MIRAGE OF HEARTSTRINGS

CHOICE & FEAR

Sleep did not come easily to Duryodhana anymore.

It hovered near him, circling, never landing—like a guard unsure whether to trust the quiet.

Lakshman breathed evenly beside him, small fingers curled into the edge of Duryodhana’s robe as though instinct itself knew when to anchor.

Duryodhana lay still, careful not to disturb him, eyes fixed on the dim ceiling where shadows gathered like unspoken thoughts.

Too quiet.

His mind refused to rest in the present. Silence always dragged him backward.

To promises kept. To footsteps that should have come. To absences that spoke louder than betrayal ever could.

Karna should have been here by now.

Once or twice a month—never missed. Not even during war seasons, not even when Aryavart burned with politics and conquest. Karna always came. Sometimes with Ashwatthama’s sharp silence beside him, sometimes with Eklavya’s measured watchfulness, sometimes with both.

They never announced themselves loudly. Never drew attention.

They simply arrived.

With food secured through unseen routes. With clothes that fit Lakshman as though measured by memory. With toys carved by hand, sturdy and unbreakable. With the assurance that Duryodhana was not forgotten.

Now—

Nothing.

No signal. No mark left at the old outer wall. No shift in the guards that only Eklavya ever noticed.

They would be wondering.

Whether the palace had finally swallowed him whole. Whether Indraprastha had closed its jaws. Whether Lakshman—

Duryodhana shut his eyes.

That was when the memory came unbidden.

Not gently.

But sharp, like a blade pressed where armor thinned.

FLASHBACK

The night Karna told him the truth, the air had smelled like rain and iron.

They had met at the abandoned palace, the one half-consumed by vines and silence. Lakshman had already been asleep, bundled safely away with a trusted guard. The three of them stood in the inner courtyard, torches unlit, moonlight doing all the work.

Karna had not spoken at first.

Ashwatthama leaned against a broken pillar, arms crossed, jaw tight. Eklavya stood slightly behind Karna—not in submission, but in support.

Duryodhana noticed everything.

The way Karna’s shoulders were rigid. The way his gaze never quite met his. The way his hands—steady hands that had never trembled in battle—were clenched like he was holding something in by force.

"Say it," Duryodhana finally said.
Karna flinched.

That alone told him this was not a matter of strategy or war.

"It is not about Hastinapur but me," Karna said slowly.

Duryodhana nodded. "Then speak"

Silence stretched.

Ashwatthama straightened. Eklavya’s fingers brushed the hilt of his blade—not in threat, but habit.