They say a prince’s words weigh more than steel.

  But I’ve learned: gold cuts deeper.

  It was te evening when Duryodhana called for me.

  The courtyard behind the western barracks was empty, save for the flicker of dying torchlight. The kind of pce where secrets didn’t echo. Where shadows watched but never spoke.

  He was alone.

  Or rather, his guards were near enough to matter, but far enough to pretend they weren’t part of it.

  I bowed as expected.

  He didn’t waste time.

  “You’ve been around Arjuna,” he said. “Close enough to see how he trains. What Drona shows him. What he favors. How he thinks.”

  I didn’t answer.

  Not yet.

  He reached into a pouch at his side and held it out. The bag clinked.

  “You’re not like the others. You’re sharp. Quiet. Useful. This is for you—if you tell me how he moves. What drills he repeats. What weaknesses he shows when he thinks no one sees.”

  I looked at the pouch.Then at him.

  Then I said:

  “I have nothing for you.”

  Silence.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Nothing? Or nothing you’ll share?”

  “He’s faster than you. More focused. And you already know that. No pouch can fix it.”

  He didn’t speak. Just blinked.

  And then he hit me.

  The first blow was open-handed. Fast. A prince’s sp—meant to sting, not break.

  I didn’t fall.

  So the second was a fist.

  When It BrokeHe kicked me in the ribs.

  I stumbled.

  One of his guards flinched but didn’t move. Another looked away.

  I stayed upright.

  So he grabbed my colr and smmed me against the wall.

  “You think you’re better than me?” he hissed.

  “No,” I whispered. “I just don’t need your gold.”

  The third hit split my lip. The fourth blurred my sight.

  I fell.

  And that’s when I saw him.

  Yudhishthira.

  He had walked into the courtyard unnoticed, his face unreadable. He stood maybe ten steps away—arms folded, expression carved from stone.

  He saw everything.

  He didn’t move.

  And I—on the ground, bleeding from the mouth, cheek against the cold stone—met his eyes.

  And I shook my head.

  Barely.

  Mouthed: “Don’t.”

  He clenched his fist.

  But he obeyed.

  After Duryodhana LeftDuryodhana dropped the pouch beside me.

  Not out of mercy.

  Out of mockery.

  Then he turned and left, boots echoing on stone, satisfied.

  The guards followed.

  Yudhishthira didn’t.

  He walked over slowly. Knelt beside me.

  For a moment, he said nothing. He just looked at the bruise on my face, the cut on my lip.

  Then he reached out with a clean cloth.

  I pushed his hand away.

  He frowned.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m the type to take care of my own wounds.”

  “Because I’m royal and you’re not?”

  “No.”

  I sat up, slowly, wincing with each breath.

  “Because if I let you clean my blood, it becomes yours.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “I know what you meant. But it’s not what it becomes.”

  Dharma vs. RealismHe sat across from me, cross-legged now. The cloth still in his hand.

  “A man should help another when he sees injustice,” he said.

  “A man should know which battles belong to him.”

  “This did.”

  “Then why did you wait?”

  He didn’t answer.

  So I continued.

  “Because you’re thinking of bance. Of duty. Of what your role allows.”

  “I was thinking of whether stepping in would make it worse—for you.”

  “It would’ve. And I thank you for not doing it.”

  He exhaled. Quietly.

  Then:

  “You believe in nothing, then?”

  “I believe in choices. And I believe some of us don’t get the luxury of waiting for dharma to guide us.”

  “And what guides you?”

  “Survival.”

  He was quiet for a long time.

  Then he offered the cloth again.

  This time, I took it.

  Not because I needed it.

  But because we’d both said enough.

  What Was Left BehindThat night, I left the pouch of gold where it fell.

  And I wrote:

  “Power does not ask. It offers. And then it punishes.

  Dharma waits for the right moment.

  But pain does not.

  Today, I bled quietly.

  Not because I was weak.

  But because I chose not to be owned.”