The grand chamber was steeped in shadows, its towering stone walls bathed in a bluish light that cascaded down from a high circular window in the ceiling. The light seemed alive, slicing through the air with an ethereal clarity that gave the room a foreboding aura. The centerpiece of this ancient hall was a pedestal of black granite, upon which rested the glowing mace. Its brilliance was magnetic, as if the weapon had been forged not by mortal hands, but by celestial forces. Molded out of pure gold, the mace shimmered with an almost regal intensity, the emblem of a roaring lion engraved at the base of its handle further enhancing its majesty.

Duryodhan stood before it, his broad shoulders tense with anticipation. His face, sharp and resolute, was lit by the glow of the mace, making him appear as if he were a figure from legend, stepping into destiny. His dark, kohl-lined eyes reflected both hunger and determination as he gazed upon the weapon that had eluded all but the mightiest.

Behind him, his uncle, Shakuni, moved with the serpentine grace of a man whose mind was always spinning schemes. He placed a firm, reassuring hand on Duryodhan’s shoulder.

Shakuni :- You were born for this moment, the mace knows its master.

He murmured, his voice smooth and dripping with conviction. Duryodhan exhaled sharply, the tension in his chest easing at his uncle’s words. He nodded but said nothing.

Across the chamber, Sumali stood clad in dark silks that shimmered faintly in the dim light. Her piercing gaze alternated between Duryodhan and the mace. Gajasur, an imposing figure with a mane of wild hair, exchanged a glance with her, his brows furrowed with unease. Makrasur, the youngest of the asura siblings, fidgeted at her side, his face a canvas of confusion, as if he couldn’t fully grasp the gravity of the moment.

Sumali :- The glow… it amplifies when the weapon recognizes a kindred spirit. But this? This intensity…

She murmured to Gajasur, her voice barely audible. Her voice trailed off, biting her lip, her thoughts veiled in apprehension. Duryodhan straightened, squared his shoulders, and took a step forward, the faint echo of his boots on the stone floor magnifying the gravity of his action. His hand hovered over the mace, the air between his palm and the weapon buzzing with invisible energy. He took a deep breath, bracing himself, and then, finally, his fingers closed around the handle.

The moment his skin made contact, the chamber was flooded with an almost blinding golden light. The mace’s glow amplified tenfold, its brilliance painting the walls and faces of those present in shimmering hues. The power coursing through the weapon seemed to hum, resonating with Duryodhan’s very being. His breath hitched as a flood of sensations overwhelmed him—strength, pride, invincibility.

He closed his eyes, as if savoring the connection, before tightening his grip. With a grunt of effort, he lifted the mace. At first, it resisted, its immense weight challenging his resolve. His muscles strained, beads of sweat forming on his brow. But he did not falter. Slowly but surely, he raised the weapon higher, until it was above his head, glowing like the sun in his grasp.

When Duryodhan opened his eyes, a triumphant smile stretched across his face. He lowered the mace slightly, turning to look at Shakuni. The latter’s face broke into an approving grin, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

Shakuni :- Congratulations, my boy. With this, you have proven yourself as the greatest mace wielder in the land of Aryavarth.

He declared, his voice reverberating in the chamber. Sumali stepped forward, her movements slow and deliberate. Her earlier apprehension seemed to have melted into cautious admiration. She studied Duryodhan and the mace with an intensity that was almost unsettling.

Sumali :- It amplifies when it complements the aura of the wielder, and the glow… It has never been this strong before. The mace recognizes you, Duryodhan.

She said softly, her tone laced with reverence. Gajasur, still processing what he had just witnessed, let out a low whistle. He crossed his arms, his lips curving into a reluctant smile.

Gajasur :- I’ll admit, I didn’t think you’d manage it, but you proved me wrong, prince. This is no small feat.

He said, his voice tinged with both respect and surprise. Makrasur, who had been silent until now, tilted his head, his expression one of childlike curiosity.

Makrasur :- But why does it glow more for him than anyone else? It didn’t even react this way when Father tried to lift it…

Sumali :- Makru!

