The evening sun bathed the palace gates of Hastinapur in a soft, amber glow. Gandhari stood tall and poised, her blindfold neatly tied around her eyes, the folds of her regal saree rippling faintly in the evening breeze. By her side stood Vidur, his wise face calm and thoughtful, hands clasped behind his back. A handful of soldiers and maids lingered nearby, their postures betraying the quiet anticipation that hung in the air. All eyes were on the gates, which loomed large and still before them.

Suddenly, the gates creaked open with deliberate slowness, revealing a chariot rolling into the palace grounds. The horses neighed softly as the charioteer reined them in. Seated within the chariot were Kunti, her face serene yet shadowed by a weight of quiet sorrow, and Arjun, his warrior's frame unmistakable even in repose.

As the chariot came to a halt, Gandhari took a step forward. The maids and guards drew back respectfully, allowing her to approach. Her voice, gentle and warm, broke the stillness.

Gandhari :- Kunti, it feels like an eternity since you last stood here.

She said, her tone trembling faintly with emotion. Kunti descended from the chariot with Arjun’s steady hand to aid her. Her lips curved into a faint smile as she moved toward Gandhari. Without hesitation, the two women embraced, their movements both graceful and deeply heartfelt. It was a quiet reunion, their bond undiminished despite the years that had passed and the trials that had separated them.

Gandhari :- I have missed you, Kunti. So many moments, I wished you were here by my side, to share the burdens, the silence, the uncertainty.

She murmured, her voice soft yet laden with feeling. Kunti tightened the embrace briefly before pulling back, her hands still resting on Gandhari's arms.

Kunti :- I am here now, jiji. And it will be as it once was. Together, we shall find peace again.

She said, her voice low but steady. Arjun stepped forward then, his head bowed in deference. He knelt, touching Gandhari's feet first, and then Vidur's.

Arjun :- Bless me, Mata, Kaka Vidur.

He said, his voice carrying the weight of both respect and longing. Gandhari placed her hands lightly on his head, her touch as gentle as a whisper.

Gandhari :- Arjun, your presence brings hope to these halls. May you always be guided by dharm and strength.

Vidur followed, his blessings succinct but profound.

Vidur :- Rise, Arjun, Hastinapur is brighter with your arrival. You have done well to return.

He said, his voice carrying the depth of his wisdom. Vidur turned to the women, his gaze lingering on their joined hands.

Vidur :- Please come, the journey has been long, and you must rest. Let us retire inside. The palace awaits your presence, as do we.

He said, his tone both warm and firm. With that, they began to move toward the grand doors of the palace, their footsteps slow and measured. The golden hues of the evening faded into the soft shadows of dusk, but within the palace walls, a sense of renewal stirred with each step they took.



The heavy wooden doors of the chamber groaned as they swung open, their echoes rippling through the vast halls of the Kaling royal palace. Afternoon light streamed in through the lattice windows, bathing the room in a golden haze. The chamber was modest compared to Hastinapur’s grandeur, yet its understated elegance reflected Bhanumati’s personality — dignified, restrained, and firm.

Bhanumati stepped inside, her movements measured, her face a mask of icy composure. She wore a deep maroon saree, simple yet regal, her posture straight, her chin slightly raised. Her eyes, sharp and piercing, locked onto the man seated near the center of the room.

Duryodhan rose abruptly from his chair as he saw her. His massive frame, usually commanding, now seemed almost hesitant in her presence. Surprise flickered across his face; he had braced himself for anger, tears, or even indifference — but not this frigid calm. For a moment, they stood there in silence, a chasm of unresolved emotions stretching between them.

Bhanumati :- Why are you here?

Her voice sliced through the quiet, her tone cold and devoid of any pleasantries. She did not sit, nor did she move any closer. Duryodhan blinked, momentarily caught off guard by her bluntness. Recovering quickly, he straightened his shoulders, his pride shielding him like armor.

