The sun rose gently over Hastinapura, casting golden light over mud courtyards and stone palaces alike. But the rays did not care for caste — they lit king and servant the same. Young Karna, however, was quickly learning that humans did not share the sun's fairness.
He was thirteen now — tall for his age, already broad-shouldered, and unusually composed. The other boys in the village still played with wooden swords. Karna, on the other hand, meditated at dawn, trained alone with weighted staffs, and studied the sky like it held answers to questions he hadn't yet asked.
Adhiratha, his foster father, was proud. But Radha… Radha saw something else. When she brushed Karna's hair, she noticed how he didn't flinch at pain. When he prayed, he prayed like someone who wasn't asking for blessings — but remembering his right to them.
---
That morning, something inside Karna burned.
He'd gone to the local guru's pathshala, eager to join the royal boys in archery practice. The teacher, a Brahmin with faded white robes and sharper eyes, stopped him at the gate.
"You? Here?" The teacher looked him over, noting the simple cotton dhoti, the callused hands. "The sons of charioteers do not learn the art of war. This is for kshatriyas."
Karna bowed politely. "What if I'm better than them?"
Laughter rang from behind. A voice said, "You think skill matters when your blood is mud?"
Karna turned. A boy stood there — elegant silks, jeweled earrings, a princely walk. He was about Karna's age, but his eyes carried the weight of entitlement.
"You must be Duryodhana," Karna said, calmly.
The boy paused. "And you're the boy who doesn't know his place."
Karna should have turned away. This wasn't his fight — not yet. But the old fire in him stirred.
"I know exactly where I stand. That's why I'm dangerous."
---
The tension should have sparked cruelty — a prince mocking a peasant. But something shifted. Duryodhana didn't insult him again. Instead, he studied Karna as one might study a tiger in a cage.
"Come," he said after a pause. "Let's see how dangerous you are with a bow."
They walked to the practice yard. Karna noticed the awkward silence from the other students. Some sneered. Some whispered. But Duryodhana's presence shielded him, for now.
The prince handed him a training bow. "Hit that post."
Karna nodded, drew the string back — and fired.
The arrow split the post cleanly, embedding itself in the tree behind it.
Another silence. This time not from contempt — but disbelief.
Duryodhana's eyes widened. Then… he grinned. Not with envy, but something else.
Recognition.
---
They spent the next hour trading shots, laughing, competing, forgetting — for a brief moment — the world and its cruel divisions. Karna had met many people in his two lives, but never someone like this. Duryodhana was arrogant, yes — but it was the kind of arrogance that came from being unloved in all the wrong ways.
He wasn't evil. He was angry. And for good reason.
That night, under the stars, Karna sat outside the hut, sharpening his arrows. Radha joined him, handing him warm milk.
"You met the prince today."
He nodded. "Yes. He doesn't seem like the demon people call him."
"He's not. Just born with too much pride and not enough love."
Karna looked at her. "Then maybe that's what I'm meant to give him."
Radha raised a brow. "Give him what? Love?"
"No," Karna said softly. "Truth. A mirror. A chance to be something more than what they fear."
She smiled. "You speak like an old man trapped in a young body."
Karna laughed. If only she knew.
---
The path ahead was becoming clearer. He would still seek knowledge. Still seek power. But not just for himself.
He had seen where blind dharma led. He had seen where silence in the face of injustice ends. He would not be silent.
And he would not let Duryodhana fall — not this time.