made her... perhaps they aren't so useless after all." ▪previously titled as Threads of Flames