I remember the first time I saw him—bleeding, half-conscious, cradled in the arms of a deer he had tried to hunt. My hands trembled as I cleaned the wound on his shoulder, his breath warm against my wrist. He opened his eyes—dark, intense, searching—and whispered, 'Who are you?'

I should have said, 'I am Shakuntala, daughter of no man, raised by the forest.' But instead, I smiled and said, 'Someone who won’t let you die.'

Days passed. He grew stronger. We walked among the lotus ponds, spoke of stars and duty, laughed like children. One night, beneath the ashoka tree where we first met, he took my hands and said, 'No ceremony can make this more real. I am yours, if you’ll have me.'

I did.

Now, months later, I stand at the gates of Hastinapur, my belly rounded with his child, the ring he gave me pressed into my palm. The guards stare. The courtiers whisper. And when I call his name, he looks at me with empty eyes.

'Do I know you?' he asks.

The ring slips from my fingers.