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Chapter Text

Hello to everyone who’s stumbled upon this story — thank you for clicking on it! I genuinely hope you enjoy reading it.

This fic was originally posted on Wattpad, but since the app has stopped working properly for many users in India (myself included), I’ve decided to continue posting it here on AO3 instead. The story is undergoing heavy editing, so I’ll be uploading the updated chapters here first, especially since Wattpad has been driving me insane.

Before you dive in, I just want to clarify the setting of this fic
The story will be set in the early-mid Vedic age around 1100 BCE. The dates of the actual Mahabharat vary, but this time period makes more sense since it's after the compilation of the Rig Veda and easier to source practices and traditions from.

Another important plot point is female spies. The concept was common in the later Vedic age and is believed to have been started by Chandragupta Maurya and continued till the Gupta period (also existed in medieval India). I will incorporate these themes in this story with Dushala working as a spy for her brother.

Also, Karna's character DOES NOT belong to a lower caste, he is the son of a charioteer who was considered pretty important in society since they accompanied the generals and kings during warfare, so he was up there in the social order ofc not as high as the royal family but his family should've been important.

I will take a LOT of creative liberty with the age of Characters for the sake of not making their relationship weird. Karna will be 3 years older than Yudhisthir and 4 years older than Duryodhana and Dushala. There is a 100-day gap between the birth of Duryodhana and Dushala. Bheem is one day older than Duryodhana. Then comes Arjun, a year later, and Nakul and Sahadev are the youngest and one year younger than Arjun. Also, we will assume that Yudhisthir was 8 when Pandu died and Kunti brought them back to Hastinapur (Bheem 7, Arjun 6, Nakul and Sahadev 5).

Lastly, According to the Vedas, Kshatriyas were expected to enroll in gurukuls at the age of 8 and remain there till the age of 25, but again don't want to make age an issue so let's assume they stay in the gurukul until 16. And for the marriage, rig veda shows that the brides were clearly adults but since we do not have a number I have settled on 21 for Women and 25 for men.

OKAY BYE
Happy reading :)))))

Chapter Text

The sun blazed fiercely in a clear sky, unchallenged by even a single cloud. Below the sun’s glare, an arena buzzed with excitement, packed with eager boys craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the man who dared to interrupt Aryavarta’s greatest archer – Arjuna.

Kuru prince, the third of the Pandavas and Dronacharya’s favorite disciple. To challenge Arjuna was to invite a certain humiliation. Many had tried—kings, princes, warriors of renown, and all had walked away humbled, their pride broken.

The occasion was grand, a martial exhibition orchestrated by Dronacharya himself to display the prowess of his students, the Pandavas and the Kauravas, before Hastinapura’s elite and its awestruck citizens. While Arjuna had been basking in his victories over countless archers, their faces already forgotten, He stood tall, still catching his breath from his latest display, arrows spent before the crowd could even blink.

Just as the chorus of voices chanting Arjuna’s name swelled to a fever pitch, a lone voice cut through the noise.

"I wish to challenge him."

The crowd fell into an uneasy silence. Heads turned. Whispers flared. A young man stepped forward, uninvited, unknown, yet utterly unafraid. His armour was plain, his expression unreadable. But there was something in his eyes—fire.

Arjuna, at whom the stranger’s challenge was so boldly aimed, studied him with a mix of curiosity and confusion. He was brave, one needed to, to forgo the respect due to a prince of the Kuru dynasty. The stranger hadn’t bowed, hadn’t used a title, hadn’t even acknowledged Arjuna’s royal status. He was brave to the point of Stupidity.

At first, Arjuna was inclined to think him a mere wanderer—perhaps a traveller who had stumbled into the city, too dense to catch on that this wasn’t an everyday spectacle. But the fury burning in the man’s eyes and the hostility in his tone suggested otherwise. This man knew exactly who Arjuna was and he had come with a purpose.

“Who are you, stranger—and what brings you here?” Arjuna asked, his voice edged with pride, still standing tall, bow in his hand and his posture commanding.

The man did not flinch.

“I am Karna,” he said, his voice calm and unwavering, “son of a charioteer.”

The phrase son of a charioteer struck the crowd like a slap, and whispers erupted instantly—some mocking, some disbelieving, most contemptuous.

A smile crept onto Arjuna’s face, not one of mockery, but of quiet bewilderment. He hadn’t known what to expect from the stranger’s lips—an unfamiliar prince, perhaps, or some student of a rival school seeking fame. But a suta-putra?

That was... unthinkable.

A part of Arjuna, deep within the layers of princely training, pride, and privilege, felt a flicker of discomfort. Not pity. Not anger. Just disorientation.

