The training grounds of Hastinapura were quiet at this hour—only the rhythmic sound of a whetstone against metal filled the air. The scent of oil and damp earth clung to the space, mixing with the lingering remnants of sandalwood incense from the morning rituals. It was here that Rhea found herself watching the lone figure seated beneath the shade of a neem tree.

Dronacharya.

The man who had trained the greatest warriors of their time, whose very name commanded respect in court and battlefield alike.

Rhea hesitated before approaching. She had never spoken to him beyond formal courtesies, and she knew better than to interrupt a man who had devoted his life to discipline and precision. But today, he was not the formidable instructor of princes. He was simply a man sharpening his blade, lost in thought.

He noticed her before she could announce herself.

"You watch like a student, yet carry yourself like an observer," Drona remarked without looking up. His voice was even, neither welcoming nor dismissive. "What brings you here, Rhea?"

She inclined her head respectfully. "Curiosity."

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "A dangerous thing."

"So I've been told," she replied.

He finally looked up, studying her with eyes that had measured the strengths and weaknesses of countless warriors. "You are Vidura's ward. And yet, you have no taste for war."

Rhea did not confirm nor deny it. "War does not wait for taste or preference, does it?"

Drona chuckled. "No, it does not."

A comfortable silence settled between them before he spoke again, his voice carrying an edge of thoughtfulness. "You were not raised for the battlefield, but you observe like someone who understands conflict."

She considered her words. "Conflict is not always fought with weapons."

Drona nodded approvingly. "True. Some of the hardest battles are fought in the mind."

A flicker of amusement passed through Rhea's eyes. "So you admit the pen rivals the sword?"

Drona let out a low chuckle. "Only when the pen is wielded by someone who knows how to use it. Words can be sharper than steel in the right hands."

She smirked slightly. "Then I should practice more."

He tilted his head. "And do you?"

"I try," she admitted. "But I don't think the world enjoys being questioned."

His lips quirked. "No. But neither do warriors enjoy being struck, and yet they train for it."

Rhea raised a brow. "Are you suggesting I train my mind as one trains the body?"

Drona leaned back slightly, setting his whetstone down. "That would not be a bad idea. Questions, when sharpened properly, can disarm even the strongest opponent."

She regarded him thoughtfully. "And yet, sometimes, knowing too much can be as dangerous as knowing too little."

"That is wisdom," Drona acknowledged. "But wisdom does not keep the world from demanding answers."

The conversation drifted, shifting from war and philosophy to something lighter. Drona, for all his discipline, had seen many things in his life, and he had stories to tell. He spoke of training missteps from years past, of the time a young Bhima had broken a training dummy and tried to blame it on an unlucky servant. Of Arjuna's relentless, obsessive practice even as a child. Even of Ashwatthama, stubborn and impatient, constantly trying to prove himself even when there was no one to challenge.

Rhea found herself laughing, not at the stories, but at the way Drona told them—with the weariness of a teacher who had lived through enough absurdity to recognize when to simply let things be.

"You sound like a father tired of his sons' antics," she observed with a teasing smile.

Drona sighed dramatically. "That is because I am. A teacher is, in many ways, worse off than a father. A father raises a few children. A teacher raises an army of them."

She chuckled. "And yet, you keep training more."

"Perhaps I am a fool," he admitted. "Or perhaps, despite the exhaustion, I still believe in shaping the future."

Rhea's expression softened. "That is a noble thought."

He glanced at her. "And you? You watch the world closely. Do you wish to shape it as well?"

Her smile faded slightly. "I think the world does not care for what I wish."

Drona studied her, his expression unreadable. "That is where you are wrong. The world does not care for what anyone wishes. But those who carve their place in it make themselves impossible to ignore."

She fell silent, considering his words. She had spent years keeping herself at the edges of court life, believing that as long as she remained an observer, she would never be drawn into the conflicts that consumed those around her. But she had always known, deep down, that the past was not so easily buried.

"Perhaps," she admitted at last. "But if that is true, then it is the past that must seek me out. I do not go looking for it."

Drona regarded her for a long moment before nodding. "A wise choice. But wisdom does not always keep the past from finding you."

Rhea did not reply. Because she knew that, too.

The silence stretched between them, but this time, it was not heavy. It was simply there—an understanding, unspoken but acknowledged.

Drona returned to sharpening his blade. Rhea, after a moment longer, turned to leave.

"Rhea."

She stopped.

His voice was thoughtful when he spoke again. "You may not carry a sword, but you are learning to wield something else."

She glanced back at him. "And what is that?"

His lips quirked, just slightly. "Questions."

She let out a quiet breath, something close to amusement flickering in her chest. "I suppose there are worse weapons."

Drona's gaze was steady. "Perhaps. But even questions can cut."

Rhea did not disagree.

And as she walked away, she could not shake the feeling that she had just stepped closer to something she had spent years trying to avoid.