Chapter 4: The Mark of No One

The child had always been different.

But today, even Draupadi could no longer ignore it.

---

It began as she bathed Agnika in the gentle light of the morning sun. She had fetched warm water and flower oil, humming a soft lullaby that the girl seemed to enjoy—one she herself remembered from her days in Panchala.

But as she dried Agnika’s back with a soft cotton cloth, her hands froze.

There it was.

A faint, glowing mark — barely the size of a peepal leaf — pulsing softly right between her tiny shoulder blades.

Not ink. Not a scar. Not dirt.

But light.

A glowing symbol, too delicate to describe. It wasn’t Sanskrit. It wasn’t tribal. It wasn’t anything Draupadi had ever seen.

She leaned closer.

The mark shimmered, then dimmed, as though it knew it had been seen.

---

Later that day, with Agnika curled calmly in her shawl, Draupadi found Yudhishthir by the edge of the forest, seated under a tall tree, quietly reading from a palm-leaf manuscript.

“Yudhishthir,” she said softly.

He looked up, brows furrowed in concern. “What is it, Krishnaa?”

She sat beside him, unwrapping part of the shawl and turning the child slightly so her back showed. “Look.”

Yudhishthir’s gaze fell upon the mark.

His hand trembled.

He set the scripture down slowly. He stared at the symbol for a long time—silent, unmoving.

Then he spoke.

> “I’ve only ever heard of this once. In the teachings of a forest sage.”

Draupadi’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

Yudhishthir looked up at her, his voice soft, reverent.

> “It is not a name. It is… the mark of no one.”

> “No one?”

He nodded.

> “The sages believed that when the balance of earth is broken—by too much violence, by too much pride, or sorrow—the world tries to correct it. Not with storms. Not with gods. But with a being.”

> “A being?” she echoed.

> “Not born of woman. Not sent by gods. But… formed. Not created with hands, but through force—emotion, grief, memory, pain. The mark appears only on such a being. A child not given by the heavens… but made by the world itself.”

Draupadi looked down at the girl in her arms, her heart thudding.

> “But… she cries like any child. She laughs. She chews on Bhima’s braid and sneezes into Sahadeva’s food!”

Yudhishthir smiled faintly. “Even the earth remembers how to be human.”

> “So she has no birthgiver?”

> “No.”

“She is not born. She is answered.”

Draupadi’s throat tightened.

Agnika blinked up at her with those calm, curious eyes.

> “What does it mean for her future?” she asked.

Yudhishthir closed his eyes. “It means… she carries a balance not even she understands yet. And one day, she may have to choose between being a child of fire… or becoming the flame itself.”

---

Draupadi looked at Agnika—really looked.

She remembered her own birth from fire.

Now, this child had come from the earth’s ache.

She wasn’t hers.

And yet… she was.

> “Then I’ll protect her until the world comes to take her back,” Draupadi whispered.

> “And if it tries, it will have to face all five of us,” Yudhishthir said, laying a gentle hand on the child’s head. “Even Bhima’s braid.”

From behind the tree, Bhima groaned, “She only chewed it once!”

---

That night, Agnika slept peacefully. But as the firelight danced across her back, the mark shimmered once more—golden, soft, and pulsing.

The mark of no one.

And perhaps…

the one who would one day belong to everyone.

---