This man should have looked like a fool. But somehow, he didn’t. Yet, Arjuna couldn’t suppress the instinct that had been drilled into him since childhood: A warrior is shaped by dharma. Dharma follows birth. A charioteer’s son cannot rival a prince—not here, not like this.

“A sut-putra competing against a royal prince? Are you here to mock the house of kuru?”

It was Dronacharya’s voice that had broken the silence in the arena. He stepped forward, his voice calm but edged with scrutiny. “A son of a charioteer,” he repeated slowly, as if tasting the words. “where did you learn your craft? Under which master?”

But Karna did not answer, he stood still, his shoulders squared against the weight of a thousand eyes bearing down on him, not with curiosity, but with judgment. The word charioteer clung to the air like a slur, repeated by Dronacharya with the precision of a blade. Karna had heard it all his life, felt it in the way doors stayed closed, in how gazes shifted, in the hollow silence that followed his victories.

But today—this—was worse.

A tight knot formed in his throat, but he swallowed it. Not now. Not here. He would not let them see his pain. He would not break under their gaze. His pride was all he had, and it burned fiercer than the sun above.

Karna moved. Without waiting for permission, he strode across the arena floor to where a row of shattered targets still stood—the remnants of Arjuna’s earlier display. His footsteps echoed with defiance.

The guards shifted uncertainly, glancing toward Drona and Bhishma, but neither stopped him.

He picked up a discarded bow, testing its weight with the practiced ease of someone who had done it a thousand times before. Then, without fanfare, he plucked an arrow from a nearby quiver.

The crowd watched, murmurs rippling, some scoffed. Others leaned forward. And then—silence.

He moved with breathtaking fluidity. One arrow. Then another, and another, each shot faster, sharper, more impossible than the last. He struck blind targets, moving targets, fragments of wood tossed skyward by startled attendants. He didn’t miss once. Not even Arjuna could hide the flicker of surprise in his eyes. By the end, the arena had fallen completely silent. Not a breath stirred. The same crowd that had doubted him now stared in stunned disbelief; their judgment suspended in awe.

“I may not have a name to offer,” Karna said, his voice steady, “but I believe I’ve shown that I am no less a warrior than any among you.”

His gaze swept across the royal assembly before settling on Arjuna.

“So I’ll ask you again. Do you accept my challenge?”

But the answer did not come from Arjuna, not to the challenge laid before him, nor to the unspoken plea Karna had hurled at the heavens with every breath he’d taken in this life.

Instead, a voice rang out from the royal gallery.

“Why, Prince Arjuna,” said the eldest of the Kauravas, a sly smile playing on his lips, “are you afraid of losing to the son of a charioteer?”

It was Duryodhana. His words sliced through the tension, his tone laced with mockery and mischief in equal measure.

“If his status troubles you so deeply, then allow me to elevate him,” Duryodhana continued, stepping forward with grand theatricality. “Here and now, I grant him the land of Anga. And from this moment forth, let him be known as Angaraj—King of Anga.”

It was now Dronacharya’s turn to taste humiliation. He had once sworn to Arjuna that he would make him the greatest archer the world would ever know. But now, before him stood a man whose skill rivaled that promise, perhaps even surpassed it. Karna’s display had not been luck or bravado; it had been precision.

Drona had seen enough to know that this was not a fluke. This man, this outsider, was a threat.

He could not let them fight. Not today. Not like this. Not with the eyes of the kingdom watching and the fragile pedestal beneath Arjuna beginning to crack.

With calm deliberation, he stepped forward, voice smooth.

"The sun is about to set, young man. Darkness is the realm of cowards, not warriors. As a Kshatriya, you must be aware of this law," Drona said, his tone measured. "Let us do this another time, when the light can bear witness to such a contest."

Duryodhana couldn’t hold back his laughter. In that moment, he knew he had made the right choice; an alliance with Karna would bring him countless advantages. 

Watching Drona shy away from the challenge, retreating from the boldness of this new warrior, was a sight he would savor. 

He had seen something in Karna that no one else had dared to look for— hunger, yes, but also loyalty, fierce and unshakable.

Duryodhana watched as Karna bowed his head, accepting the title of Angaraj. Cheers rose from the crowd, some genuine, many forced but he paid no attention. Let the court squabble over bloodlines and custom. Let Dronacharya cling to his fading assurances. None of that matters now.

What mattered was this: he had found exactly what he needed.

Fierce. Proud. Humiliated. Eager to prove his worth. Karna was all of it—and that made him perfect.

Not a prince, no, but someone even better. Someone indebted.

He’ll never forget who gave him a crown when the world gave him scorn. He’ll fight for me, not out of duty, but out of gratitude.

