"Silence." The command was neither a plea nor a cry of authority. It was absolute. The weight of that single word uttered from the lips of Maharaj Dritarashtra crushed the rising voices, smothering them under an iron force. The chamber, once ablaze with accusation and wounded pride, now stood still—held hostage by the presence of a king who had spent a lifetime unseen.

Slowly, deliberately, Dritarashtra rose from his throne. His movements were slow, burdened—not by age but by the weight of a past that refused to loosen its grip. He walked forward, his blind eyes staring into the abyss of his memories.

And then, he chuckled—a dry, humourless sound that came not from amusement but from the exhaustion of a man who had spent a lifetime being accused, "So, it all comes back to me."

His voice was neither a whisper nor a roar but something far more terrifying—a voice stripped of all pretense, laid bare with the truth, "I am the sinner. The architect of this hatred. The one who sowed poison between brothers. The king who failed his kingdom before he ever ruled it."

He exhaled, shaking his head, "Who among you truly understands the burden of being born unwanted? I entered this world already cursed, already discarded. The moment I was pulled from my mother's womb, I was not a son—I was a disappointment. A blind prince, a broken heir. Shakuni was right, wasn't he? What use is a man who cannot even see the land he is meant to rule?"

He turned slightly, searching for the one who could answer him. But no answer came, "From the moment I breathed my first, my fate was sealed. My father, the mighty Vichitravirya, had left no heir. And so, Maharishi Vyasa was called. My very existence was not out of love or longing but of necessity. A duty fulfilled, nothing more. And I knew when my brother Pandu was born—pale, able, everything I was not. I knew I was merely a shadow cast before the arrival of light."

His fingers curled into fists at his sides, his voice growing colder, "And what was my crime, then? That I dared to desire? That I dared to wish for something that was always meant to be mine, yet never truly was?"

His blind gaze turned toward Bhishma now, the man who had upheld the throne yet never let him sit upon it with peace, "Tatshree, tell me... did you ever truly see me as a Maharaja? Or was I always the ruler in your absence, the caretaker of a throne meant for someone else? You placed the crown upon my head, yet in your heart, you always waited for my reign to end. You knew Vasusena was the king Hastinapur deserved. And you—" he turned slightly as if facing Vidura now, "You ensured that I never forgot it."

A bitter smile ghosted his lips, "Do you know what it feels like to live in a palace where every stone, every whisper, every shadow reminds you that you are not enough? That your throne, your power, your very name exists only because fate was unkind to another?"

His voice dropped lower, heavy with something darker, "And yet, you all speak of justice. Of fairness. Of right and wrong. But tell me, where was justice when the world told me, from the moment I was born, that I was unfit to rule? Where was fairness when my subjects never saw me as their king but as the man who sat in another's place?"

His sightless eyes now turned to the Pandavas, his voice turning sharper, cutting through their silence, "And now you ask why my sons grew to hate you? Why they could not bear the sight of you? Because they were raised in the shadows of a Pitashree who had been denied everything. They saw the whispers behind my back, the court bent toward Pandu's children even in his absence. They saw me, their Pitashree—their king—treated as a placeholder, waiting for the day when Vasusena would take what should have been theirs. And you expect them to accept that with a bowed head?"

He scoffed, his lips curling into something neither a smile nor a snarl, "I did not teach them hatred. I did not have to. This kingdom did it for me."

A deep, jagged breath, "But tell me, Pandavas, were you truly any different?"

His voice lashed out now, his words like a whip striking flesh, "Vasusena, did you never feel even a moment of triumph when the world called you the rightful heir, knowing full well that throne still belonged to me?"

His voice turned sharper, colder, "Bhima, did you never once wonder why you saw my sons as weaker or lesser from the beginning? You say they tormented you, but tell me—was it only torment, or did you also believe, deep in your heart, that you were simply born above them?"

He turned his head toward Arjuna now, his words now cutting deep, "And you, Arjuna, who takes pride in dharma—You say my sons were raised with poison, but tell me, were you not raised with the belief that you alone walked the path of righteousness?"

