Shantanu's soul dissolved into the higher realms like mist returning to the river it once loved.
For a brief moment, the air around Krishna's tent remained unsettled—as if heaven itself hesitated before closing its gates. Then the night resumed its slow breathing. Stars reclaimed their stillness. The earth lay quiet once more.
Krishna remained seated, unmoving.
He did not watch Shantanu leave.
He had already seen that departure—long before it happened.
Footsteps approached.
Measured. Respectful. Heavy with questions that did not dare announce themselves too loudly.
Daruka, Krishna's charioteer, stopped at the entrance of the tent and bowed deeply. His face bore the strain of a man who had driven gods and warriors alike, yet now found his heart heavier than any battlefield burden.
"Lord," Daruka said softly, "forgive my intrusion."
Krishna opened His eyes and smiled faintly.
"You are never an intrusion, Daruka," He said. "Speak."
Daruka hesitated, then stepped forward.
"The camps sleep," he said. "But the night does not. Rumors travel faster than arrows. Men whisper of destiny… of ruin."
He swallowed.
"Tell me, Madhava—" his voice faltered, "—is this war truly inevitable?"
Krishna looked beyond the tent, beyond the camps, beyond Kurukshetra itself.
"Yes," He answered simply.
Daruka's shoulders sagged.
"But if it is fate," Daruka pressed, "then where does choice stand? Are we all merely carried like leaves in a storm?"
Krishna's smile deepened—not with amusement, but with ancient understanding.
"Fate," He said, "is the river. Choice is how you enter it."
Daruka frowned.
"No one escapes duty," Krishna continued. "No one escapes the weight of what they must become. Destiny is not a chain placed upon the innocent—it is the path revealed to those who walk without turning back."
Daruka nodded slowly, then gathered the courage to speak the thought tormenting him most.
"Lord," he said quietly, "our Narayani Sena stands with the Kauravas."
Krishna did not react.
"They will face the Pandava army," Daruka continued, voice tight. "They will face Arjuna… Bhima… warriors shaped by your guidance."
He paused.
"They will perish."
The word hung between them like a death sentence.
"Even our people," Daruka said, anguish rising, "are bound for destruction in this war. How can this be dharma?"
Krishna's eyes softened.
"Daruka," He said, "everyone here is bound to their own fate."
Daruka shook his head. "But Lord, they will be fighting against you—even if you stand unarmed. How can anyone survive standing opposite Narayana himself?"
Krishna laughed softly—not mockingly, but with cosmic irony.
"Do you think destruction comes from standing against me?" He asked. "Or from standing against truth?"
Daruka lowered his gaze.
"At the day of choice," Krishna said, "I offered myself unarmed on one side—and my Narayani Sena on the other."
His voice sharpened.
"The kings chose."
Krishna leaned forward slightly.
"No one was deceived. No one was forced. Desire chose army. Pride chose power. Fear chose numbers."
Daruka clenched his fists.
"But Lord… Narayani Sena fighting against Narayana—" his voice broke. "—that is only annihilation."
Krishna shook His head.
"No," He said firmly. "It is consequence."
Daruka looked up, eyes wide.
"I am Narayana," Krishna said, voice deepening. "Yes. The source from which life flows. The witness to every breath."
The air vibrated with His words.
"But I do not intervene to protect those who abandon righteousness," Krishna continued. "If I did, karma would lose meaning."
Daruka's heart pounded.
"Only you can stop this war," he said desperately. "Only you have the power!"
Krishna's gaze turned severe.
"No," He said. "Only they can."
Silence followed.
"All beings in this war," Krishna said slowly, "stand here by their own actions. Not mine. Not yours."
He gestured outward, toward the vast sleeping armies.
"No one lacked the strength to oppose Duryodhana. No one lacked the voice to question injustice."
Krishna's eyes burned.
"They lacked the will."
Daruka's breath caught.
"Yudhishthira came here bound by responsibility," Krishna said.
"Duryodhana came bound by ambition."
"Bhishma came bound by vow."
"Drona came bound by attachment."
"None were dragged."
Krishna's tone softened.
"Kritavarma commands the Narayani Sena," He said. "He chose loyalty to his oath over moral clarity."
"And Satyaki?" Daruka asked.
"Satyaki chose his dharma," Krishna replied. "Not his blood. Not his comfort."
Daruka nodded faintly.
"And Balram?" he asked hesitantly.
Krishna's smile returned—gentler now.
"My elder brother," He said, "refused to take part."
Daruka's eyes widened. "He left?"
"Yes," Krishna said. "That was his choice."
Krishna's voice carried a rare tenderness.
"Even avatars do not strip choice from others."
Daruka sat back on his heels, overwhelmed.
"So many Maharathis," he whispered. "Gathered for one war."
Krishna looked skyward.
"The greatest warriors of this age," He said. "Men whose names will echo long after their bones turn to dust."
He paused.
"This war," Krishna said, "will never be fought again."
Daruka stared at Him.
"Never before has such power assembled on one field," Krishna continued. "Never again will it."
The wind stirred.
"After this," Krishna said quietly, "the world will not birth warriors like these."
Daruka understood then.
This was not merely a war.
It was an ending.
"Kali waits," Krishna said softly. "And this war is the last resistance of an age that still remembers dharma."
Daruka bowed deeply, forehead touching the earth.
"I understand," he said.
Krishna rose.
Outside, the night began to thin. Dawn was approaching—slow, merciless.
"Go," Krishna said. "Rest."
Daruka hesitated, then asked one final question.
"And you, Lord?" he asked. "How will history remember you?"
Krishna smiled—a smile filled with sorrow and infinity.
"As the one who did not lift a weapon," He said.
"And yet, changed everything."
Daruka departed.
Krishna stood alone once more.
Beyond Kurukshetra, unseen by mortals, something ancient watched with anticipation.
Kali Purush smiled.
The board was set.
The players were ready.
And the war that would break the world had already begun—
not with arrows,
but with choices.