Karna felt it. Duryodhana’s gaze was sharp, like a hunter sizing up his prize. 

Karna understood that Duryodhana’s act was neither out of pity nor mere kindness; there was purpose behind it. Yet, whatever Duryodhana sought, Karna was ready to give. 

Karna bowed low, the weight of the moment anchoring his voice in solemn gratitude. “I am forever in your debt, Prince. Today, you have given me not just a crown, but the dignity I have chased my whole life. For that, I pledge my unwavering loyalty. As long as there is breath in me, I am yours to command. From this day on, I stand beside you, in war, in peace, in fate.”

“You’re embarrassing me now, Angaraj,” Duryodhana replied with a grin, though every word was calculated. “All I ask is your friendship."

With those words, he stepped forward and pulled Karna into an embrace, one that was generous and public.

Karna froze for a heartbeat, caught off guard by the intimacy of the gesture. Then, slowly, he returned it, his arms wrapping around a man he barely knew, but had already bound himself to.

Behind Duryodhana’s smile, victory gleamed, sealing the bond with a warrior he knew would change his fate.

Chapter Text

Walking through the dimly lit corridors of the Hastinapur palace, Karna couldn't fathom the urgency that had driven Duryodhana to summon him at such a late hour.

The message had reached him miles away, and without a moment’s pause, he had mounted his horse and ridden through the night, the wind cold against his skin and sleep long forgotten. He had expected to rest upon arrival, perhaps meet the prince at dawn. Instead, he now found himself being led briskly through the palace by a guard, barely allowed a moment to catch his breath, as the first light of day had yet to touch the sky.

The guard led Karna through a door that opened into another long, shadowed corridor, stopping to instruct him, "Enter through the door at the end." Karna understood this was as far as the guard would accompany him, so he moved ahead alone.

The marble floors beneath Karna’s feet felt cold, almost indifferent. Each step echoed faintly off the high walls, swallowed by the heavy silence of the palace before dawn. He was used to stillness, but this silence was different. The kind that reminded him that he did not belong here.

Fatigue clung to his limbs, but his mind remained alert.

Reaching the end of the corridor, he paused before an ornate door-more lavishly adorned than any he had seen in the palace. With a steady breath, he pushed the door open.

The room inside was vast but quiet, draped in shadows. It was empty.

Karna’s brows drew together in confusion as he stepped cautiously inside. For a moment, he stood still, letting the silence settle around him. Then, a familiar voice broke the hush.

“You have arrived, Angaraj.”

Karna turned toward the sound, finding Duryodhana standing on the balcony, bathed in the pale light of the full moon. The silver glow softened the sharp lines of the prince’s face, but his presence was still commanding.

“Yes, Prince Duryodhana,” Karna said, inclining his head with quiet respect. "Please, command me. For what purpose have you summoned me at this hour?"

Duryodhana let out a low chuckle, the sound warm but tinged with something unreadable. “Ah, Karna... why do you always assume my heart is burdened with politics and schemes?” He stepped back from the railing, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “Is it so hard to believe that I simply wished to speak with my friend?”

“I’m not so foolish,” he said quietly. “Men like you don’t befriend men like me without reason.”

Duryodhana raised an eyebrow, half amused, half intrigued, but Karna continued, his voice firm and steady.

“You offered me a crown the day we met. You stood beside me when no one else would. I won’t pretend I didn’t see the strings attached.” He paused, eyes searching Duryodhana’s. “I know what I am to you—what I can be to you.”

There was no bitterness in his tone, only honesty.

Duryodhana paused; there was a glint in his eyes. "Come, let us go somewhere safe, where no one else can listen, and I will tell you why I called you here."

With that, Duryodhana approached a section of the wall, ornate with carvings that seemed purely decorative at first glance. His fingers moved with practiced ease, subtly rearranging part of the intricate design. A soft click echoed through the chamber as a hidden door swung inward, revealing a narrow passage bathed in darkness.

Without a word, Duryodhana stepped aside and gestured for Karna to follow.

The room was dark. Karna stepped in cautiously, the air inside thick and untouched. Duryodhana lit a few oil lamps, one by one, the flames casting long, flickering shadows that danced across stone walls lined with scrolls, maps, and unfamiliar symbols.

In the centre lay a low baithak, embroidered cushions arranged around a small table. Duryodhana lowered himself onto the seat with the ease of someone very much in control of the space. Karna, however, remained standing.

Duryodhana’s expression shifted. Gone was the teasing warmth from the balcony. Now his gaze was sharp, his tone lowered to a near whisper.

“Let’s get to business, Angaraj,” he said, voice wrapped in quiet urgency. “I want you to keep an eye on the King of Vatsa. Bring me information that may prove useful.”