Duryodhan :- I came to meet my children.

He said, his voice steady but tinged with something that might have been vulnerability. Bhanumati’s lips curved into a faint, bitter smile.

Bhanumati :- Your children? Are you certain they are yours?

She repeated, her tone laced with mockery. She took a step forward, her eyes narrowing. The words struck like a thunderclap. Duryodhan’s jaw tightened, and his fists clenched at his sides. A muscle twitched in his cheek as he struggled to contain his temper. For a moment, his rage flared, but he reined it in, his voice low and dangerous.

Duryodhan :- Had you not been the mother of my children, Bhanumati, you would not have lived to utter those words.

Bhanumati’s expression did not waver. Her cold stare bore into him, unyielding and defiant.

Bhanumati :- And you, are alive here in this palace only because of my father’s mercy. Remember that, Prince Duryodhan, the next time you think to threaten me.

She said quietly, her voice cutting like steel. Her words hung in the air like a challenge. Duryodhan exhaled sharply, his temper bubbling just beneath the surface. He turned away with a huff, pacing a few steps before stopping to face her again.

Duryodhan :- I didn’t come here to fight with you, I am here to meet my children, nothing more. Once I have seen them, I will leave.

He said finally, his tone brusque. Bhanumati studied him for a moment, her gaze inscrutable. Then, without a word, she turned and walked toward the door. Her saree swayed with each deliberate step, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound in the room.

As she reached the doorway, she paused and glanced over her shoulder, her voice cool but decisive.

Bhanumati :- Guards, escort him to the palace garden. The children will be there.

She called, and a soldier stationed outside stepped forward. Without waiting for a response, Bhanumati walked away, her figure disappearing into the sunlit corridor.

------------

Duryodhan leaned against the sturdy trunk of a banyan tree, the afternoon sun casting dappled shadows over him. The garden, alive with the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant hum of bees, was quieter now. He stood still, lost in thought, when the soft crunch of footsteps on the gravel path drew his attention.

Turning around, he froze, his eyes widening in surprise. A maid stood a few paces away, her hands resting gently on the shoulders of two small children peeking shyly from behind her skirts. The twins were tiny, no more than two years old, their wide eyes mirroring a mixture of curiosity and caution. The maid bowed deeply, her voice calm and respectful.

“Prince, these are your children—Lakshman and Lakshmana.”

Duryodhan’s gaze shifted to the children, his expression softening. They clung to the maid’s skirt, their small fingers clutching the fabric tightly. Lakshman, the boy, had an unruly mop of dark hair, while Lakshmana’s features were delicate, her round face framed by curls.

Duryodhan :- They are my…

He began, his voice faltering. The words felt heavy, almost unreal. The maid nodded.

“Yes, Prince. They are your children. Go on, little ones. Meet your father.”

She turned to the twins, her tone gentle and encouraging. But the children didn’t move. Instead, they peeked out cautiously, their tiny heads ducking back behind the maid whenever Duryodhan’s gaze met theirs. Duryodhan exhaled slowly, then crouched down to their level, his imposing frame softening as he extended his hands.

Duryodhan :- Don’t be afraid, I brought something for you.

He said, his voice low and kind. Reaching into the pouch tied at his waist, he pulled out a small handful of sweets wrapped in bright paper. He held them out, his palm open and inviting. Lakshman, the braver of the two, tilted his head curiously. A tentative smile flickered on his face as the lure of the sweets proved irresistible. Slowly, hesitantly, he released his grip on the maid’s skirt and toddled toward Duryodhan.

The boy stopped just within arm’s reach, eyeing the sweets before snatching a piece. He popped it into his mouth, his face lighting up as he savored the taste.

Duryodhan :- It’s good, isn’t it?

He asked, a smile breaking across his face. Lakshman nodded vigorously, his earlier shyness melting away. Lakshmana, emboldened by her brother’s reaction, stepped out from behind the maid. She approached Duryodhan with small, hesitant steps, her wide eyes studying him carefully.

