Karna's POV
The silence…
It was louder than war drums.
Not the kind of silence that brings peace.
This one was thick. Like smoke after fire. It clung to my skin, heavy with blood and the echo of screams that had died too quickly.
The camp of the Kauravas lay still, like a battlefield paused—breathing, waiting, breaking apart at the seams.
Dussasana's absence was a gaping hole.
His death... savage, messy, poetic in a way only war could write. His blood had drawn the lines of a brother's vengeance, and Bheem had painted his justice in red.
Even the soldiers didn't dare talk today. Not because they were mourning him, but because they knew what came next.
Today, I had to face Arjun.
And only one of us would be alive when the sun set.
I stood outside my tent, eyes fixed on the east. My armor glimmered faintly in the dark, as if even it was unsure whether it should reflect the sun again. The wind was cold against my skin, but inside, I burned. A slow, steady ache. Not of fear… but of everything else.
Guilt.
Regret.
Memories.
The weight of a thousand "what ifs."
I hadn't slept all night.
Not because of fear. But because I had finally allowed myself to think.
To think of her—Kunti. My mother.
Who came to me with trembling lips and dry eyes, asking me to spare her sons… without ever fully claiming me as one of them.
She didn't beg for me. She begged for them.
And yet, even in that moment, I saw the pain behind her words. The pain of a mother torn in half, trying to hold her secret close while saving what remained of her legacy. I should have hated her. But I didn't.
I forgave her in that moment.
And I cursed myself in the next.
For being her son… and still choosing to fight her other sons.
For choosing loyalty over blood.
For choosing Duryodhana over Dharma.
For choosing silence.
I thought I was being noble.
But maybe I was just afraid—afraid of belonging, afraid of betrayal, afraid of becoming what I had always been denied: a brother.
My fists clenched.
Abhimanyu.
I saw his face in my dreams—bloodied, bruised, brave. He had faced us all, with fire in his eyes and death in his lungs. A child with the soul of a king.
And what had I done?
Blocked the last gate.
Watched him die.
Stood still.
I was no murderer. But I wasn't innocent either.
And Draupadi…
How I had hated her then.
But now, after everything, I wondered if that hatred was just shame in disguise. She had stood tall when we dragged her down. And I… I had laughed. I had said what should not be said.
Another silence filled my chest.
I wasn't the hero in her story. I was a scar. A cruel line in her memory.
Vrushali.
My breath caught.
I had left her behind without a promise.
I hadn't even looked back at her face when I rode to war. She had held my hand tighter than ever that day… and I had simply kissed her forehead and left.
What kind of husband does that?
What kind of son leaves without saying goodbye to the woman who raised him—Radha ma—who fed me when the world spat on my birth, who wiped my tears when the world mocked my dreams?
I had become what I hated: a warrior who couldn't protect his own.
And yet, even now, I stood. Because I had made a promise to a friend.
To Duryodhana.
To fight till the end.
To never let him fall alone.
He was not perfect. None of us were. But when the world turned its back on me, he offered me a throne. He gave me a name when others only gave me labels.
Was I selfish for wanting to honor that?
Perhaps.
Perhaps I should have walked away.
But then again… how could I, when no one had ever stayed for me?
The sky had begun to glow. Soft orange bleeding into grey. The wind stirred, and the horses tied nearby neighed, restless. As if sensing what was coming.
And then it came.
That first ray of light.
It fell across my face, warm and golden.
Surya. My father.
He hadn't said anything. But he had come. To see me off. One last time.
My lips parted, but no words came.
I felt something inside me… tremble.
As if time itself paused to ask me:
> 'Is this how your story ends?'
I looked at my hands. Calloused. Steady.
They had built dreams and drawn blood.
I was a son. A brother. A husband. A warrior.
A sinner. A savior.
I was Karna.
And today, I would fight.
But I would also remember.
If death came, I would not run.
But if life spared me… maybe, just maybe, I would learn how to live again.
The wind whispered through the flags of our tents.
The silence cracked as the camp began to stir.
The 17th day had begun.
And I walked toward the field, where destiny waited for me with open arms and a bow drawn.
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