The river road was drowned in fog.
Vasudeva's sandals splashed quietly through puddles as he walked, the infant bundled close to his chest beneath his shawl. His breath clouded with each exhale, not from cold, but from something older—fear laced with guilt.
He had smuggled away Krishna once before. That had been different.
There had been thunder then. A whisper in the skies. The scent of Vishnu's light.
But this child…
He looked down at the sleeping boy, swaddled tightly, face soft as pressed petals.
There was no mark on him. No glow. No aura. Just a slow, steady breath and a brow furrowed as if dreaming too deeply for one so new.
"You're too quiet," Vasudeva murmured. "Even Krishna cried."
The baby shifted slightly, not waking.
Vasudeva pulled the shawl tighter and kept walking.
Each step echoed louder than it should've. The trees were still. The wind absent. Even the frogs were silent.
It felt as if the world itself were holding its breath.
He looked back—once. Just once.
Mathura's prison tower stood distant, swallowed in cloud. Somewhere inside, Devaki was already pretending not to cry. She'd trained herself for it. But Vasudeva had seen it, just before he left: the way her mouth trembled when she turned away. The way she kissed the child and whispered no name.
He adjusted the cloth around the boy's tiny head.
"You were born in silence," he whispered. "But if silence is your shield, then so be it."
The cart waited further up the path—an old wooden frame drawn by two black bulls. Inside sat a figure cloaked in gray, face shadowed.
The moment Vasudeva approached, the figure rose.
Bhishma.
Even in twilight, he looked like carved stone—straight-backed, white-haired, still wearing a sword despite the peace between kingdoms.
Vasudeva bowed low.
Bhishma returned the gesture but kept his eyes on the child.
"So," Bhishma said, "you bring me a secret the world must not learn."
Vasudeva nodded. "Even I do not understand it."
"Is he Krishna's brother?"
"No."
"Is he yours?"
Vasudeva hesitated. "Yes. But he is… something else too."
Bhishma's brow furrowed. He gestured toward the cart. "Come. Speak where spies cannot crawl."
They rode in silence at first. Vasudeva cradled the child as the cart creaked over dirt paths toward the Hastinapur camp's outer ring. Soldiers on night patrol passed without pausing.
Eventually, Bhishma spoke again.
"Why now? Why risk this again?"
"I didn't risk it," Vasudeva said. "This child wasn't born of prophecy. He was… placed."
Bhishma studied him. "By whom?"
"I don't know. But I fear him, Bhishma. Not because he brings death—but because he brings no warning."
Bhishma said nothing.
"He bears no divine symbols. No yagna marked his coming. The stars did not shift. Even Kamsa did not stir. That's what terrifies me."
Bhishma finally turned to the infant.
The child slept still. Peacefully. No sign of recognition, no twitch of fate.
"Will you keep him?" Vasudeva asked, voice low.
Bhishma didn't answer immediately. He reached forward, brushing the child's brow with a leather-gloved finger.
And then, quietly: "I will not keep him. I will raise him."
Vasudeva exhaled.
"But not as prince. Not as heir," Bhishma said. "He will be my shadow. My blade hidden from the court. He will walk unseen—until the world demands he step forward."
"That's more than I dared hope."
"I'm not doing it for you," Bhishma said softly. "I'm doing it for the world I've sworn to protect."
Vasudeva nodded. "He needs a name."
Bhishma looked out the window of the cart. The horizon had turned pale. Morning was coming.
"A name the gods cannot track," Bhishma murmured.
Then, without turning: "Agasthya."
Vasudeva blinked. "The rishi?"
Bhishma nodded once. "He who drank the ocean. The one who tamed mountains and silenced storms. A name that belongs to strength, not blood."
Vasudeva looked down at the baby. His lip trembled, just slightly.
"I'll never see him again, will I?"
Bhishma didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The cart stopped.
They had reached the outer wall of the Hastinapur estate. Beyond it, only guards and steel.
Bhishma descended first.
Vasudeva lingered.
He bent low and pressed his lips to the baby's brow.
The infant didn't stir.
He whispered, "She wouldn't name you. Because she knew it would break her."
He drew in a slow breath. "But you will have a name now. And if there's any justice in this cursed cycle, you'll live to speak it."
He handed the child down.
Bhishma took the boy with surprising gentleness, cradling him with one arm as if he'd done this before, long ago.
Vasudeva stepped back, shawl suddenly too light in his hands.
Bhishma turned.
Without another word, he disappeared into the fog—child wrapped in white, sword at his side, dawn at his back.
And Vasudeva stood alone on the empty road, hand clenched over the place the child had rested, unsure if he had saved a life or abandoned something the world was not ready to know.
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