Duryodhan held out the sweets again, and after a brief pause, she took one, her tiny fingers brushing his hand. She tasted it, her lips curving into a delighted smile.

Lakshmana :- Delicious!

She exclaimed, her voice high and clear. Duryodhan chuckled softly, his heart swelling as he watched them.

Duryodhan :- What are your names, little ones?

He asked.

The children looked at each other before Lakshman spoke, his voice hesitant and stumbling over the syllables.

Lakshman :- L-Lakshman.

Lakshmana :- And I’m L-Lakshmana.

His sister added, her voice just as inexperienced. Duryodhan nodded, his smile deepening.

Duryodhan :- Beautiful names.

He said. He reached into his pouch once more, retrieving two small velvet boxes.

Duryodhan :- For you, Lakshman.

He said, opening one box to reveal a silver bracelet adorned with a tiny emerald. He fastened it around the boy’s small wrist. Lakshman’s eyes sparkled as he turned his wrist, marveling at the gift.

Lakshman :- Thank you, pitashree.

He said shyly.

Duryodhan :- And for you, Lakshmana.

He said, opening the second box to reveal a delicate necklace with a tiny ruby pendant. He carefully clasped it around her neck, his large hands moving with surprising gentleness. Lakshmana touched the pendant, her smile widening.

Lakshmana :- It’s so pretty!

She exclaimed.

Duryodhan :- I brought these from Dwarika. I wanted you to have something special, something to remind you of me.

The children beamed, their earlier hesitations forgotten as they examined their gifts. The maid, sensing the moment was no longer hers, bowed again and stepped away quietly, leaving them alone. Duryodhan settled onto the grass, drawing the children close as they began to chatter, their voices growing more animated with each passing moment.

High above, in the shadows of a latticed window, Bhanumati stood watching. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes fixed on the scene below. For a fleeting moment, her gaze softened as she saw the joy on her children’s faces. Then, without a word, she turned away and disappeared into the quiet halls of the palace.



The sun rose over the ashram, bathing the settlement in a soft golden glow. A gentle breeze rustled through the tall trees surrounding the clearing, carrying with it the faint scent of earth and blooming wildflowers. Birds chirped in the distance, and the faint sound of flowing water hinted at a nearby stream.

In the center of the clearing, Karn stood with his student Ketuman, a prodigious archer in his own right. The young man’s brow glistened with sweat, his breathing heavy as he drew back the string of his bow, his focus unwavering. Before him, a straw target stood partially concealed behind a stack of wooden logs, an exercise Karn had designed to test both skill and patience.

Karn :- Remember, it is not just your strength or speed that determines the arrow’s path. It is the mind that guides the hand. Twist the string slightly, angle your wrist, and imagine the arrow’s journey as it curves past the obstacle.

He said, his voice steady yet encouraging. Ketuman nodded, his grip on the bow firm as he adjusted his aim. His fingers trembled slightly as he released the arrow. It shot forward, curving beautifully, but struck the log instead of the target.

Karn’s lips twitched into a faint smile as he walked over to retrieve the arrow.

Karn :- A close attempt. But close is not enough in battle. Again.

Hours stretched into days, and days into weeks. The sun rose and set countless times as Ketuman devoted himself to mastering the technique. Each failure only fueled his determination, and under Karn’s watchful eye, his form grew steadier, his aim sharper. One crisp morning, Ketuman stood once again, his bowstring taut, his gaze locked on the concealed target. The arrow flew, curving gracefully around the obstacle and striking the center of the straw dummy with a resounding thud.

A triumphant grin spread across Ketuman’s face as he turned to Karn, who clapped him on the shoulder with a proud smile.

Karn :- Well done. You’ve proven your persistence, and that is more valuable than any innate skill. Remember this moment. This is how mastery feels.

The two shared a brief moment of camaraderie before Karn stepped back, his tone turning instructive once more.