The air in the chamber became suffocating, thick with a truth none wished to admit: "And my brother's wife—Kunti." His voice softened, but there was no warmth, only an unbearable weight, "Did you ever see me as your brother? Did you ever think of my pain? Or was your world only ever as wide as the love for your sons? If fate had been reversed—if Pandu had been born blind and I had been whole—would you have fought for my children as you do for yours?"

He inhaled sharply, gathering the last of his strength, and when he spoke again, it was not as a king nor a father but as a man stripped bare, "You say my sin was creating enmity between brothers. But tell me, when has this family ever been whole? When have we ever been just brothering and not rivals?"

His voice turned to iron, unyielding, final, "I was never given a choice. And neither were my sons. So, do not stand before me and act like this war began with us. It was written the moment I was born blind, the moment Pandu was named Samrat, and our fates were decided by men who never had to live them."

A long silence followed. Once thick with accusations, the air now held something else—an undeniable truth.

A Kingdom of the Mind

Bhishma stepped forward. His presence, as always, was like the great Himalayas—unshaken by storms, untouched by time. His gaze, sharp as an unsheathed sword, bore down upon Dritarashtra, yet within it lay neither anger nor sympathy—only truth, raw and inescapable, "A man who knows his worth, Maharaj, does not measure himself against another's shadow."

Deep and unwavering, his voice echoed through the chamber like the ringing of steel, "The weight of a throne is not in its gold, nor in the jewels that adorn it. It is in the spine of the man who sits upon it. Strength is not in sight, limbs, or fortune—it is in how a man carries what fate has given him. You say you were denied what was yours. But tell me, did anyone ever place shackles upon your feet? Did anyone ever bind your voice? Or was it you who let the whispers of the court dictate your worth?"

Bhishma's eyes did not waver, his voice cutting deeper, "You say the world saw Pandu as the rightful king. But tell me, Maharaj, when did you ever rise above your doubts and claim your throne? Did you ever demand the respect you now weep for? Or did you sit upon this seat, waiting for the world to offer it to you willingly? A ruler who waits for his people to validate him is no ruler."

The air grew heavier, but Bhishma did not stop, "You speak of fate, of how you were wronged. But what of your choices, Dritarashtra? The gods may write our births, but no god writes the strength of a man's will. You were born blind—yes. But were your mind and heart blind, too? Did the gods strip you of wisdom? Did they take away your voice? No. That, Maharaj, was you're doing."

A slow, measured, relentless exhale, "You say your sons hated the Pandavas because they saw your pain. They fought for what they were denied. But tell me, Dritarashtra, if you had carried yourself as a king and worn your crown not as a burden but as a right—would they have ever learned to despise their cousins? If you had embraced your worth, would they have grown up believing themselves lesser? The poison that ran in their hearts did not come from the world. It was born in your silence, hesitations, and the way you allowed resentment to take root instead of will. A father who cannot stand tall teaches his sons to crawl."

He turned slightly now, his gaze sweeping over the Pandavas, the Kauravas, Vidura, Kunti, Yuyutsu, and finally back to Dritarashtra, "And what of injustice? Tell me, Maharaj, is there a man in this hall who has not been wronged by fate? I swore an oath that caged my life in iron, yet do you see me weeping for what was denied to me? Pandu was cursed, forced to abandon a kingdom he never wished to leave—do you see him lamenting his suffering? Kunti bore sons from Niyoga, raising them without a husband's support—did she ever ask the world to pity her? Even Vasusena walks with his head held high, though he went through so much from a young age. Yet you—"

Bhishma took a step closer now, his towering form unyielding: "You, who sat on this throne for years, had the power to carve your own destiny. You chose to let your bitterness consume you. The world never called you weak, Dritarashtra. You did."

Silence thundered through the chamber, "Strength is not in the eyes that see—it is in the heart that refuses to bow."

He turned now, his final words pressing down like an inescapable truth, "No man is given everything in life. But a king is the one who stands tall despite what he is denied. The question is not what fate took from you, Maharaj. The question is—what answer would you give to fate when it poses questions to you?"

The Gods Converse

"Mahadev—what are you doing?" The voice of Narayana echoed across the fabric of existence, not spoken through lips but resonating within the mind, within the cosmos itself. A voice that carried both warmth and warning that knew all yet still questioned.