Karna’s brows lifted slightly in surprise. This was not the request he’d expected. “And what kind of useful information do you seek?” he asked after a moment.

“Surprise me,” Duryodhana said simply.

Karna despised the vagueness in Duryodhana’s words. He had been tasked with spying on the ruler of a powerful kingdom, yet Duryodhana spoke of it with a casual ease, as if it were nothing more than a child’s game.

“For now, I only ask that you keep good relations with their court,” Duryodhana continued, more measured now. “Speak well, observe everything, and stay close to their king. When the time comes, I’ll send instructions.”

Karna remained silent, trying to piece together what Duryodhana wasn’t saying. War? Alliance? Betrayal?

Then Duryodhana added, almost as an afterthought, “And don’t worry. You won’t be doing this alone.”

That sentence dropped like a stone into still water.

Not alone? So Duryodhana didn’t fully trust him, not enough to send him alone.

Still, he said nothing of it. He simply asked, voice steady, “Who will be accompanying me on this task?”

Duryodhana looked at him. “All in good time,” he said at last, his voice smooth. “You’ll meet them soon enough. But know this, I chose you because I trust you.”

“If I am to carry out your will in another king’s court” Karna said slowly, “walk among strangers, speak with false smiles, I deserve to know what game I’m being asked to play. Vatsa is not Hastinapur’s enemy. Not yet. So, what are we doing there, Duryodhana?”

His words weren’t accusatory, they demanded clarity, not control.

For a moment, Duryodhana said nothing. Then, slowly, he stood up, walking past the table to where the shadows gathered in the corner of the room. His voice, when it came, was lower. Measured.

“You’re right,” he said. “This is not a mission I can afford to leave to anyone else. And no, Vatsa is not our enemy, yet. But its king grows too curious for my liking. His messengers ask too many questions. He has sent scholars to study our borders, and ambassadors who listen more than they speak. He smiles too much at Yudhishthir, and speaks too softly in the Sabha.”

Duryodhana turned, the flickering firelight casting sharp lines across his face.

“I want to know who he is loyal to—not just what he says, but what he thinks when no one is watching. You see, Karna, I don’t fear open swords. I fear quiet ones.”

Karna studied him for a long moment, the fire between them snapping softly.

“And the one who watches me,” he said quietly. “Do I at least get a name?”

A slight smirk crept onto Duryodhana’s lips. He stepped aside, gesturing toward the shadows near the door.

“Right behind you.”

Karna turned, his eyes narrowing as a figure stepped forward from the darkness. Cloaked in black, the silhouette moved, as silent as mist. Then, with a flick of her fingers, the figure pulled down her hood.

“Meet my sister,” Duryodhana said, his tone edged with amusement and pride. “Dushala. She will be guiding you.”

Chapter Text

Dushala pulled back her hood and scanned the room with sharp, calculating eyes. Her gaze landed on the unfamiliar man standing nearby, and for a moment, she said nothing, just observed. Keeping her eyes fixed on his, she moved across the room with composed precision, coming to a halt beside him and offering a brief nod.

“I’ve brought what you asked for,” she said, finally breaking eye contact as she turned to her brother, placing a sealed scroll in front of Duryodhana with little ceremony.

But Duryodhana didn’t spare the scroll a glance. His eyes were fixed instead on the man at Dushala’s side. “This is my friend Karna, King of Anga,” he said with a hint of pride in his voice.

At the name, Dushala’s attention shifted fully. She studied Karna in silence, her gaze sweeping over him with the subtle scrutiny of someone trained to read people beyond their words. He wore no royal silk, no glittering gems—only a pair of radiant golden Kundals gleamed at his ears, and a heavy breastplate sat over his chest, oddly solemn for the setting.

“So, this is the man who has managed to win both my brother’s heart and his land,” she said at last, her tone laced with dry amusement. “I expected someone a little more... remarkable. I have to admit, I’m underwhelmed.”

Karna chose to ignore that, refusing to grant her the satisfaction of knowing she’d gotten under his skin.

She turned to Duryodhana with a half-smile. “My day begins in an hour. If you’re finished with me, I’d prefer to get some sleep.”

Duryodhana nodded, though the announcement that followed lacked enthusiasm. “Nakul and Sahadev return from Gurukul tomorrow. Father’s planning a grand lunch—says he wants the whole family together.”

His voice barely masked his distaste. It was no secret in Hastinapur that Duryodhana’s feelings toward his brothers were, if one was to be generous, complicated.

Turning back to Karna, he added, "Why don't you join us tomorrow for lunch?"

Karna, ever composed, dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I’ll be there.”

With that, the conversation ended. Dushala slipped away, heading quietly back to her quarters.