Karn :- Now, let us move to a different lesson. Stringing your bow swiftly in battle can mean the difference between life and death.

Ketuman raised an eyebrow in surprise as Karn handed him a knife.

Karn :- Cut your bowstring.

He said.

Ketuman :- Cut it?

He repeated, bewildered.

Karn :- Yes, go on, do it.

He confirmed, a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Hesitantly, Ketuman sliced through the string, and they stood before each other. On count of three, they were to string their bows. Before Ketuman could even react, Karn had unstrung his own bow, replaced the string, and had it ready to fire. The speed and precision left Ketuman staring in awe.

Ketuman :- How?

He began, his voice trailing off. Karn chuckled, handing him a new string.

Karn :- When I was your age, I had the same reaction. My teacher, Guru Parshuram, had an unparalleled mastery of such techniques. He told me that with time, I would surpass him. Perhaps, one day, you will surpass me.

His expression softened, his voice tinged with nostalgia. Ketuman nodded solemnly, a spark of determination igniting in his eyes as he began practicing the skill under Karn’s watchful guidance.

------------

Beyond his training sessions with Ketuman, Karn often spent his mornings seated on the porch of his hut. A small wooden desk held parchment, ink, and quills, tools he used to write letters. The process had become a ritual of sorts, a quiet reprieve from the demands of training and the weight of exile.

On one such morning, as the sun climbed higher into the sky, Karn sat on the porch, a letter unfolded in his hands. His eyes scanned the carefully penned words, his expression thoughtful. Suchitra, emerged from their hut carrying a bowl of fruits. She paused as she noticed him engrossed in his reading and stepped closer, seating herself beside him.

Suchitra :- What are you reading?

She asked, setting the bowl on the wooden floor. Karn folded the letter carefully and set it aside.

Karn :- A letter.

He said simply. Suchitra tilted her head, studying his face.

Suchitra :- Another one? Who writes to you in this secluded place?

Karn smiled faintly, his gaze drifting to the horizon.

Karn :- An unknown correspondent. Someone I’ve never met, who sends me letters filled with questions about the world, life, and sometimes, even philosophy.

He said.

Suchitra :- Unknown? You don’t know who it is?

She frowned slightly.

Karn :- No. But their words are sincere, their curiosity genuine. I suspect it might be someone confined to a limited life — perhaps a prisoner, or someone cloistered in isolation, longing to understand the world beyond their reach.

He admitted. Suchitra’s expression softened.

Suchitra :- And you reply to them?

Karn :- Always. They ask, and I answer. Sometimes I share stories, sometimes lessons, and sometimes, my thoughts. It feels… meaningful, in a way. A connection formed through words alone.

Suchitra smiled gently, reaching out to touch his hand.

Suchitra :- That sounds like you. Always finding ways to give, even when life has taken so much from you.

Karn looked at her, his eyes filled with quiet gratitude.

Karn :- Perhaps. Or perhaps I write these letters to remind myself that even in exile, I can still make a difference.

The two sat in companionable silence, the morning breeze carrying with it the faint sounds of Ketuman practicing in the distance. Birds flitted between the trees, and the leaves whispered secrets to the wind.

Suchitra eventually rose, picking up the bowl of fruits.

Suchitra :- Come. You’ve spent enough time with your letters. Ketuman will soon be ready for his next lesson, and you should eat something before then.

Karn nodded, standing and gathering his papers. As they stepped inside their hut together, the ashram seemed to breathe with life and purpose, each moment a testament to resilience and quiet strength.



The pigeon soared high above the royal palace of Tilprasth, its wings cutting through the warm, amber-hued sky as the sun dipped closer to the horizon. The sprawling palace below shimmered in the evening light, its sandstone walls glowing like molten gold. The pigeon’s beady eyes scanned the intricate latticework of a tall window, a familiar perch from its many journeys. With a sharp, practiced turn, it descended gracefully, landing with a soft rustle of feathers on the marble windowsill.