A profound stillness followed. Then, a voice as ancient as the mountains, as boundless as the sky, answered—Mahadeva.

"Narayan, I am doing what must be done," His words did not convey defiance or submission; they were only truth.

But Narayana, the one who had taken the form of Krishna, who walked among men yet remained beyond them, could not let the silence settle, "I know that, Mahadev. But will it change anything?"

His voice was patient yet firm—like the tide that wears down even the most potent rock, "You know as well as I do—the Kali must perish. Duryodhana must fall. The wheel of time must turn. Kaliyuga must begin. Do not let your boundless compassion cloud what must be done. Do not become Bholenath once again."

Mahadeva exhaled. A sigh that carried the weight of ages, of creation itself, "And yet, Narayana—should not every soul be given a chance to redeem itself? Should not even he be allowed that moment?"

His voice was not pleading or uncertain. It was simply a question that had existed since time began, "Is that not why this Yuga is being rewritten?"

Silence.

Then, Narayana's voice hardened the cosmic ocean of his presence, which now carried the undertow of inevitability, "I understand your heart, Mahadev. I do not say you are wrong. But you and I both know—the soul that carries Kali's essence does not change. It will not change. Its path has already been carved into the very bones of fate."

The words did not waver, yet they carried the sorrow of one who had seen too much and tried too often, "Have you forgotten Nala and Damayanti?"

Mahadeva's celestial form remained still, but the universe around him seemed to shift. Of course, he had not forgotten. How could he forget the tale of Nala, the noble king whose very soul had been touched by Kali's shadow? How could he forget how even the purest love, the most vigorous devotion, the fiercest will could not drive out what had been ordained? He had seen what happens when a soul tainted by Kali walks the earth. He had seen what it does, what it destroys, how it consumes.

"Mahadev, you have not forgotten, have you?" The voice of Narayana flowed through existence itself, carrying with it the weight of all that had been, all that was, and all that must be.

"You have seen it before. You know how it unfolds. You know what happens when Kali touches a man's soul. It is not a matter of will or righteousness—it is a poison that seeps, a hunger that does not end."

And so, he began.

"Nala was a man of dharma. Born to Virasena, the king of Nishadas, he was blessed with every virtue the gods could bestow. He was handsome, righteous, an unrivalled charioteer, a man who lived and breathed dharma in its most accurate form. His hands held power, but his heart held devotion. And for this, he was loved. One day, as he walked through his palace's gardens, fate spread its wings before him. A flock of golden-winged swans descended upon the lake, their beauty catching his eye. Amused, he reached out and captured one.

And the swan spoke, 'Release me, O King, and in return, I shall fly to the land of Vidarbha and sing your praises to its princess, Damayanti.'

Enchanted by the offer, Nala let the bird go and, in doing so, set in motion a love that would shake the heavens. The swans carried whispers of Nala's virtues to Damayanti, the princess of Vidarbha, and when the swans returned, they brought back her admiration. A bond was formed. A love that even the gods envied.

When the day of her Swayamvar came, not only men sought her hand—but the celestial beings themselves. Indra. Agni. Varuna. Yama. The masters of the elements, the rulers of realms beyond, came to claim her. But Damayanti had already chosen. And so, in their vanity, they sought Nala himself.

'Go to Damayanti,' they commanded, 'and speak to her of us. Tell her to forsake you and choose one among us instead.'

It was not a request. Nala, bound by his devotion to dharma, could not refuse. Invisible, he entered his beloved's chambers and delivered the gods' command.

But Damayanti did not waver, 'I will choose you, Nala, and no other.'

And when she entered the Swayamvar hall, she was surrounded by five identical forms.

Indra. Agni. Varuna. Yama. And Nala. The gods assumed his shape in their arrogance, forcing her to choose without sight and certainty. But a heart that loves sees beyond the flesh.

She looked beyond their forms. She saw the one whose chest rose and fell with the breath of a mortal, whose feet touched the earth like a man, whose eyes—though filled with divinity—held longing. And she chose.