Entering through the main gates was out of the question—no one could know she'd been out all night. Instead, she disappeared into one of the palace’s hidden corridors, emerging moments later in her own chambers. Swiftly, she changed into her nightclothes and slipped beneath the covers, feigning the peace of a long night’s rest.

Barely moments had passed before the dasis entered, their footsteps light as they gently roused her for the important day ahead. Rosewater filled the air as they bathed her, its soft fragrance clinging to her skin. Jasmine flowers were woven into her hair, and she was dressed in shimmering silks that caught the morning light like flowing gold. By the time they were done, Dushala looked every inch the royal princess, elegant, radiant, and utterly unlike the hooded shadow who had vanished into the night just hours ago.

She made her way down to the assembly hall with the elegance of someone who knew the power of her presence and intended to use it. Words of greeting slipped from her lips effortlessly. She had worn the mask of royalty long enough to know exactly how much warmth to show.

As her gaze swept across the crowded room, something, or rather, someone, snagged her attention.

Karna.

He stood near the far end of the hall, alone and conspicuously out of place. Though his clothes were finer than the night before, he still wore no ornaments save for the unmistakable golden Kundals, and his breastplate that gave him the air of a warrior ready for battle rather than a guest at a royal luncheon. This luncheon was for kinfolk only, an intimate affair meant for the royal bloodline. His presence here was not just unusual. It was deliberate.

And here I thought today would be dull, she mused, her lips curving into a faint, knowing smile as she began to make her way toward him.

“You look like a man plotting his escape,” she remarked, slipping next to him.

Karna, caught off guard, shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t smile, but his eyes lifted to meet hers.

“Merely watching. Observation tends to be useful when entering unfamiliar territory.”

“Careful,” she said with a tilt of her head. “If you make a habit of sounding wise, people will expect you to act like a statesman, not a sword.”

It took every ounce of restraint to keep his emotions in check. Karna’s lips twitched. “Then let them be disappointed,” he said quietly. “A sword has more use in a war.”

Her gaze flicked to his chest plate. Tilting her head toward it, she asked, “So, are you expecting a duel or just making a statement?”

“I wear what I’ve earned,” he said simply.

That made her pause. A flicker of something unreadable passed through her eyes—but then it was gone, replaced by a teasing smile.

“Well then, armoured prince of nowhere,” she said, turning to face him, “I suppose we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice just enough to graze his nerves. “Try to keep up. I don’t slow down for reluctant heroes.”

Just then, a voice rang out through the hall.

“There you are, Dushala.”

They both turned as Prince Yuyutsu approached, his expression wary. His eyes flicked to Karna, then back to his sister, who looked completely unfazed by the interruption.

“You’ve been missed,” he added pointedly.

“Missed?” she echoed, offering her brother a sunlit smile. “Surely not. I’m always right where I’m supposed to be.” She gave Karna one last glance, mischief still simmering in her eyes. “We’ll continue this later, Angaraj.”

Karna remained still, his gaze trailing after her retreating form. This is a distraction; he reminded himself sternly. He was pulled from his thoughts by a royal servant who had stepped forward to announce that lunch had been served.

The gathered royals began making their way toward the grand dining hall, a subtle procession that held its own hierarchy— positions in the hall reflecting each person’s rank and importance within the royal family.

Karna, despite being the King of Anga, was still an outsider by blood. His seat was toward the end of the hall, far from the main seats of honour. Yet he moved without hesitation, settling into his place with the same quiet dignity he wore like Armor.

Dushala herself, the kingdom’s only princess, was seated in a position that highlighted her status. Sat beneath the embroidered canopy reserved for the royal women, tucked into a far corner of the hall like an afterthought. She was beloved by her family, spoiled even. But she knew well that her charm and beauty were currency, not power. Her influence, like her title, was ceremonial. She was meant to be admired, not heard; present, but never central to the decisions that shaped the kingdom.

Unlike Karna, who bore his position with stoic acceptance, Dushala chafed at the invisible leash. Yet she kept her smile polite, her eyes sharp.

And as she glanced at the man across the table, who seemed untouched by either praise or dismissal, she wondered which was heavier to carry: the weight of being nothing—or the burden of being everything and still not enough.

When the final morsels had been eaten and goblets drained, King Dhritarashtra raised his hand—a subtle gesture, but enough to still the room. The hum of conversation died instantly. Plates were set down mid-bite, backs straightened, and all eyes turned toward the blind king whose gaze still held command.

A beat of silence passed before Dhritarashtra inclined his head toward Guru Drona.

With a slow nod, Drona rose to his feet, his face carved into a mask of grave solemnity. “In honour of the knowledge I have imparted to my students,” he began, his voice carrying the authority of a man whose teachings had shaped princes into warriors, “I ask for my Guru Dakshina.”