Sumali’s voice was sharp, silencing her younger brother. She cast him a warning look before returning her gaze to Duryodhan. But Duryodhan seemed unbothered by the exchange. He lowered the mace to rest its weight against the floor, the sound of metal meeting stone ringing like a herald’s trumpet. His chest swelled with pride, and his eyes burned with determination.

Duryodhan :- This is a sign, the mace has chosen me. With it in my hands, no one can stand against me—not in Hastinapur, not anywhere in Aryavarth.

He said, his voice firm, carrying the authority of a man who believed himself destined for greatness. Shakuni stepped forward, his hand once again finding Duryodhan’s shoulder.

Shakuni :- And now, nephew, the world shall know your strength, your enemies will cower, your allies will bow. The power of the mace is yours, and with it, you will carve your name into the annals of history.

He said, his tone conspiratorial. As the words hung in the air, the chamber seemed to grow heavier, as if the stones themselves were bearing witness to a moment of monumental significance. The mace, now cradled in Duryodhan’s hands, pulsed faintly, its light dimming slightly but still glowing with an otherworldly brilliance.

Sumali and her brothers exchanged one last glance, their thoughts a mixture of awe and unease. This was no ordinary man, and this was no ordinary weapon. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with—a force that might shape the very fate of Aryavarth.

And as the bluish light from the ceiling window bathed the scene in an almost spectral glow, Duryodhan stood tall, his figure casting a long, imposing shadow across the chamber floor. The world outside might have been quiet for now, but in this moment, in this dark and ancient hall, a storm had been born.



The royal gardens of Indraprasth were resplendent in the gentle afternoon light, the sun occasionally peeking through patches of drifting clouds. A mild breeze carried the scent of blooming jasmine and roses, mingling with the earthy aroma of freshly watered grass. The tranquil air was filled with the laughter of Dhruvsen, whose innocent delight echoed through the serene surroundings.

Dhruvsen ran barefoot across the soft grass, chasing a butterfly that danced playfully just out of reach. His tiny hands stretched forward, his eyes gleaming with wonder, while Draupadi watched from under the shade of a flowering tree. Her lips curved into a warm smile as she rested on a low bench, her elegant figure framed by the cascading vines of bougainvillea.

Dhruvsen :- Look, Ma!

He exclaimed, his faltering words a blend of excitement and pride as he stumbled back toward her, a vibrant marigold clutched in his small hand.

Draupadi bent down, her royal garments flowing gracefully with her movements, and accepted the flower with a mock gasp of delight.

Draupadi :- This is the most beautiful gift I’ve ever received.

She said, her voice soft and playful. She tucked the marigold into her hair, the bright orange bloom standing out against her dark, cascading locks. Dhruvsen beamed, his little face lighting up with joy. Draupadi scooped him up in her arms, twirling him around until his laughter became a melody of pure bliss. She kissed his forehead, then lifted him high above her head, marveling at how the sunlight kissed his cherubic cheeks.

Dhruvsen :- I love you, Ma.

H said, his words halting but sincere. Draupadi’s eyes glistened with emotion as she brought him closer, rubbing her nose gently against his.

Draupadi :- And I love you, my little prince.

She whispered, her voice trembling with affection. From a shaded path a short distance away, three figures watched the scene unfold. Yudhisthir stood tall and regal, his arm wrapped protectively around his wife, Devika. She leaned against him, her other hand resting on her rounded belly, carrying the promise of new life. Beside them, Arjun, clad in light armor, leaned against the trunk of a neem tree, a contemplative look on his face.

Arjun :- Sometimes... I feel that bhabhi is truly happy only when she is with Dhruvsen. At other times, she carries herself like the queen she is—unyielding, commanding, and, dare I say, distant.

He began, his voice breaking the silence. Yudhisthir’s gaze lingered on Draupadi and their son, his expression somber.

Yudhisthir :- The weight of the crown has always been heavy for her, Arjun. But it’s not just the responsibilities of a queen. Ever since our elder brother Karn went into exile, there has been tension in the air, a wound in this family that refuses to heal.

