The land they had received was no gift. Khandavaprastha was a wilderness of thorn and stone, abandoned by kings and cursed by drought. The trees stood twisted. The air tasted of dust. The people were few and weary.
But the Pandavas did not complain.
Yudhishthira walked the dry soil and imagined walls. Bhima cleared boulders with his bare hands. Nakula found springs hidden beneath the earth. Sahadeva mapped the stars and seasons. Arjuna stood atop a rocky hill and watched the winds—he was always watching, always waiting for the moment something greater would call him.
They summoned artisans from across the kingdoms. Sage Narada came. Divine architects arrived, and with them, Maya, the danava who once built palaces for demons. Now he bowed before Arjuna and said, "Command me."
It was here that something stirred in the heavens.
One morning, a blazing chariot descended from the sky. The horses were fire. The flag bore Hanuman's symbol.
It was Krishna, the son of Devaki, prince of Dwaraka.
He came not with armies, but with a smile that saw through time.
He greeted Arjuna as a brother. "There is something you must do," he said. "And someone who waits for your arrow."
In the center of Khandava forest lived a serpent god named Takshaka, protected by Indra, feared by men. The forest was sacred, ancient, and alive with spirits.
But it was also home to one who had waited long for revenge—Agni, the god of fire.
Cursed with indigestion from consuming excessive ghee, Agni sought to burn the forest to restore his strength. But Indra protected it, raining storms each time the flames rose.
Agni turned to Krishna and Arjuna.
"Give me the fire I need," he said. "Shield me from Indra. Let the forest burn."
Arjuna asked only one thing in return.
"Give me weapons that no man wields. Bows that never tire. Arrows that seek truth."
Agni agreed.
From the flames, he offered Gandiva, the divine bow, crafted by the gods. He gave Arjuna a quiver that never emptied and a chariot drawn by white horses touched by wind.
The forest burned.
As flames roared, Indra descended in wrath. Clouds darkened the sky. Thunder split the air. But Arjuna stood on his chariot, Gandiva in hand, and shot down lightning itself.
For seven days and seven nights, the forest resisted. Indra's rains were cut down before they touched ground. Arjuna's arrows filled the sky. Krishna, beside him, wielded the discus of Vishnu.
Beasts fled. Spirits wailed. Trees turned to ash.
Only one soul was spared.
A young naga named Ashvasena slithered into a hole and escaped. His eyes burned—not with fire, but with vengeance. His mother had died in the flames. One day, he swore, he would kill Arjuna.
When the fire ended, the land lay black and silent.
Agni was satisfied.
The ashes cooled, and on them rose a city of marble towers, blue crystal domes, and streets wide enough for elephants to walk side by side.
Indraprastha was born.
Not inherited. Not gifted.
Earned—through fire, through battle, through divine will.
The world took notice.
And in the silence that followed, Yudhishthira was crowned king.
But kingship never comes without shadows. And in another court far away, a jealous cousin sat in silence, watching the rise of his rivals.
Duryodhana had seen their city.
He had walked its mirrored floors and touched the golden pillars.
He had smiled as he stumbled into illusions crafted by Maya.
And as he returned to Hastinapura, humiliated and raging, only one thought remained.
This will not stand.
The dice would be cast. But not yet.