Drona’s gaze swept the room, pausing on each of his pupils before finally resting on the assembled royals. “I ask for the King of Panchal—Drupada—to be brought before me in chains. Capture him. Present him to me as tribute. This will be a test—not only of your strength and cunning, but of your loyalty. Of your commitment to justice. And your desire to bring honour to the name of Kuru.”

The words struck like thunder. To demand a king as Dakshina was no simple matter; it was a call for war, a request to seize an entire kingdom to fulfil a personal vendetta.

But Bhishma, the eldest and wisest of the Kuru dynasty, felt a flicker of satisfaction beneath his calm exterior. For years, he had observed the rise of Panchal’s influence, its power casting a growing shadow over the Kuru kingdom. The opportunity that Drona’s request presented was not lost on him.

Seizing the moment, Bhishma rose from his seat with measured grace. His voice, steady and commanding, echoed through the silent hall. “Guru Drona’s wish is both just and noble. Our young princes are not merely sons of kings—they are warriors forged in the fire of discipline and knowledge. Let this mission serve as a test of their strength and their loyalty to those who shaped them.”

He let his gaze sweep over the assembly, lingering a moment longer on Duryodhana and Yudhishthira, “The time has come to reaffirm the might of Hastinapur—to remind the world where true power lies.”

Chapter Text

Dushala stepped into their usual meeting spot, Duryodhana’s secret room, a chamber known only to a trusted few. She found her brother pacing in agitation, his expression furious. He didn’t even notice her enter.

Karna stood nearby, arms crossed, listening in silence as Duryodhana ranted about yet another perceived injustice, how the Pandavas were favoured, how no one took him seriously, how the world owed him more than it gave. Once, this had been her role—standing there, nodding, absorbing every outburst, every childish tantrum masked as righteous anger. She had wasted hours of her life placating his ego, enduring his inability to control his emotions, and his refusal to grow up.

She was glad, almost delighted, that someone else had taken over calming her brother's endless insecurities.

"Dushala," Duryodhana muttered, finally noticing her presence. His voice was edged with frustration. "You saw it too, didn't you? The farce they put up in front of the entire assembly. Now I have to participate in this nonsense, waste my precious time, my resources, and for what? To be humiliated, because we all know how this is going to end. The Pandavas will win, and Arjuna will be hailed as the hero, the pride of Kuru, while the rest of us fade into the background, as if we don't even exist."

Dushala watched him carefully. It was always the same refrain: how unfair it all was, how the world conspired against him. She had heard it too many times to be stirred by it anymore.

"You're not wrong, brother," she made it sound like shared indignation. "It’s Dronacharya’s wounded pride we’re all being dragged behind. And now, we must bleed for it."

"But we can't just back off," Karna interjected, his voice calm but firm. "We will be expected to participate with the same enthusiasm, to show the same commitment as the Pandavas."

“True,” Dushala said, her tone sharp, almost bitter. “We can’t refuse—not outright. But that doesn’t mean we have to give it our all either. Let the Pandavas have this victory if that's what everyone is so eager to see. We can go through the motions, pretend we're preparing for battle, but stay on the sidelines when it counts.”

Duryodhana was quiet for a long moment, his breath heavy in the dim light of the chamber. Absorbing her words, weighing them.

"Very well, then," Duryodhana finally spoke, "If they want a display of loyalty, we'll give them one.” Eyes fixed on Karna, he continued, “Karna, I want you to return and prepare your forces. Fourteen days from today, we head east."

Karna didn’t argue. He knew better than to question. With a solemn nod, he turned and slipped out, the heavy door closing behind him.

Then Duryodhana spoke again, not looking at her. “Dushala. You stay.”

Dushala’s brows lifted slightly at her brother’s command. You stay. Not a request. An order.

Duryodhana sank into the chair behind the carved desk, the tension in his shoulders slowly dissolving now that Karna was gone. Without the performance of anger to uphold, he seemed smaller, less a prince, more a boy trying to wield a kingdom he barely understood.

"I know what you’re thinking," he said after a moment. "That this is another pointless fight. That I’m being reckless."

Dushala didn’t answer immediately. Let him speak.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice lower now, less theatrical. “But it’s not just about Dronacharya, or Arjuna, or even Panchaal. It’s about perception. The court watches everything. If we look weak, if we hesitate, they’ll start questioning my strength. And if they question it long enough, someone will try to take what’s mine.”

She folded her arms. “Then don’t look weak. But there’s a difference between looking strong and burning half the kingdom to prove it.”

A pause. He glanced at her, unsure whether to be insulted or impressed.

“You’ve changed,” he said finally, eyes narrowing. “You used to side with me, no matter what.”