Devika shifted slightly, adjusting her position against Yudhisthir as she listened. Her voice was soft but firm as she spoke.

Devika :- Time has its way of mending even the deepest wounds, three and a half years have passed. Soon, this phase of exile will be over, and harmony will return to this family.

She said, her hand moving gently over her swollen belly. Arjun sighed, his expression still troubled. He pushed away from the tree, his arms crossing over his chest.

Arjun :- I hope you’re right, bhabhi. But sometimes, I wonder if the scars left by these years will ever truly fade.

As Arjun turned to leave, Devika watched him go, her brows knitting together with concern. She then turned her gaze back to Yudhisthir, her face softening with a smile.

Devika :- One day, you’ll be out there, playing with our child just like jiji is now with Dhruvsen.

Yudhisthir chuckled lightly, his voice carrying a rare note of warmth.

Yudhisthir :- One day, perhaps. But for now, you must rest. You’ve been on your feet too long.

He offered her his arm, and she accepted it with a grateful smile. Together, they began to walk slowly back toward the palace, Yudhisthir supporting her with care. As they disappeared into the distance, the soft rustling of leaves and the occasional giggle of Dhruvsen filled the air, mingling with the golden serenity of the afternoon.

Back in the garden, Draupadi finally set Dhruvsen down, watching as he returned to chasing butterflies with renewed energy. Her smile lingered, but a shadow of melancholy crept into her eyes. She leaned against the tree, her thoughts wandering to the struggles of her family—the exile of Karn, the tension that lingered unspoken among the Pandavs, and the sacrifices they all had to endure.

Yet, as her gaze returned to her son, her resolve hardened. Whatever lay ahead, she knew she would face it with the same strength and determination that had always defined her. For now, she allowed herself this fleeting moment of peace, cherishing the simple joy of being a mother in the midst of a complicated world.



The arena within the royal palace of Anga was a sprawling space, its sand-covered floor enclosed by towering stone walls adorned with banners bearing the emblem of Anga—a roaring tiger. The midday sun cast its golden light over the scene, highlighting the intense bout between Vikram and a soldier nearly as imposing as he was. Both men moved with the precision of seasoned warriors, their muscular forms glistening with sweat as they grappled and strained against each other.

Vikram’s deep laughter boomed through the arena as he dodged a move and countered with a swift hold, forcing the soldier to stagger.

Vikram :- You’ll have to do better than that!

He roared, his voice filled with both authority and mirth. The soldier gritted his teeth, determined, but before he could recover, Vikram caught sight of a familiar figure entering the arena. It was Vasuhoma, his son, walking with a purposeful stride. Vikram raised a hand to signal an end to the match.

Vikram :- That’s enough for today.

He declared, releasing the soldier and stepping back. The man bowed respectfully, his chest heaving, before retreating. Vikram grabbed a towel from a servant standing nearby and wiped the sweat from his face as Vasuhoma approached. His expression softened into a proud smile.P

Vikram :- You’ve grown stronger, my boy.

He said, his voice carrying a mix of pride and affection. Vasuhoma stopped in front of him, standing tall but unable to hide the small smile that crept onto his lips.

Vasuhoma :- And you, pitashree, haven’t slowed down one bit. I see the king of Anga is as formidable as ever.

Vikram let out a hearty laugh, clapping his son on the back with enough force to make Vasuhoma stagger slightly.

Vikram :- You’ve been receiving praise as well. Ministers, courtiers, even the common folk—they’re all amazed by your judgment and your ability to remain impartial. You’ve made me proud, Vasuhoma.

Vasuhoma’s smile deepened, but there was a hint of seriousness in his eyes.

Vasuhoma :- It feels as though I was made for this purpose—to serve our people and uphold the name of Anga.

Vikram draped an arm around his son’s shoulders as they began walking together, their footsteps crunching softly on the sand.

Vikram :- And you’ve done it magnificently. This is the version of me, and of our kingdom, that the people have wanted to see. You’ve helped me find my way back to being the ruler they deserve.

