The Pandavas, clad in saffron garments, embarked on their thirteen-year exile, their chariots fading into the forests' embrace, as Draupadi's fire-born resolve was their guiding light.
It had been a quiet four months since Bahubali, Dushala, and Rudra had returned to Magadha from their brief stay in Hastinapur. Life in the palace had settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Dushala often recounted the small, familiar joys of their visit—the way the old gardens smelled after a rain, the sight of the Ganga from the eastern tower—simple memories that Bahubali listened to with a quiet smile.
Rudra, ever more focused on his duties as crown prince and took control of Nyayrakshak from his father.
The silence was broken one crisp morning by a messenger bearing a sealed scroll. It was an invitation from Vikramaditya, the King of the neighboring kingdom of Avanthi, announcing the swayamvar (self-choice of husband ceremony) for his daughter, the Princess Avantika.
Bahubali read the formal script, then glanced at Rudra, who was oiling the grip of his sword. "Rudra," he said, holding out the letter, "Avanthi calls. It is time for you to go."
Rudra looked up, his expression a mixture of surprise and slight dread. "A swayamvar? Pitashree, I appreciate the thought, but... marriage isn't really on my mind right now."
"Perhaps not," Bahubali replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. "But an alliance with Avanthi is a good thing for Magadha, and a swayamvar is a perfect opportunity to test your skill against the best. Besides," he added, a familiar, teasing smirk playing on his lips, "you might find that a princess can be far more interesting than your target practice. Go. Even if you don't win a wife, you'll win experience. The ceremony is in a month."
Reluctantly, Rudra agreed. "Alright, Pitashree. I'll go. But don't expect me to bring back a bride."
A month later, Rudra, dressed in the formal attire of a prince, arrived at the gates of Avanthi's palace. King Vikramaditya himself greeted him, a distinguished man with a grave but welcoming demeanor, and led him to the main hall. The chamber was filled with the rumble of many voices, the clinking of armor, and the sharp scent of exotic incense.
Kings and princes from across the land were assembled, each eager to win the hand of the Princess Avantika.
As the last guest was seated, Vikramaditya stood to address the assembly. "Welcome, noble kings and princes, to Avanthi. Today, my daughter, Princess Avantika, will choose her husband."
He then gestured towards a side entrance. A hush fell over the hall as Princess Avantika entered.
Rudra, who had only intended to participate for the sake of his father, felt the air leave his lungs. Avantika was a vision—her carriage regal, her eyes the shade of the deepest amber, framed by dark, braided hair. His cynical resolve instantly crumbled. He was not merely participating anymore; he was competing.
The King instructed, "My daughter, take your designated seat."
As Avantika moved toward the ornate chair placed on the dais, a jarring, ugly commotion split the air.
Jayadratha, the King of Sindhu, who had been invited purely as a matter of formality and seated far from the dais, surged forward. He was a powerfully built man, his eyes glittering with a predatory lust that ruined the ceremony's atmosphere. He lunged across the floor, bypassing the guards who were too shocked to react.
He reached Avantika just as she was settling into her seat, his hand snapping out like a striking viper. He grasped her wrist, his grip painfully tight, intending to drag her away.
Silence held the hall hostage. No one moved. The assembled kings and princes, men of varying valor, knew the fearsome reputation and raw strength of Jayadratha and chose caution over intervention.
But Rudra, his initial awe of the princess instantly transformed into a blazing, protective rage, couldn't stand it. This was no contest; it was an abduction. "Unhand her!" he roared, leaping from his seat with a speed that defied his heavy armor.
Jayadratha turned, a cruel, mocking sneer twisting his lips. He saw the young, unfamiliar prince standing between him and his prize. "A child? You think you can stop me?" He tossed the princess's hand aside, drawing his bow with contemptuous ease. "Begone, boy, before I make an example of you!"
The ensuing battle was not a measured contest but a raw explosion of fury and skill. Jayadratha was a whirlwind of brute force, his arrows thick and heavy, designed to maim and break. He loosed a continuous stream of projectiles, aiming to simply overwhelm and crush the young interloper.
Rudra was an echo of focused intensity, all his training condensing into precise, disciplined responses. His bow was drawn taut, the bow groaning with the stress of his power, his arrows flying with uncanny speed and accuracy.
CLANG! CRACK! WHISTLE!
The air thrummed with violence. Jayadratha's heavy shafts met Rudra's smaller, faster arrows mid-flight, disintegrating into splinters and dust. Rudra shifted, a blur of movement, using the pillars and the ornate seating as momentary cover, never allowing Jayadratha a clear, solid shot.
Jayadratha, frustrated by the prince's relentless defense, began to chant a mantra, preparing to summon a Divyastra—a divine weapon. He needed to end this quickly and brutally.
It was then that Rudra deployed his deceptive strategy. He let loose a rapid volley of arrows, but with a different technique—he was not using any divine power, but his sheer skill made the effect appear supernatural. The arrows circled, shimmered, and created a complex, dazzling shield in the air that momentarily hid him from view.
Jayadratha, seeing the iridescent flash and the intricate formation, assumed the young prince had countered his own move with a Divyastra. He redoubled his chant, his focus entirely on harnessing the full power of his divine weapon.
This was the opening Rudra needed. While Jayadratha was caught in the trance-like state of invoking the astra, Rudra's last arrow was aimed low. It didn't strike the man, but the target was far more critical: Jayadratha's bow.
The arrow struck the grip with the force of a hammer. CRACK! The heavy bow splintered in two, snapping violently. The interruption shattered Jayadratha's concentration, the divine energies dissipating harmlessly.
Before the Sindhu King could recover, another arrow, impossibly swift, whipped past his scalp. It wasn't meant to injure; it was a profound act of humiliation. CLINK! His ornate, jewel-encrusted crown was knocked clean off his head, skittering across the marble floor.
In the next heartbeat, a dozen more arrows followed, not striking him, but planting themselves deep into the floor around him, forming a tight, inescapable circle. He was caged, utterly defeated, his crown a trophy.
Rudra lowered his bow, his eyes steady and triumphant. He spoke clearly, the words echoing in the stunned silence of the hall.
"Give way, King Jayadratha. You have lost."
Jayadratha, pale with a shame greater than any pain, looked at the scattered pieces of his bow and the arrows surrounding him. He let out a choked, guttural sound and simply nodded his head.
Admitting his defeat, Rudra flicked his wrist, and the arrows loosened from the floor. Without a word or a glance, Jayadratha stalked out of the hall, his entourage following in a hasty, silent retreat.
Rudra turned and made his way toward Avantika. She was standing in her original place, watching him with an expression of utter disbelief and profound relief.
He stopped a respectful distance away. "Princess," he said, his voice now gentle, "are you harmed? Are you well?"
Avantika, speechless for a moment, slowly nodded her head. She then broke out of her daze, and with eyes that now held a deep, admiring warmth, she took the heavy, fragrant garland from a nearby attendant. Her hand was steady as she raised it and placed it around Rudra's neck. It was a silent, powerful proposal.
Rudra looked into her amber eyes. The dread of matrimony was gone, replaced by a sudden, exhilarating certainty. He nodded, accepting the proposal, a slight, genuine smile touching his lips.
King Vikramaditya rose, his face beaming with a pride that replaced the terror he had just witnessed. His voice thundered through the hall: "Hear ye! The victor of this swayamvar and the future husband of my daughter, Princess Avantika, is Prince Rudra of Magadha!"