"वर्षाद् विषमसंकटे वीरो वज्रं समनाथ सदा।
द्रौपद्या पुत्रेण सह, न तस्य पर्व न तु वातः॥"
"In storms and crises stands the hero like unyielding steel—
Beside the scion of fate, none can shake him—neither mountain nor gale."
The forest clearing lay drenched in dusk's half-light, as though the sun had paused in its descent to watch what was to come. Karna, stripped of hopes and resplendent armor alike, pressed his back against the broad trunk of a banyan tree, the rough bark hard against his spine. His bow lay at his feet like an abandoned oath. Drona's words echoed through him still—his lineage denied, his blood declared unworthy before the princes of Hastinapur.
"Your blood will never validate your art." The memory seared through the evening quiet.
He looked down at his hands, once steadfast, now trembling. Unbidden tears of rage and anguish welled in his chest. He closed his eyes, attempting to breathe past the affront, past the knives of jealousy and caste that cut deeper than any blade.
A low call split the air. Karna's eyes flew open.
A figure stood at the edge of the clearing. No rustling preceded him—no footfall. The man was draped in charcoal robes that melted into the forest's shadows, and eyes, as dark and fathomless as storm clouds, fixed upon the prince.
Instinct roared. Karna sprang forward, seizing the silent man by the shoulders. The other did not resist, did not flinch. Instead, a gentle smile curved his lips—and in that smile, the fire in Karna's veins extinguished like a candle in wind.
"Let this go," the voice murmured, soft as temple chime. "Anger is a weapon that first wounds the hand that wields it."
Karna recoiled, breath caught, the forest's silence swallowing him.
"Who are you to speak so freely?" he demanded, voice fierce even beneath the tremor. "What have you entered my solitude for?"
The stranger did not bow. He drew himself up, though no motion broke the stillness around him.
"A traveler between ages. Call me Kakbhushundi. I come with a proposition."
Karna let his hands drop, faintly curious, still wary. "Speak, then."
"I will tell you a story," Kakbhushundi began, leaning against the same banyan, "of a son abandoned by birth, yet destined to stand with princes. Of a warrior whose arrows whispered legends, but whose name was measured less by blood than by honor. His strength shattered gods' heirs—yet his promise broke when he swore for friendship against bloodline."
Karna's breath stuttered. He pressed his fist into the tree's bark.
"Speak plainly," he said, voice low. "Is this my fate?"
Kakbhushundi nodded, voice calm as midnight moonlight:
"He stood in battle for his chosen brother, even when that brother loved another. He gave his pride, his promise—his very identity—for the name he chose to uphold. And yet, none claimed him. The world called him myth, not man. Forgotten."
A silence, heavy as funeral shrouds, fell. Karna swallowed, every instinct raging. "If that is me—then why tell me this?"
The sage closed his eyes, as though peering into distant stars.
"Decide," he said slowly. "Will you choose friendship, and wear its cost like a crown? Or will you honor dharma, even if blood calls you elsewhere?"
Karna's heart thundered against steel ribs. His fingers tightened until his nails bit into his palms.
He lifted his gaze, eyes solid with truth.
"I choose dharma."
Kakbhushundi's smile deepened, shadows retreating in its warmth.
"Then we shall see," he murmured. "Go now to the ashrama of the Storm-Sage. There, you will learn what loyalty costs—and what legacy demands."
He motioned toward the forest's path, darkening with night.
Karna rose, voice steady though his soul still quaked. "I will go."
The sage nodded once, and stepped back. In his wake drifted a single red leaf, caught in a stray lantern's glow. And then he was gone—vanished into the forest as though he had never stood there.
Karna closed his eyes. The silence settled, no longer full of despair, but charged—ready. He retrieved his bow, feeling its familiar weight as though reclaiming a part of himself.
A distant thunder rolled beyond the trees, soft and endless, and he lifted his face to the sky. Every journey begins with a decision, he thought.
Ahead lay the ashrama and its storms, but he would not falter. Not again.
For tonight, he chose dharma.
And tomorrow, he would claim his destiny.