The pace didn't feel like a pce people lived in.It felt like a pce built to remember power—even in silence.

  The stones were too clean. The air too still. And every voice that echoed through the halls sounded like it had been swallowed a little before it reached your ears.

  When the summons came, my mother made me bathe twice. My father combed my hair with his fingers until it y ft, like he thought disorder would offend a royal advisor.

  “Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to,” he warned as we walked through the lower courtyard. “Don’t try to be clever. Just answer.”

  I didn’t argue. But I had already decided I would speak.

  Because if this world was made of shadows, Vidura was the one who moved in them without fear.

  The Room Without a ThroneVidura’s chamber was not like the others. No gold. No weapon racks. Just scrolls. Low shelves. A rge open window that caught the breeze like it was listening.

  He didn’t look up when we entered.

  “Let the boy speak,” he said calmly.

  My father gnced at me, then stepped back.

  I stood alone.

  Vidura looked at me—not as a child, but as someone with weight.Not like I mattered. But like I might.

  “You built the cy fire with the vent?”

  “Yes.”

  “The warm floor?”

  “Yes.”

  “The cooled air window?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded once, fingers tapping the table.

  “Why?”

  That was the question.

  I could have said curiosity. Or cleverness. Or gift.But I looked at him and answered pinly.

  “Because my mother was coughing every night. And my father’s arm was rotting. And I didn’t want us to die for the sake of tradition.”

  He stared for a long moment.

  Then:

  “You do not think like a warrior’s son.”

  “I am not trying to be one.”

  “But you’re registered for training.”

  “That was not my decision.”

  Silence again.

  Then, something rare: a smile.Small. Sharp. But not cruel.

  “Do you wish to become more than a warrior, Avyakta?”

  I paused.

  Because that question was too big. Too early.

  I thought of my grandmother.Of stories she told me of kings, gods, monsters—and men who were forgotten between the lines.

  Then I answered:

  “I wish to become someone who is not stepped over.”

  He didn’t smile this time. But he leaned forward.

  “Then do not try to be noticed.Be necessary.”

  A Boy with Golden EarsWhen I left his chamber, my father was waiting near the outer wall. But before I reached him, I saw another boy across the stables.

  He was about my age—small, wiry, with sharp eyes and gold earrings that glinted like tiny suns. He was helping feed the horses, moving with speed and silence, pcing water troughs and cutting rope with a bde too dull for war.

  Karna.

  Even without the armor he would one day wear, even without the title or bow, I knew him.

  He felt like someone the wind moved around, not through.

  I stood watching.

  And after a moment, he looked up.

  Our eyes met.

  And then—to my surprise—he walked toward me.

  “Why are you staring?” he asked.

  Not rude. Just blunt.

  I hesitated.

  Then answered simply:

  “I’ve never seen golden earrings before.”

  He looked at me a moment longer.

  “They were with me when I was born. I don’t take them off.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they belong to me.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Karna. Yours?”

  “Avyakta.”

  “Strange name.”

  “Yours too.”

  And then, for no reason at all, we smiled at the same time.

  The Shadow That Covered EverythingWe were just standing there—two five-year-olds talking about nothing and everything.

  And then the light disappeared.

  Not because it dimmed.

  But because something rge had moved between us and the sun.

  We turned at the same time.

  Bhishma.

  He was taller than any man should be. His skin pale like aged ivory, his beard falling like a white river, eyes cold and vast like a mountain ke in winter.

  And behind him—two other men.

  One was my father, looking stiff and nervous.The other was a charioteer—Karna’s father, I guessed, with weathered skin and strong hands.

  Bhishma looked down at both of us.

  Then asked, simply:

  “What is going on?”

  No one answered at first.

  Then Karna, unblinking, said:

  “We were just talking.”

  Bhishma looked at me.

  “About what?”

  “Our names,” I said. “And why we were given them.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “That’s not something most boys your age ask.”

  “I’m not most boys.”

  He studied me for a long time. Then looked at my father.

  “Your son is sharp.”

  “Yes, Pitamaha,” my father said. “Sometimes too much.”

  “He may have use,” Bhishma said.

  Then he turned, said nothing more, and walked away.

  The moment passed like thunder after lightning.

  But I knew something had changed.

  I had met Karna.

  I had spoken to Vidura.

  And Bhishma had seen me.

  Not remembered.

  Not praised.

  But seen.

  And in a world of legends, sometimes that was enough to start a ripple in the river.