Vasuhoma paused mid-stride, his expression shifting to one of hesitation.

Vasuhoma :- Pitashree, there’s something I need to tell you.

Vikram, still basking in the moment, waved him off lightly.

Vikram :- Then tell me, son. What could possibly be so serious?

Vasuhoma :- No, it’s important.

He said, his tone firmer now. Vikram stopped, turning to face his son with a raised eyebrow. The jovial atmosphere between them dissipated as he searched Vasuhoma’s face.

Vikram :- Well? Out with it.

Vasuhoma took a deep breath, glancing around as if ensuring they were alone before meeting his father’s gaze again.

Vasuhoma :- It’s not something I can say here. Will you follow me, pitashree?

A flicker of concern crossed Vikram’s face, but he nodded.

Vikram :- Lead the way.

They walked in silence through the palace corridors, the weight of Vasuhoma’s unspoken words hanging heavily between them. The cheerful noise of the servants and guards faded into the background as the two men made their way.



The wheels of the chariot clattered loudly against the uneven road as Vasuhoma urged the horses onward. The sun hung low in the sky, its golden rays casting long shadows over the countryside. Vikram, seated beside his son, gripped the edge of the chariot tightly, his expression a mixture of confusion and curiosity.

Vikram :- Where are we going, Vasuhoma?

He asked, his deep voice tinged with impatience.

Vasuhoma :- You’ll see soon, pitashree.

He replied, his tone steady but betraying a hint of nervousness. The chariot passed through several villages, their once-bustling streets now quiet in the afternoon light. As they continued, the scenery grew more desolate, the houses sparser and the fields untended. Finally, Vasuhoma steered the horses toward a small, secluded village. The air felt heavier here, the silence oppressive. Vikram furrowed his brows, glancing at his son.

Vikram :- What business do we have in a place like this?

Vasuhoma didn’t respond immediately, his focus fixed ahead. He guided the chariot to a stop in front of a dilapidated house on the outskirts of the village. The structure was modest and dark, its walls showing signs of neglect.

Vasuhoma :- Come with me.

He said, dismounting and motioning for Vikram to follow. Vikram stepped down from the chariot, his confusion deepening with every step toward the house. As they entered the dimly lit space, the air felt thick, almost stifling. The smell of damp wood and herbs lingered in the shadows.

In the center of the room stood a young woman, her eyes widening as the two men entered. She bowed deeply before Vikram, her movements careful and hesitant.

Vasuhoma :- Pitashree, this is Lila.

He said, gesturing toward her. The girl looked nervously at Vasuhoma, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Vikram regarded her with a puzzled expression.

Vikram :- Lila? And what is her role in all this?

Vasuhoma exchanged a glance with the girl before stepping toward a door at the far end of the room. He gestured toward it, his voice low and steady.

Vasuhoma :- Come, Pitashree. There’s something you need to see.

Vikram’s heart began to race as he followed his son. Vasuhoma stood at the doorway, letting his father enter the room alone. The space was small, lit only by a faint beam of sunlight streaming through a cracked window.

And there, on a simple bed in the center of the room, lay a figure that stole the breath from Vikram’s lungs.

Vikram :- Meenakshi…

He whispered, his voice barely audible. His wife, presumed dead years ago, lay motionless before him. Her face was pale but serene, her chest rising and falling with the shallow rhythm of life. Vikram stumbled forward, tears welling in his eyes as he knelt beside her.

Vikram :- She’s alive, after all these years…

He murmured, his voice breaking.

Vasuhoma :- She’s in a coma, had been since, we tried to bring her close to waking up but it faltered at the end moment everytime.

He said quietly, stepping into the room. Vikram turned to his son, his tears flowing freely. He rose to his feet and embraced Vasuhoma tightly, his strong arms trembling.

Vikram :- You brought her back to me, I owe you everything, my son.

He said, his voice thick with emotion. For the first time in years, Vikram allowed himself to feel hope, the weight of the past lifting as the woman he thought he had lost forever lay before him, waiting to return.



