The night was heavy.

Not the kind of quiet that soothed the mind, but the kind that pressed down like a weight, thick with smoke and the echoes of words unspoken. The river glistened under the moonlight, its dark waters shifting restlessly, as if it, too, was keeping secrets.

Rhea stood at the edge, her arms crossed, her thoughts restless.

She had spent the evening watching the court celebrate the Pandavas' deaths. Watching Duryodhana revel in his victory, watching Bhishma withdraw into silence, watching Vidura's fingers drum against the table as if listening to a song only he could hear.

She had seen it all.

And yet, she felt nothing.

Or perhaps, she felt too much.

A sound broke the stillness—metal against wood, a quiet but steady movement.

She turned.

And there, in the dim glow of torchlight, was Karna.

He was crouched beside his chariot, adjusting the harness with practiced ease. His arms were dusted with dirt, the faintest sheen of sweat glistening on his skin. His royal armor—so often a symbol of his place beside Duryodhana—was missing. He was just himself, stripped of the court and its politics, a man with his hands in the very thing that carried him forward.

She watched him for a long moment before speaking.

"If you knew something was wrong," she said, voice quiet, "would you still stand by your friend?"

Karna didn't pause in his work, but she saw the slight upward tilt of his lips.

"You assume I haven't already."

Rhea frowned. "You say that so easily."

He exhaled, tightening the strap on the wheel before turning to her. "And you say it as if choosing is easy."

She took a step closer, the dirt cool beneath her bare feet. "You don't ever question your choices, do you?"

Karna let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Every day."

That surprised her.

He straightened, rolling his shoulders, his gaze briefly flicking toward the river before landing on her again. "But questioning them changes nothing."

She studied him. "So you ignore it?"

Karna smiled then, but it was small, bitter. "I carry it."

The words struck her in a way she hadn't expected.

She understood what it meant to carry things alone.

Rhea sat down on the wooden frame of his chariot, watching the flickering torchlight. "You once told me fate never handed you anything."

Karna leaned against the wheel beside her. "It didn't."

She was quiet for a moment. Then, softly, "Then what did it take from you?"

Karna didn't answer right away.

She didn't expect him to.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice quieter than before.

"A name."

Rhea turned to him, watching the way his fingers idly traced the edge of his gauntlet.

Karna had never spoken of his past, not in detail. She knew what the world knew—that he had no kingdom, no royal lineage, no birthright. He had been denied a place before he had ever had the chance to claim one.

And yet, he had become something anyway.

"Is that why you fight?" she asked.

He tilted his head slightly. "For what?"

"For a name."

For a place.

For something to belong to.

Karna's smirk returned, but this time, there was no amusement in it. "And what else does a man like me fight for?"

Rhea thought about that.

She thought about Bhishma, bound by his own honor. She thought about Vidura, watching the game but never playing it. She thought about Duryodhana, convinced that the world owed him something.

And she thought about herself—about all the times she had tried to stay in the background, to remain unseen.

Because it was safer that way.

Because invisibility meant survival.

She exhaled. "You could have walked away."

Karna let out a quiet laugh. "And be what?"

Rhea met his gaze. "Free."

Karna shook his head. "No one is free, Rhea."

His voice was steady, certain, as if he had long since accepted the truth of it.

She frowned. "Not even those who have everything?"

Karna scoffed. "Especially not them."

Rhea thought about the princes of Hastinapura, the ones born into their power, into their titles. The ones who spent their lives in golden halls but could not choose their own paths.

Bhishma. Yudhishthira. Even Duryodhana.

They were bound by their expectations.

Just as Karna was bound by his lack of them.

"I don't believe that," she said finally. "I think we choose our chains."

Karna was silent for a long moment.

Then, he turned to her, tilting his head slightly. "And what chains have you chosen?"

Rhea hesitated.

She thought of her father, of his empty seat at court. She thought of her mother, bolting the doors at night. She thought of herself, watching, listening, but never acting.

She looked at Karna and wondered—had he freed himself by choosing Duryodhana, or had he simply found another cage?

She exhaled, looking back at the water. "I don't know yet."

Karna watched her for a moment, then nodded, as if accepting the honesty of her answer.

For a while, they sat in silence.

Two people born into different worlds. Two people who did not truly belong in either.

And yet, for the first time, Rhea felt that maybe—just maybe—he understood her.

She stood, brushing the dust from her tunic. "You asked me earlier—if I had to choose between being right or standing by the only people who have ever accepted me."

Karna glanced up at her.

She met his gaze. "I think the real question is—do they accept you? Or do they need you?"

A beat of silence.

Then, the corner of Karna's lips twitched upward. "You think too much."

She smirked. "So you keep telling me."

Rhea turned, stepping away from the chariot.

She did not look back.

But she could still feel Karna's presence behind her.

Still hear the weight of his words in her mind.

And for the first time, she wondered—

Had she seen Karna for what he truly was?

Or just for what he wanted the world to believe?