The bird puffed its chest and began a low, rhythmic cooing, signaling its arrival. Its small head bobbed as it peered into the room beyond, where the soft glow of lamps had begun to fill the space with a golden warmth.

The faint tinkling of anklets broke the stillness, the sound growing louder with each step. The pigeon tilted its head curiously as a woman approached, her silhouette framed by the dying light of the day. Vrushali stepped into view, her delicate saree flowing around her like water. Her presence exuded a quiet elegance, her movements fluid and unhurried.

The pigeon stilled as she extended her hand, its talons gently gripping her soft palm as she lifted it from the sill. Vrushali’s lips curved into a faint smile as she stroked its head with her free hand, her touch gentle and familiar.

Vrushali :- You’ve returned.

She murmured softly, her voice like the whisper of the breeze. Her eyes, warm and curious, fell to the tiny scroll tied securely to the pigeon’s leg. With practiced ease, Vrushali untied the letter, her fingers lingering on the parchment for a moment before unrolling it. The pigeon cooed once more, hopping lightly to her shoulder as she held the letter close and began to read.

The words on the parchment seemed to dance in the fading light, each line carrying a mix of thoughtfulness and mystery. As her eyes moved across the page, Vrushali felt her heart flutter, a warmth blooming in her chest. She read slowly, savoring each word, her lips moving slightly as if to taste the phrases.

She walked to the window, her gaze drifting to the horizon where the sun was sinking into a pool of fiery orange and soft pink. The light bathed her face, illuminating the faint smile that now graced her lips.

It had begun so simply — a question penned in curiosity, an answer delivered in kind. She had sought knowledge, understanding, perhaps even a distraction. But somewhere along the way, the exchange had transformed. The letters had grown longer, the words more personal. Hidden beneath the inked lines were thoughts and emotions that spoke of more than mere intellect.

Vrushali’s fingers brushed the parchment, tracing the familiar hand that had written the words. She did not know the writer’s name, their face, or their voice. And yet, she felt connected to them in a way that defied explanation.

The pigeon shifted on her shoulder, pulling her back to the moment. Vrushali laughed softly, brushing its feathers.

Vrushali :- You must be tired from your journey.

She said, carrying the bird to its perch by the window. As she turned back to the letter, she couldn’t resist glancing at the sun one more time, its last rays casting a golden path across the land. She pressed the parchment to her chest, her heart fluttering as she whispered to herself.

Vrushali :- Who are you, stranger? And why do your words make me feel this way?

She stood there for a while, the letter in her hands, the sun retreating into the horizon. Somewhere, she thought, the writer of these words might be watching the same sunset, their thoughts perhaps as entangled as hers.

And as the night began to weave its dark tapestry across the sky, Vrushali knew that what had started as simple correspondence had become something far more profound — something that stirred her heart and ignited her imagination.



The asur palace loomed like a dark monolith against the blood-red horizon, its jagged rock walls casting long, menacing shadows. The architecture bore no trace of lightness or beauty, only strength and a primal grandeur. It was a fortress born from the earth’s rage, its sharp edges and imposing towers reflecting the ferocity of its inhabitants.

Within the depths of the palace, the air was heavy with the scent of damp stone and faint traces of sulfur. Flickering torches lined the cavernous halls, their light casting eerie patterns on the walls. In a high chamber, near an arched window carved into the rock, Sumali sat with a thick book in her lap.

The pages were ancient, their corners frayed, the script written in a language long forgotten by mortals. Her dark, piercing eyes scanned the text with an intensity that betrayed both her thirst for knowledge and the weight of her thoughts. The faint light from the window illuminated her sharp features, the proud curve of her lips, and the faint shimmer of her intricately woven black-and-silver garments.