The afternoon sun bathed the ashram in its gentle warmth, casting golden light over the modest settlement. A soft breeze rustled the leaves of the surrounding trees, blending harmoniously with the distant chirping of birds. The ashram was simple, a few huts scattered amid a grove of trees, their thatched roofs blending seamlessly with the natural surroundings. It was a place of peace, far removed from the world’s turmoil.

Karn sat on a large, smooth rock at the edge of the settlement, his eyes closed in meditation. His calm face bore the weight of wisdom and the scars of a life filled with trials and tribulations. Beside him rested his mighty Vijay Dhanush, a weapon of immense power and unmatched craftsmanship, its golden frame gleaming faintly in the sunlight.

As he sat still, embracing the tranquility of the moment, Karn felt a gentle tug on his dhoti. Slowly opening his eyes, he looked down to see his three-year-old son, Shatrunjay, standing there with an innocent smile.

Shatrunjay :- Pitashree... Mother… says lunch is ready!

The child began, his words faltering but filled with enthusiasm. Karn chuckled, his deep voice resonating with warmth. He leaned down and picked up Shatrunjay, placing him gently in his lap. The boy giggled as Karn caressed his head, running his fingers through the child’s soft hair.

Karn :- Lunch, is it? Then you must go help your mother set the table. Tell her I will join you soon.

He said, a playful smile spreading across his face. Shatrunjay nodded eagerly and clambered down from his father’s lap. He ran off toward the huts, his tiny feet kicking up small puffs of dust as he went. Karn watched him go, his heart swelling with affection and gratitude for the simple joys his son brought into his life.

As Karn turned back, he noticed a figure standing at a distance, just beyond the shade of the trees. It was a boy, no older than ten or twelve, his slender frame carrying a makeshift bow slung over one shoulder and a bundle of arrows in his hand. The boy’s clothes were plain but tidy, his expression one of hesitancy mixed with determination.

Curious, Karn rose to his feet, brushing off his dhoti, and gestured for the boy to come closer. Slowly, the boy approached, stopping a few steps away before bowing deeply.

Karn :- Who are you, son?

He asked, his tone gentle but commanding.

"My name is Ketuman, I am the son of Eklavya.”

The boy replied, his voice steady. Karn’s eyes widened slightly at the mention of the name.

Karn :- Eklavya… I have heard tales of your father—his unmatched skills, his loyalty, and his sacrifice. He was a warrior of great honor.

Ketuman nodded, his eyes shining with pride.

Ketuman :- Yes, my father taught me all that he could before he passed away. But since his death, I have sought a teacher to continue my training. None will accept me.

Karn studied the boy, his keen eyes taking in the determination etched on Ketuman’s face.

Karn :- Why do they refuse you?

Ketuman :- Because of my lineage, many teachers say they cannot teach the son of a Nishada. Others fear the wrath of those who once wronged my father.

He said, his voice tinged with bitterness. Karn’s gaze softened as he felt a pang of empathy for the boy. The shadow of caste and politics had shaped much of his own life, and he understood the pain of being judged for one’s birth rather than one’s worth.

Karn :- I see, you have come far to find a teacher. But tell me, why seek me out?

He said after a moment. He rested a hand on Ketuman’s shoulder. Ketuman straightened, his eyes locking onto Karn’s with unwavering resolve.

Ketuman :- Because you are the great Karn, the warrior of unmatched skill and the one who stood against injustice. If anyone can teach me, it is you.

For a moment, Karn remained silent, his heart warring between caution and compassion. He thought of the duties that bound him, the responsibilities he bore, and the repercussions of accepting such a student. But then he saw in Ketuman’s eyes the same fire he had carried as a boy—a hunger to prove oneself, to rise above the chains of circumstance.

Finally, Karn sighed and nodded.

Karn :- Very well, Ketuman. I will train you.

The boy’s face lit up with joy, but Karn raised a hand to temper his excitement.

Karn :- However, there are conditions. I cannot teach you the divine astras. Those can only be imparted by certified Brahmin teachers. What I can teach you is the art of warfare, the skills to wield a bow and arrow with precision and mastery. If you accept this, I will guide you.