The garland fell around Nala's neck. The gods, defeated yet honored by her devotion, blessed him. Agni gave him protection from fire. Varuna ensured he would never lack water. Yama granted him wisdom in dharma. Indra promised him moksha. And so, a love blessed by the gods was sealed.

But there was another who had seen this union. Another who had desired Damayanti.

Another who had arrived too late. Kali.

A being of darkness. A force of corruption. The embodiment of the age to come. His soul burned with rage, and he shared with his companion Dvapara that, 'This mortal has dared to take what even the gods sought? A mere man? No, I will see him fall. I will see his dharma crumble. I will see him crawl in the dirt, abandoned, broken.'

And so, he waited. For twelve years, he watched. For twelve years, he searched for a crack in Nala's righteousness. Until, one evening, he found it. Nala forgot to wash his feet before his evening prayers. It was a moment of carelessness—nothing more. But it was enough.

In that instant, Kali entered him. And from that moment, Nala was no longer Nala. He was a man with a shadow inside him. A whisper that gnawed at his mind. A hunger that he did not understand. A madness that drove him toward ruin. And so, he gambled.

Day after day. Night after night. Game after game. With every roll of the dice, he bled his kingdom dry. He fell deeper into the abyss with every loss until he had nothing left: his wealth, land, and honour—all gone. His brother, Pushkara, claimed his throne. His people turned against him.

His name became a curse upon the wind. Damayanti watched, her heart breaking, as the man she loved was devoured by forces unseen. She sent their Indrasena and Nalayani Indrasena away to her father's home. And then, in the depths of night, Nala abandoned her. Stripped of his last shred of dignity, wearing only a single garment, he ran into the wilderness. Alone. Cursed. Consumed.

Fate is never without mercy. Nala found a serpent in the forest's heart, , trapped in a fire. Karkotaka pleaded for help. And though Nala was broken, his dharma was not yet dead. He saved the Karkotaka. And in return, the Karkotaka saved him. With a bite, it burned away Kali's grip. With a whisper, Karkotaka taught him the secrets he had forgotten. With a blessing, it restored his path.

Years later, Nala returned. He reclaimed his throne. He reunited with Damayanti. And Kali, defeated, was forced to leave his body. But this was not the end of Kali. No. Kali had learned. Kali had understood. A mere mortal was not enough. He needed a more powerful vessel. He needed a prince. He needed a king who would not be redeemed. And so, he waited. And when the time came, he was born as Duryodhana."

Narayana's voice was a storm unchained, a blade honed by eternity, a prophecy written in fire and fate itself, "Kali was cast out of Nala, but he was born anew in Duryodhana. He is not merely a man of arrogance and hate—he is the vessel of an age that must not be. And with him walks another shadow—Shakuni, the incarnate of Dvapara (Dwaparayug)."

Dvapara is unlike Kali—his heart is not wholly drowned in darkness. He knows when to step back and scheme and when to let fate weave its web. But Kali... Kali only knows hunger—a hunger that does not wane, a hunger that will devour dharma itself if left unchecked.

Do not mistake this for a war of kings, Mahadev. This is not a battle for land or throne. This is a war for time itself."

If time falls into Kali's hands, the world will drown in an age where greed, deceit, and hatred rule unchecked. Dharma will be but a whisper drowned in the cacophony of corruption.

That is why he must die."

"Narayan, he didn't do anything yet...." says Mahadev

"Didn't do anything?" He exhaled, his presence crackling like a storm before the downpour.

"Tell me, Mahadev, as Yuyutsu—has he not conspired? Has he not plotted Bhima's death again and again? Has he not driven the Pandavas to the edge of ruin, orchestrated their humiliation, their suffering? Did he not conceive the fire of Varnavat, even though the world believes it was Shakuni's scheme? It was Suyodhan's idea; Mahadev and Shakuni only whispered his praise, fanning the embers of his hatred into an inferno."

Narayana's words wrap around the moment like an unbreakable chain, "Understand this—Shakuni plays the game, but it is Kali who desires to burn the board itself. There is a difference.

