The morning of the meeting dawned clear and bright, but a restless energy hung in the air of the palace. Servants rushed through the corridors, arranging garlands and banners, polishing brass lamps until they gleamed. Soldiers drilled in the courtyards, their armor catching the sunlight. Even the birds seemed to sing with more urgency, as if they sensed that today would be remembered for generations.
Jarasandha dressed with care, choosing a deep indigo robe trimmed with gold. Padmavati herself fastened his armlet, her hands steady but her eyes betraying a flicker of worry.
"Remember," she whispered, "you are the king of Magadha. Krishna may be clever, but you have your own strength."
He smiled, squeezing her hand. "I plan to use every bit of it."
Asti and Sumana waited in the hallway, their faces pale but determined. Asti pressed a folded scrap of parchment into his palm. "A poem for luck," she said shyly. "Read it before you speak."
He tucked it into his sash, touched by her faith in him. "Thank you, little poet. I'll carry your words with me."
The council assembled in the great hall, Arya standing at his side, Veerabhadra and the other ministers arrayed behind. The city's nobles filled the galleries, their whispers a low, expectant hum.
At last, the herald's voice rang out: "Krishna of Mathura, friend of the Pandavas, slayer of Kamsa, requests audience with the king of Magadha!"
Jarasandha straightened, every inch the monarch. "Let him enter."
Krishna strode into the hall with an almost insolent confidence. He wore simple yellow silk, no jewels, no weapons—yet he moved as if the world itself parted before him. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and his smile was the kind that could charm a cobra or disarm a king.
He bowed, just enough to be polite. "Maharaja Jarasandha. I thank you for your hospitality."
Jarasandha inclined his head. "You are welcome in Magadha, Krishna. But let us not pretend this is a social call."
Krishna's smile widened. "Indeed. We both know the world is changing. Old alliances crumble, new ones form. I come to speak of peace—and of possibilities."
The two men regarded each other, each measuring the other's words, posture, and even the pauses between sentences. The court watched, breathless.
Jarasandha gestured to a seat. "Speak, then. What does Mathura offer Magadha, now that Kamsa is gone?"
Krishna sat, folding his hands serenely. "I offer friendship, trade, and security. Mathura is strong, but we do not seek war with Magadha. The world is full of threats—Shishupala, your other rivals, the ambitions of Hastinapura. Why not stand together?"
Jarasandha's eyes narrowed. "You speak of peace, but you killed my son-in-law. You left my daughters widowed. Why should I trust you?"
Krishna's gaze softened, just for a moment. "Kamsa's tyranny could not be allowed to stand. But your daughters will always have a place of honor in Mathura. I will see to it myself."
The sincerity in Krishna's voice was unexpected. Jarasandha felt a flicker of respect, even as he maintained his guard. "Words are easy, Krishna. Trust is harder."
Krishna nodded. "Then let us play a game. Ask me any question. If you find my answer lacking, you may refuse my hand in peace."
A ripple of excitement ran through the court. Arya leaned in, whispering, "He's challenging you, but on your terms. Clever."
Jarasandha smiled, feeling the old thrill of competition. "Very well. Tell me, Krishna—what is the greatest strength a king can possess?"
Krishna didn't hesitate. "The ability to see beyond himself. To act for the good of his people, even when it costs him personally."
Jarasandha considered this, then countered, "And what is the greatest weakness?"
Krishna's eyes twinkled. "Pride. The belief that one is always right. It blinds even the wisest ruler."
The court murmured, impressed by the exchange. Jarasandha pressed on, "If you were in my place, would you forgive the man who killed your son-in-law?"
Krishna met his gaze, unflinching. "If it was done for dharma, yes. But I would never forget. Forgiveness is not the same as trust."
Jarasandha let the silence stretch, then nodded. "You speak well, Krishna. But Magadha will not bow to Mathura. We can be neighbors, not friends."
Krishna rose, his smile undimmed. "That is your right, Maharaja. But remember—sometimes, the greatest victories come from unexpected alliances."
He turned to go, then paused. "If ever you wish to test your strength, you know where to find me."
As Krishna departed, the court erupted in whispers. Arya approached, her eyes shining. "You held your own. Few can say that after facing Krishna."
Jarasandha allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. "He's clever. But so am I."
Veerabhadra clapped him on the back. "You showed the court that Magadha bows to no one."
Later, in the quiet of his study, Jarasandha unfolded Asti's poem. The words were simple, but they steadied him:
When the river meets the mountain,
Neither yields nor breaks.
Yet both shape the land forever.
He smiled, feeling the truth of it. He and Krishna were like river and mountain—destined to clash, destined to shape the world.
That evening, as the sun set in a blaze of gold, Jarasandha gathered his family. Padmavati embraced him, relief in her eyes. Asti and Sumana listened eagerly as he recounted the meeting, his words turning the tension into a story of wit and courage.
"You did well," Padmavati whispered as the girls drifted off to bed. "You showed them all what kind of king you are."
Jarasandha held her close, feeling, for the first time, a sense of belonging that went deeper than memory. He was not just playing a role. He was becoming a legend.
And somewhere, far away, Krishna smiled too, knowing the game had truly begun.