A distant rumble of footsteps broke the silence, growing louder as it approached. Sumali didn’t look up, though a faint crease formed on her brow. Moments later, her younger brothers, Makrasur and Gajasur, entered the chamber. Sumali glanced at them briefly, her fingers pausing on the book. She gestured toward the seats carved from stone near her.

Sumali :- Sit.

She commanded, her voice calm but firm. The brothers exchanged a glance before settling onto the cold, hard chairs. For a moment, neither spoke, the weight of unspoken words filling the air. Finally, Makrasur leaned forward, his voice a low murmur.

Makrasur :- Jiji, I’ve been thinking of a way to restore your powers.

Sumali arched an eyebrow, her fingers closing the book with a deliberate slowness.

Sumali :- Oh? And what grand scheme have you concocted this time?

She said, her tone laced with skepticism. Makrasur ignored the jab, his excitement undiminished.

Makrasur :- A yagya, a special ritual that requires the sacrifice of a thousand asurs of magical powers. When the yagya is complete, you could ask for your magical powers as a boon.

He said, his voice growing stronger. Gajasur nodded in agreement, though his eyes flickered nervously. Sumali’s expression hardened, and she leaned back in her chair, her fingers tapping the closed book.

Sumali :- A thousand asurs with magical powers? Do you hear yourself, Makrasur? To gather that many would take a lifetime.

She repeated, her tone sharp. Makrasur’s eyes gleamed as he leaned forward, undeterred.

Makrasur :- Not if we open a portal. We could summon them from across realms—those who have scattered, those who linger in forgotten corners of existence. It would not take as long as you think.

Sumali’s eyes narrowed, and she shook her head, her tone cutting.

Sumali :- A portal? Are you so foolish as to forget what Guru Shukracharya warned us? Opening such a portal would disrupt the balance of the realms. It could lead to the reunion of asurs who were never meant to be together again—chaos incarnate. Do you know what that would mean?

Makrasur faltered, but only for a moment.

Makrasur :- It would mean strength. Unity among asurs. Power to challenge even the Gods.

He argued, his voice rising.

Sumali :- Or it would mean war. And the last thing we need right now, brother, is a war against the Gods. Or have you forgotten what happened the last time we dared to defy them?

She shot back, her voice cold as steel. She leaned forward, her gaze piercing. Makrasur clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as he met her gaze.

Makrasur :- You speak of caution while you remain powerless. If we do nothing, we will fade into obscurity, forgotten and broken.

Sumali raised a hand, silencing him with a single commanding gesture.

Sumali :- Enough. Go do whatever you were doing before, we're not doing it and that's it.

She said, her tone brooking no argument. Makrasur’s eyes flared with anger, but he held his tongue. Gajasur, who had been silent throughout, shifted uneasily in his seat, sensing the tension. Finally, the two brothers rose, their movements reluctant.

As they made their way to the door, Makrasur glanced over his shoulder, his voice low and simmering with defiance.

Makrasur :- You’ll see, sister. You’ll thank me one day.

Sumali didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the book in her lap as if the conversation had already ended.

------------

Outside the chamber, the brothers walked in tense silence, the faint echoes of their footsteps bouncing off the stone walls. It was Gajasur who finally broke the quiet, his voice cautious.

Gajasur :- I do think she’s right?

Makrasur scoffed, his lips curling into a bitter smile.

Makrasur :- Jiji has always been cautious to a fault. She doesn’t see the opportunity before us.

Gajasur frowned.

Gajasur :- But opening a portal... It’s dangerous. Guru Shukracharya warned us for a reason.

Makrasur stopped abruptly, turning to face his elder brother.

Makrasur :- Dangerous, yes. But necessary. If we want to rise again, we cannot shy away from risk.

He said, his voice sharp.

Gajasur :-And the portal?

He asked hesitantly. Makrasur’s expression darkened, a glint of determination in his eyes.

Makrasur :- To open it, we’ll need sacrifices. Not asurs—Brahmins. Their purity will fuel the ritual. We’ll start by gathering them, quietly, and wait for the right moment.