You hope he will change, that time might bend his heart. But listen to me, Mahadev: Pandavas must go to war with the fire of knowing they have been wronged their whole lives. You cannot extinguish that fire. It is what will keep dharma alive. And do you know why he was drawn to Draupadi? It was not love. It was not admiration. It was Kali. He knew who she was.

She is the daughter of Nala, the Nalayani Indrasena reborn. And what does Kali desire more than anything? To break what once defied him. To make her suffer so that through her, her Mata Damayanti and Pita Nala would feel the agony of fate's cruel cycles once again."

"Suyodhana has his good qualities. He would make a better king than Vasusena," Mahadev said, his voice deep as the ocean, unmoving.

Narayana's expression did not waver, "Good qualities do not make a man great, Mahadev. Choices do. And Suyodhana has made his choice."

Let me tell you of a king. A great king. A king who was just. A king who was powerful beyond measure. And yet, even he had to be undone for the sake of the world - King Bali.

Bali was an asura, yet he ruled with righteousness. He upheld dharma, protected his people, and brought prosperity to his land. But even he—even he—was a threat, Mahadev. Because his rule had to end for the Yugas to move forward. If Bali, the great Bali, could not be allowed dominion over all three worlds, how could Suyodhana be? Bali was given a boon and allowed to return to the Satya Yuga when righteousness was pure again. But tell me, Mahadev—if Bali, a just king, had to be removed for the cycle of time to continue, do you genuinely believe that Suyodhana, who thrives on hate, vengeance, and destruction, should be allowed to stay?

Narayana's voice turned cold as a blade, "This is not about who makes a good king. This is about who will end time itself. That is why he must fall."

Mahadev's voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of mountains. His mind, vast as the sky, absorbed Narayana's words, the truths woven into them. He had seen the cycles. He had witnessed the rise and fall of kings, the dance of dharma and adharma through time. And yet, his heart, deep as the cosmos itself, had always sought to give even the damned a chance.

"What is it that you want me to do, Narayana?" he asked, his voice echoing in the silence of his mind.

"Just don't stop whatever is happening," Narayana's voice was like a river that cut through the most burdensome stone, "This is being rewritten because people must make better choices. Choices that have dharma at their heart. You know it, Mahadev—Kali's strength lay with Suryaputr. But Suryadev requested for his son, and Niyati carved a path for him. I stood by it. But we cannot give such chances to all the Asura, Mahadev. It will tip the balance. We cannot let that happen. It is time for dharma to be re-established. Please do not make things difficult. Do not be Bholenath."

Mahadev exhaled, the breath of a god stirring the elements. The fire of truth was before him, and though he was Shiva, the destroyer, the liberator, the end and the beginning—he had always been Bholenath. The one who forgives. The one who grants boons. The one who gives even demons a chance to return to the light.

"But Narayana... mercy is not only for the righteous." His voice was low, carrying the sorrow of endless eons. "Even the fallen deserve release. Even destruction should be a mercy, not punishment. And yet... I see what you see."

His third eye, the seat of his truth, did not need to open. It had already seen the war to come off the rewritten story—the blood that would soak the earth, the cries that would echo through time, and the hands that would rise, pleading for help, only to be crushed beneath the weight of their karma.

"You ask me not to be Bholenath. But tell me, Narayana, is it not also my duty to guide the lost? To grant them a path beyond suffering?"

For a moment, there was only silence between them.

Then, Mahadev closed his eyes, the vastness of his consciousness wrapping around the truth he could not deny, "No. There is no path left for Suyodhana. Not in this life. His fire does not seek light, only destruction. If I stand in his way, I would not be saving him—I would be prolonging his ruin. And that, too, would be a cruelty."

He opened his eyes, and they burned with understanding, "I will not stop what is happening, Narayana. If this is how dharma must be restored, so be it. But let the world remember—when Suyodhana falls, it will not be because we hated him. It will be because he refused to save himself."

Narayana's voice carried a quiet certainty, a knowing more profound than Mahadev's silence: "It will happen, Mahadeva."

And in that moment, Mahadev understood. This was not a war that needed his interference.