“I used to think you knew where you were going,” she replied. “Now I wonder if you’re just charging into fire and hoping to be seen as brave.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond.

Dushala stepped forward, not to comfort him, but to let him see she no longer stood behind him. She stood beside him now, or opposite, if necessary.

“If you want to be king, Duryodhana,” she said quietly, “start thinking like one.”

“Don’t forget why I keep you around, Dushala. You want something. Fine. We all do. But don’t test my patience. You need me more than I need you.”

Dushala didn’t flinch. If anything, she looked pleased. “I don’t ask for much. Only a little truth, in exchange for a little loyalty.”

“I don’t want loyalty, I want obedience,” Duryodhana spoke, eyes sharp, "And don’t come fishing for secrets in my waters, Dushala. You’ll find yourself playing a game far more dangerous than you’re prepared for.”

“I learned from the best,” she said, straightening herself. “But unlike you, I don’t throw tantrums when I lose a round.”

She turned to leave. Let him stew. Dushala made her way down the hall. This time, she entered her room through the front doors.

She let her attendants fuss briefly, removing her jewelry, loosening her hair, and replacing her heavy garments with something softer. When they were done, she dismissed them with a flick of her fingers, not even waiting for the doors to close before sinking onto her bed.

She couldn’t forget how Duryodhana looked at her, as if it were absurd. As if wanting more made her delusional.

Yes, she wanted power.

But she couldn’t, not with parades, titles, and public adoration. She couldn’t have the throne.

Her route to power lay in becoming a Rajmata, a queen mother. But that required patience—a virtue she lacked, much like her brother Duryodhana.

Grooming a son, competing with other queens and their offspring, navigating the intricacies of the harem, none of it matters if her husband wasn't competent enough to hold onto his kingdom.

She had, once, considered using Duryodhana. Aligning herself with his schemes, riding his ambitions to the throne. But that well had long since run dry. He was just as corrupt, just as power-hungry as she was. Worse, he saw through her too easily. And with the Pandavas still alive and adored, his chances of ever wearing the crown were laughably thin.

She had exhausted every option; for now, all she could do was wait. Wait for the right moment to emerge. And just for an instant, she allowed herself to wonder.  

What if the moment had already arrived?

Chapter Text

One of her dasis gently woke Dushala from her slumber, informing her that the evening meal would be served shortly. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and she realized with mild annoyance that she’d slept through the entire afternoon.

“You’ll be dining with the queen tonight,” the dasi added softly. Dushala sighed and allowed herself to be dressed once more. Once ready, Dushala made her way to a smaller, more private dining hall. Her mother was already there, waiting patiently for her.

"Did you rest well?" Queen Gandhari asked gently, motioning for Dushala to take her seat beside her, her sightless eyes somehow still managing to command full attention.

Dushala obeyed, folding herself neatly to the floor, “Yes, Mother,” she replied, “Though I hadn’t meant to sleep for long.” Her tone measured. Dinners like these were never simple affairs; they often held more than just food and pleasantries. Her mother rarely requested private dinners, at least not without any specific intention.

"You seem more tired lately, my dear. Have you not been sleeping well at night?" Gandhari said after a pause, her sightless eyes turning toward her daughter as though they could still see straight through her. The question caught Dushala off guard, and for a brief moment, she faltered. A flicker of unease passed behind her smile—was her mother beginning to suspect something? Of course, she would. After all, Dushala wasn't the only one who moved quietly through the palace, listening and observing. As queen, her mother naturally had her own network of eyes and ears throughout the halls.

Carefully, Dushala replied with a soft smile, hoping to deflect any suspicion. "I've just had a lot on my mind, Mother. Nothing that won't pass."

"You should worry less, my dear," Gandhari replied, her tone sharp. "You're only young once, and soon enough, it will be time to think of your future. When you're of age, we'll begin searching for a suitable groom, someone honourable, from a great dynasty of powerful rulers, a man whose name will be remembered in history alongside yours."

She nodded in agreement, the corners of her lips lifting into a smile so practiced it no longer felt like her own. It was muscle memory now. “l will keep that in mind mother,” she finally said, Don’t let your emotions betray you, Dushala. Don’t let them show. The words echoed in her mind, not as advice but as a command—one drilled into her from the moment she was old enough to understand what it meant to be seen.

She clung to that mantra like a lifeline, repeating it in her head with desperation, as if the very act of holding her face still could stop everything inside her from unravelling. But beneath the surface, her thoughts churned. Her mother’s words hadn’t been gentle; they had been a reminder. Suddenly, Dushala hated the smile on her face. Hated how easy it was to wear it. How her body knew to mimic obedience.