Gajasur hesitated, the weight of Makrasur’s words sinking in.

Gajasur :- And if Jiji finds out?

Makrasur’s smile returned, sly and dangerous.

Makrasur :- Then we’ll make sure she sees the results before she has a chance to stop us.

The two brothers continued down the hall, their footsteps fading into the distance, leaving behind the cold, silent halls of the asur palace. And in her chamber, Sumali sat by the window, her book open once more, her mind troubled by a faint unease she couldn’t yet name.



The afternoon sun blazed over the sprawling arena of Indraprasth, its golden rays glinting off the polished armor of soldiers. The air buzzed with the clang of swords, the rhythmic thud of marching feet, and the low rumble of chariot wheels rolling over the packed earth. Arjun stood on a raised platform, his sharp eyes scanning the scene below.

The vast army of Indraprasth had been assembled after years of relentless effort, and now it stretched across the arena like a sea of disciplined warriors. Rows upon rows of infantry marched in perfect synchronization, cavalry units thundered past with precision, and archers released volleys of arrows that darkened the sky. Arjun’s heart swelled with pride as he observed the soldiers’ skill and dedication.

He had trained many of them himself, and seeing their impressive performance filled him with satisfaction. Still, his discerning gaze searched for flaws, for areas where improvement was needed. A great army could not afford weakness, and Arjun would settle for nothing less than perfection.

As his eyes roamed the arena, they caught sight of a chariot weaving through a section of the training ground. Unlike the others, which moved in predictable patterns, this one darted with remarkable agility, its wheels turning sharply and smoothly as it navigated obstacles. The young boy steering it was no ordinary charioteer.

Barefoot and dressed in simple clothes, the boy leaned forward with intense focus, his hands deftly maneuvering the reins. His movements were precise yet fluid, his control over the chariot seamless. As he steered it around a corner, he executed a sudden spin, the chariot’s wheels skimming the ground in a perfect arc before continuing its path. The display was both daring and elegant, drawing murmurs of admiration from nearby soldiers.

Arjun’s interest was piqued. He stepped down from the platform, his steps purposeful as he made his way toward the boy. Soldiers parted respectfully to let the prince pass, their murmurs silencing as his presence commanded attention.

The boy, unaware of the approaching figure, brought the chariot to a halt, his chest heaving from exertion. When he turned and saw Arjun, his eyes widened in shock. Quickly, he jumped down from the chariot and bowed low, his voice trembling as he said,

“Prince Arjun!”

Arjun smiled faintly, gesturing for the boy to rise.

Arjun :- What is your name?

“Vikshoka, my prince,”

The boy replied, his voice steadying as he stood.

Arjun :- Vikshoka. You have a rare talent. Your skill with the chariot is unlike any I’ve seen among our soldiers.

He repeated, his tone thoughtful. The boy’s face lit up with pride, though he quickly lowered his gaze, murmuring,

Vikshoka :- Thank you, Prince. It is an honor to hear this from you.

Arjun regarded him for a moment, his expression serious.

Arjun :- Tell me, Vikshoka, would you like to serve as my charioteer? Not for a single war, but for every battle I fight.

The boy’s breath caught, and he looked up, his eyes shining with awe.

Vikshoka :- To serve Maharathi Arjun would be the greatest honor of my life.

He said, his voice firm. Arjun’s smile widened.

Arjun :- Then it is decided. From this day forth, you are my charioteer.

Vikshoka bowed deeply, his heart pounding with excitement and pride. Around them, the soldiers began to cheer, their voices rising like thunder in the arena as they witnessed the birth of a partnership destined for greatness.



Did you like the chapter ?

Sorry for being a bit late, I am running with fever and cold nowadays.

Three more chapters to go and we'll officially have the intermission of our tale. From then on, the saga of conflict between the Kauravs and Pandavs will begin.

Excited?

Do comment if you have any suggestions.

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