It was a war written before time had even begun to flow, "Just say you are okay with the division. Let the rest be left in the hands of Niyati because she knows the soul of Kali and his choices better than anyone," Narayana's voice resonated in his mind.

Mahadev closed his eyes. He had no love for destruction, only the necessity of it. And yet, Narayana was right—some things were beyond his benevolence. If the tides of fate had already begun their course, then so be it. A breath, deep as the void. A thought sharp as the trident he wielded, "Let it be, Narayana. Let Niyati decide."

In the Eyes of Erasure

Yuyutsu exhaled deeply, the weight of generations of unresolved hatred pressing down on him. He stepped forward, standing between Bhishma and Dritarashtra, his voice calm yet laced with an unmistakable gravity.

"When I requested Maharani Gandhari to arrange this meeting, I believed—perhaps foolishly—that there could be a middle path. If both sides stripped away their rage, even for a moment, we might find a bridge between us. But now..." He looked around, his gaze sweeping over the Pandavas and the Kauravas, over elders who held wisdom yet wielded silence like a shield, "Now, I see a chasm too deep, wounds that have festered too long. If hatred is the foundation upon which both sides stand, then coexistence is an illusion. There is no union left to salvage—only division."

The chamber sat heavy in his words, the truth they carried pressing against every heart, "One moment." A voice rang through the tension like a sudden blade unsheathed. Every eye turned to her.

Rajkumari Krishnaa.

Until now, she had been silent, a spectator to this storm. But now, she stepped forward with the grace of a queen who knew her presence demanded acknowledgement.

"Speak, Putri." Gandhari's voice carried the weight of a mother's command and the curiosity of a woman who had long understood the fire within another.

Draupadi did not hesitate. She moved to the chamber's center, where the battle of words had been waged, and let her presence settle like an unshakable force. Her voice, neither loud nor pleading, was firm—not of defiance but of inevitability.

"Until now, whatever has transpired between the Pandavas and the Kauravas was before my time. Their joys, sorrows, battles—none of it was mine to bear. But now... now I am bound to them. As their wife, as their sister, as their daughter, as their daughter-in-law. Their fate is now my own."

She turned, her gaze piercing through every soul in the room, pausing at those who thought themselves above questioning, "If the Pandavas are to build their kingdom, they will do so with their hands, sweat, and will. And I, as their wife, will stand beside them, and I do not doubt their abilities. They will not just rule—they will build, rise, and forge a land that will not stand in the shadow of Hastinapur but stand equal to it."

Her voice did not falter, "And then what?"

The question struck like a hammer against steel.

"What will Hastinapur do then? What happens when the kingdom you cast away rises to match your glory? Will you watch with honour? Will you acknowledge their strength? Or will you seek to claim it again through games, deceit, and war?"

The words hung in the air, sharp and undeniable.

"Do not tell me that fate will not bring such a day. Are we not all sitting here today, speaking of chances of proving one's worth? If you all believe in merit, in destiny, then let me ask—when the Pandavas rise, will Hastinapur acknowledge them... or seek to erase them?"

She stepped forward, her voice cutting through every lingering pretense, "This hatred is not ink on dry sand that time can wash away. It is ink on stone. Once carved, it cannot be erased. And I can feel this grudge will not end with mere division. So, tell me—what about tomorrow? Who will answer for what is to come?"

A silence deeper than the night followed her words.

And then—

Suyodhana stood up.

He did not rise in anger or defiance. He stood like a storm gathering for years, now ready to break. His eyes, sharp as steel, did not waver as he swept his gaze across the chamber, meeting every glance—every unspoken challenge. And then, he laughed—not in amusement, not in mockery.

A bitter laugh—a laugh that held years of being overlooked, cast in the shadows and reduced to nothing more than an obstacle in someone else's destiny.

He exhaled and then spoke. His voice did not rise, yet it cut through the silence like a sword cleaving through flesh: "You are wise, Rajkumari Krishnaa. You are wiser than most here."

His eyes flickered toward the Pandavas, then back to her, "You ask what will happen if your husbands rise. You ask what Hastinapur will do when their glory reaches the skies. But tell me this—why do you ask as though you do not already know?"

A pause.