By the time she returned to her chamber, the weight of her mother’s words still clung to her, stifling and acrid, impossible to shake. The familiar comfort of her chamber did little to ease her mind.

It was well past midnight, but sleep continued to elude Dushala. Her mother's words lingered in her mind, the ambiguity gnawed at her, making it impossible to relax. Finally, Dushala decided she needed a breath of fresh air. She wrapped herself in a dark shawl and quietly slipped out of her room, hoping the cool night air would calm her racing thoughts.

The palace had long gone still, Dushala found a strange comfort in its stillness, she moved through it like a shadow born of the stone itself, her steps instinctive, soundless.

She knew these halls better than most who served within them. She had memorized the rotation of guards—their faces, their names, the precise moments they changed shifts. She knew which ones dozed, which ones lingered too long near the wine stores, and which ones turned their backs just a moment too soon.

And, more importantly, she knew where they didn’t look.

The blind spots, the slivers of space between patrols, the servant doors tucked behind tapestry and panel, Dushala had long since mapped them all. So, slipping past the palace walls came as effortlessly as breathing.

Her destination was a small, hidden waterfall nestled in the woods, a place she had discovered years ago during a game of hide-and-seek with her brothers. Back then, they had been children, carefree, laughing as they chased and hid from one another in the palace grounds. But even in play, Dushala had been competitive, always looking for the most unexpected hiding place. On a whim, she had slipped away from the palace grounds, certain she could outmatch them all.

She hadn't gone far into the woods when she heard the gentle rush of water. Drawn by the sound, she had pushed through brush and branch until the trees parted, revealing a secluded waterfall.

Dushala had been enchanted by the waterfall. She'd forgotten all about the game, lost in the beauty of the place until the fading daylight reminded her that hours had passed. Smiling to herself, she'd assumed she'd won and finally headed back to the palace. But upon her return, she was met with a scene of panic—servants rushing, her brothers sobbing, thinking she'd vanished. Oblivious to the worry she'd caused, Dushala had proudly declared herself the winner.

Now, all these years later, it remained, untouched and unchanged. She stepped into the clearing, letting the cool air caress her skin. Dushala closed her eyes and inhaled deeply; the air here didn’t judge. It didn’t expect. It didn’t ask her to marry a king or guard a crown.

Dushala leaned against the damp stone, drawing her knees to her chest as the rush of water masked the silence around her. There she thought of her brothers—not just Duryodhana, but all of them, even the Pandavas.

In the beginning, they had shared toys and lessons, mistakes and bruises. Duryodhana had once clasped Bheem's shoulder like a friend, not a rival. Arjuna had offered her sweets when no one else noticed her sulking. And the twins, Nakula and Sahadeva, had even joined her in games the others found too childish.

Yet it didn't take long for resentment to brew. Dushala remembered how everyone praised the Pandavas for every small accomplishment, how easily admiration seemed to come their way. They were seen as flawless, natural-born prodigies, while she and her brothers had to strain every sinew just to be noticed.

In those early days, the family dismissed the feelings as childish jealousy. They assumed it would fade, that Duryodhana and her brothers would eventually grow to accept their cousins as family. But as they all matured, the rivalry only deepened, transforming from petty jealousy into bitter resentment, and eventually, into pure hatred.

Dushala had thought about how things might have been different if they hadn't been pitted against each other, if the weight of the crown was not cast upon these young shoulders. But such thoughts were fleeting.

She bore no personal grudge against the Pandavas. Not really. They had never wronged her directly, held no tangible threat to her.

Her jaw tensed as her thoughts returned to her father. He had accepted the Pandavas' claim to the throne with disturbing ease. He, who had ruled in Pandu's absence, held the reins of the kingdom through its most fragile years, yet seemed to lack the ambition to assert his rightful place. He ruled as if he were merely a steward of his brother's legacy, always deferring to the memory of Pandu.

Her mother was no different.

A princess of Gandhar, born of sharp minds and stronger wills, Dushala felt she should embody the qualities of a strong leader. But, like her husband, she was also blinded by loyalty. People lauded her for that. Called it grace. Reverence. Virtue. But Dushala viewed it as foolishness.

To love blindly, Dushala thought, was still blindness. And to lead blindly? That was a curse.

She felt no pride in her parents’ brand of virtue. It was her parents’ inability to see the broader picture of their fractured family and the consequences of their misplaced allegiances that truly left her bitter.

Dushala rose from the ground, brushing off her shawl as she cast a final glance at the waterfall. The night had grown colder, and she knew it was time to return. The clarity she sought had not fully come, but the solitude had given her some peace. With her steps soft and measured, Dushala made her way back to the palace. Her moment hadn’t come yet.

But it would.