That evening, a grand feast filled the palace. Dancers moved, conches blew, and the people rejoiced — for the Kuru bloodline now flowed in every corner of the hall.
Vasu sat between Duryodhana and Yudhishthira. The two brothers — one of fire, one of calm — exchanged polite words.
But Vasu could sense it already: the beginning of rivalry.
Not in words, but in the silence between them.
Yudhishthira's moral serenity grated subtly against Duryodhana's pride.
Bheem's loud laughter challenged Duhshasana's ego.
And Arjun's sharp eyes glanced too long at Karna, as though the gods themselves had planted rivalry in their hearts before birth.
Vasu felt it all — the tension like storm clouds forming at the edge of paradise.
That night, after the feast, Kunti went to the temple alone. The flames of the sacred lamps danced upon her face, revealing not sorrow, but a quiet cunning — the kind only those who have lived long in royal courts learn to wear like silk.
"My sons," she murmured to the fire, "have returned not to seek peace, but destiny.
Four years I waited — four years for Hastinapur to forget their claim.
And now… now when the throne grows ripe and divided, they shall rise."
Her lips curled into a faint smile as she watched the flame twist higher.
"Let them love their Guardian, this Vasu of silver eyes. Let him protect my rivals — for the stronger he makes them, the greater my sons must become to defeat them."
The flame flickered — as if it too hesitated before such words.
From the terrace above, unseen, Vasu watched her.
His eyes reflected the firelight — not accusing, not cruel, merely understanding.
He knew. He had always known.
"Even love in palaces has shadow," he whispered. "Even mothers hide daggers beneath prayers."
Yet his expression softened.
"But that is fine. For when the world falls into pride and deceit, someone must still protect it.
Even if that means guarding the guilty."
He turned away, his silver aura vanishing into the moonlight, and murmured the final line of his vow:
"So long as I stand — no brother shall fall unjustly.
So I swear… in silence."
And far above, the heavens stirred once more — not with joy, not with dread, but with the weary awe of destiny awakening again.
Hastinapur was alive again.
From the marble corridors to the royal gardens, laughter and rivalry echoed in equal measure. The sons of Kuru now filled the city like a river after drought — their footsteps loud, their eyes bright with pride. The Kauravas and Pandavas played, trained, argued, and learned together under the watchful eyes of the elders.
To the people, it was a sign of strength.
To the heavens, it was a warning.
Among them all walked Vasu, calm as a mountain lake, his eyes of liquid silver holding the weight of centuries unseen. He laughed with the brothers, sparred with them, broke bread at their side. Yet within, he carried a truth none could touch — the Brahma's Insight, that divine cognition which made every thought around him as clear as sunlight through glass.
He saw through smiles.
He read beneath silences.
He understood what others only guessed.
And in that understanding lay the burden of gods.
"So this is what it means to see as Brahma does," he once murmured during meditation.
"To know the minds of men is no blessing — it is a sorrow."
Because in that mind, he had seen something no other could.
He had seen Kunti's heart.
The image never left him — even now, years after his birth.
The cold glint of steel.
The muffled cry of the maid Kiran.
Kunti's trembling hand, striking for silence instead of mercy.
Vasu remembered that night through the sight of his infant eyes and the awareness of his awakened soul. He had seen her crocodile tears, her trembling act of regret — and beneath it, the iron logic of survival.
"She killed not from madness," he thought bitterly, "but from calculation.
She feared the whisper of truth more than sin itself."
Now, standing before her in court, he saw that same calculating gleam hidden behind her gentle voice. Every praise she gave, every word of sorrow or humility was laced with the rhythm of purpose.
She was still the same woman who once offered prayers with a dagger behind her back.
Yet Vasu did not hate her.
He pitied her.
"Fear drives even the noblest hearts to darkness," he thought.
"But fear cannot rule Hastinapur while I breathe."
As the months passed, the court began to change.
Bhishma, the grand patriarch — lion of Hastinapur, pillar of dharma — trained all the princes together. His wisdom was unmatched, his commands law.
But even mountains cast shadows, and Bhishma's shadow was not the same for every child.
When Yudhishthira stumbled during his first duel, Bhishma's tone was patient, even proud.
When Duryodhana fell, the old man's voice grew colder, sterner.
The difference was subtle, but Vasu saw it — and so did the young princes of the blind king.
Duryodhana's eyes darkened day by day.
Bheem's laughter grew louder, sharper, more cruel.
The court was tilting — not by war or weapon, but by favor.
"The grandsire loves them more," Duhshasana grumbled once.
"He speaks of fairness, yet his heart bends toward Yudhishthira."
"It is the blood of Kunti," Vikarna said quietly. "Her sons remind him of her father's line. We… we are the sons of blindness."
Vasu listened, silent.
When they turned to him, his silver eyes shone like steel.
"If they have his favor," he said calmly, "then we shall earn the respect he cannot deny.
The bow does not complain of the wind — it bends and strikes true."
From that day on, he became the shield of the Kauravas.
He taught them not arrogance, but strength.
He stopped Duryodhana from bullying the weak and stopped Bheem from mocking the strong.
He made peace when Bhishma scolded, and silence when jealousy stirred.
He was the wall between pride and chaos — the only one both sides obeyed.
That evening, Dhritarashtra called a solemn assembly. Gandhari, now unblindfolded as per the king's request, stood at his side. Her eyes, full of warmth and pride, met Vasu's.
Vasu knelt, despite his age and authority. His voice resonated, not in sound but in the weight of truth and command:
"I pledge to guard the Kauravas. I pledge to protect Duryodhana and his brothers, and to shield Karna from all harm. I will ensure their rise, their honor, and their lives. Fate will not claim what I deem just."
Dhritarashtra, blind yet perceptive, felt the gravity of the vow. Gandhari, tears streaming freely, embraced him tightly:
"You are more than a child… you are our eyes, our shield, our hope," she whispered.
Radheya, son of Radha and Adhiratha, stepped forward alongside Vasu, joining the silent pledge:
"I stand with you, Vasu. Together, we protect the Kauravas, their honor, and their future. No harm shall come to them as long as we breathe."
Karna placed a small hand atop Vasu's, golden eyes full of trust.
"They do not yet understand the power I carry," Vasu reflected. "I will show only what is necessary. The world is not ready for the full truth. But they will follow… because I am their shield. Because I am their brother."
The heavens trembled, acknowledging the weight of the pledge. A faint silver aura shimmered around Vasu, unseen by mortal eyes.
A week later, Shakuni, Gandhari's elder brother, arrived. The cunning strategist carried respect for Vasu, recognizing the child's extraordinary aura and hidden power. He approached the Kaurava court, bowing to Dhritarashtra and Gandhari:
"Brother, sister, I am here to serve, guide, and observe. Let my wisdom aid you in these turbulent times."
Vasu's mind cataloged Shakuni instantly: an ally with cunning intelligence, loyal to the Kauravas, capable of subtle interventions. For now, Vasu chose to watch and learn, keeping his power restrained.