Ketuman bowed deeply, his voice brimming with gratitude.

Ketuman :- I accept, Guru Karn. I will learn whatever you choose to teach me.

Karn smiled faintly, his decision solidified.

Karn :- Good. Then we begin tomorrow at dawn. For now, rest and gather your strength. The path ahead will not be easy.

As Ketuman rose, his face alight with determination, Karn felt a sense of purpose stirring within him. He watched as the boy walked away, his heart heavy with the knowledge of the challenges that lay ahead—not just for Ketuman, but for both of them.

Turning toward the huts, Karn picked up his Vijay bow and slung it over his shoulder. He glanced once more at the serene settlement around him, feeling a quiet resolve settle in his chest. In training Ketuman, he would not only honor the legacy of Eklavya but also pass on the values of skill, perseverance, and justice that defined his own journey.

With those thoughts, Karn made his way toward the simple joys of lunch with his family, the peaceful moment a fleeting respite before the trials to come.



Duryodhan leaned against the trunk of an ancient tree, its broad canopy casting a dappled shade over him. The golden mace rested in his hands, its surface glinting faintly in the afternoon light. He ran his fingers over the lion emblem at the base, his gaze fixed on it as if he were searching for answers within its intricate engraving. His face was a mask of focus, his dark eyes brooding, while the world around him seemed to hold its breath.

Nearby, Shakuni stood watching, his calculating gaze shifting from Duryodhan to Sumali. The asura princess caught his glance, and for a brief moment, an unspoken understanding passed between them. With a subtle nod, Sumali began walking toward Duryodhan, her silken robes brushing softly against the forest floor.

Duryodhan glanced up as she approached, his expression unreadable. Sumali stopped a few paces away, her hands clasped before her. The air between them carried the weight of the earlier triumph, but also the simmering tension of what lay ahead.

Sumali :- You wield the mace as if it has always been yours. Today, you’ve accomplished something that will echo far beyond this moment.

She began, her voice calm yet edged with a faint hint of admiration. Duryodhan smirked faintly, his grip tightening on the mace.

Duryodhan :- It’s more than an accomplishment, Sumali. This is preparation.

Sumali :- Preparation?

She asked, tilting her head slightly.

Duryodhan :- For the Pandavs, for Bheem.

He replied, his tone resolute. The name hung in the air like a storm cloud. Duryodhan’s jaw tightened as he straightened, standing tall now, the mace resting against his shoulder.

Duryodhan :- I have always known my path, as long as the Pandavs draw breath, my claim to the throne will remain contested. And Bheem… He is my greatest obstacle. If I can best him, if I can crush him, the rest will follow.

He continued, his voice low and steady. Sumali studied him for a moment, her expression softening.

Sumali :- You speak of the throne as if it is the only thing that matters. But what of you, Duryodhan? Have you thought about yourself? Your own peace?

Duryodhan :- Peace? There is no peace for me, Sumali. Not until the Pandavs are no more. I was born for this throne. It is mine by right. And I will not rest until I claim what is mine—no matter the cost.

He let out a short, bitter laugh. Sumali stepped closer, her voice taking on a gentler tone.

Sumali :- But is it worth losing yourself in the process? The pursuit of power can consume a man, Duryodhan. You must take care—

Duryodhan :- I don’t need care, what I need is victory. I will have my throne, Sumali. If it means going against the Pandavs, then so be it. This is my destiny.

He interrupted, his voice rising. His eyes burned with defiance as he looked at her. Sumali hesitated, her lips parting as if to argue further, but she stopped. There was a fire in his eyes that couldn’t be extinguished, a determination so fierce it was almost frightening. She nodded slowly, stepping back.

The wind rustled through the leaves above them as Duryodhan turned his gaze back to the mace, its golden glow catching the sunlight once more. For him, there was no turning back. Only the throne—and the war that would come with it.



Did you like the chapter ?

A rather short one but it was necessary. Next one will be out soon too.

Do comment if you have any suggestions.

Will see you in the next chapter, untill then, take care and bye.