Then, his words fell like stones in water, sinking into the hearts of those who listened, "What will I do? I will do what must be done. I will ensure that day never comes."

Murmurs rippled through the court. But he did not stop, "Do you think I fear their greatness?" His voice remained eerily steady, his expression unreadable, "No, Rajkumari. I do not fear it. I know it. And that is precisely why I must crush it before it grows beyond my reach."

His jaw tightened. His breath, once steady, now carried the weight of a man who had swallowed his fury for too long, "Do you think this is about a throne? About a crown? Do you think this is about power alone?"

He let out a slow, sharp exhale, "No."

And then, he spoke the truth that had festered in his soul for years, "This is about existence. My existence. The right to stand, the right to be seen, the right to be acknowledged—not as a villain, not as an obstacle, but as the rightful heir to this land. The man who was born to rule, yet treated as if he was nothing but an inconvenience."

His voice deepened and darkened, but not with rage and a conviction that could not be undone, "Do you know what it is like to grow up in your own home and be made to feel like an outsider? To have elders who smile at you but never truly see you? To have the people of your land whisper about you, not with admiration, but with doubt?"

His gaze fell upon Bhishma, "Jyeshta Vasusena was born here, but did he ever live here? No. So, technically, I was the firstborn of this palace, yet I was never the favored one. " His words cut through the old man like the arrows he had once dodged in battle.

He turned to Vidura, "I was raised as the prince of Hastinapur, yet I was never its pride. My ideologies were implemented, and I was only made a mere Maha Mantri. I was always the one to be measured against others—never the one to be looked upon as enough."

He turned to Dritarashtra, "My father was the king, yet he was never truly given the respect of one. I watched him bow to the will of others and be reminded every day that he was not the choice but the compromise. And because he was seen as lesser, I was treated as lesser."

His fists clenched at his sides, "And then, they came." His eyes locked onto the Pandavas, "The sons of Pandu."

His voice did not rise, yet the air in the chamber tightened, "They walked into my home and called it theirs. They were taught by the same gurus and trained under the same masters. But tell me—was I ever treated as their equal?"

A bitter smile twisted his lips, "No. Because I was never meant to be their equal. I was meant to be their opposition."

His eyes flickered toward Bhima, "Do you remember, Bhima? Do you remember how you treated me? Every day, every moment? You laughed at me, mocked me, humiliated me—why? Because I was not as strong as you? Because my strength was not carved into my muscles but my will?"

Bhima remained silent.

Suyodhan's voice now carried something deeper than hatred. It took a truth too painful to ignore, "You say I poisoned you first. But tell me, Bhima—what is the difference between poison and humiliation that seeps into your veins every day? You bruised my body, but you shattered my pride. You call me cruel, but did you ever stop to wonder if you turned me into this?"

He turned to Arjuna, "And you, Partha—the golden son of fate. You were given the finest of teachers and the best of lessons. You were told you were destined for greatness and would be the greatest warrior. And I?" He exhaled sharply. "I was expected to stand beside you and clap."

His gaze burned with something unshakable, unbreakable. "And you, Jyeshta—the embodiment the righteous, the noble one. When you walked into Hastinapur, head held high, claiming your place as its future, did you ever stop to wonder what that meant for me? Did you ever look at me and think—'This man was raised as its prince. What will happen to him now?'"

Vasusena's lips parted, but no words came.

Suyodhan's voice dropped lower now. "You speak of fairness, but fairness was never extended to me. You speak of Dharma, but Dharma was never in my favor. You ask why I will not let you rise?"

He stepped forward, his presence overwhelming, "Because if I allow you to rise, I will be cast into the shadows again. And I refuse."

His following words were a declaration and a vow, "This is not about greed. This is not about arrogance. This is about survival."

His eyes flickered toward Draupadi, "You ask me what I will do when the Pandavas build a kingdom to rival Hastinapur?"

A slow exhale, "I will ensure it never comes to pass." His voice did not tremble, "Because this time, I will not be the one forgotten. This time, I will not be the one cast aside. This time, I will not lose."

And with that, he sat. His words remained. Like an unbreakable promise. Like the first crack of thunder before the storm.