Night cloaked Hastinapura in a stillness so deep it seemed the city held its breath. Inside the palace, a torchlit chamber glowed with a soft, flickering warmth, its stone walls bearing faded carvings of warriors locked in timeless battles—spears raised, chariots charging, their faces etched with fierce resolve. The air was cool and quiet, the distant hum of the Ganga swallowed by the thick walls, and a low wooden table sat at the room's heart, holding a single lamp. Its flame danced, casting long, lean shadows that stretched across the floor, shifting with every breath of the gathered princes.
Drona stood before them, his tattered white robes catching the torchlight in faint, uneven glints. His gray hair was tied back, as always, but loose strands framed his face, giving him a weary, almost haunted look. His staff leaned against the wall, its polished wood gleaming faintly, and his hands rested at his sides, though they twitched now and then, as if restless with memory. The Kuru princes—Pandavas and Kauravas—sat on cushions around the table, their supper finished, their faces flushed from the day's storm-soaked training. They watched him, expectant, their chatter fading as he raised a hand for silence.
Bhima sprawled across his cushion, his massive frame spilling over its edges, his tunic still damp from the meadow's downpour. He popped a leftover morsel of bread into his mouth, chewing loudly before speaking. "What's this about, guru?" he said, his voice booming through the quiet. "After that storm, I thought we'd earned a rest, not a gathering!"
Drona's dark eyes flicked to him, soft but heavy with something unspoken. "Rest comes later," he said, his tone low and steady. "Tonight, you listen. I've shown you my skill. Now I'll show you why it matters." He paused, his gaze sweeping over them—Bhima's curious grin, Arjuna's attentive stillness, Duryodhana's guarded smirk, Yudhishthira's gentle focus, Nakula and Sahadeva's shared glance. "You need to know who I am."
Arjuna sat cross-legged, his lean form taut with interest, his bow resting beside him like a faithful companion. "We know you're a master," he said, his voice quiet but clear. "That's enough for me."
"It's not," Drona replied, his tone firming. "Skill's only half the story. The rest is where it came from." He stepped closer to the table, the lamp's light casting his shadow long and lean across the wall, its edges sharp against the carvings. "Sit still. Hear me out."
Yudhishthira leaned forward, his neat tunic smoothed despite the day's trials, his dark eyes warm with curiosity. "We're listening," he said, his voice gentle and steady. "Tell us, guru."
Drona took a breath, his hands clasping behind his back, and began. "I wasn't born to this," he said, his voice soft but weighted with memory. "No palace, no riches. My father, Bharadvaja, was a sage—a man of wisdom, not wealth. I grew up with little, but I had hunger. Hunger to learn, to rise." He paused, his eyes distant, as if seeing the past flicker in the lamp's flame. "That hunger led me to Parashurama."
Bhima's brows shot up, his bread forgotten. "Parashurama?" he said, his voice loud with surprise. "The axe-wielder? The one who fought kings?"
"The same," Drona said, nodding. "He was more than a warrior. He was a storm in a man's shape—fierce, unyielding. He took me as a pupil, one of many, but I stayed longest. He taught me the bow, the blade, the staff. And the astras—weapons of the gods, powers that could split mountains, summon fire, drown the earth in rain." His voice grew heavier, his fists clenching at his sides. "I mastered them. Every one."
Arjuna's eyes gleamed with respect, his hands tightening around his knees. "That's incredible," he said, his tone hushed. "You wielded them? All of them?"
"I did," Drona said, meeting his gaze. "Parashurama gave me what no king could—knowledge, strength, a purpose. But it wasn't enough." He turned away, his shadow shifting on the wall, its edges blurring as the lamp flickered. "I had a friend then. Drupada. We trained together, laughed together, swore we'd stand as equals. He was a prince, I a Brahmin's son, but it didn't matter. Not then."
Duryodhana leaned back, his arms crossed, a sly smirk tugging at his lips. "A prince and a Brahmin?" he said, his voice low and edged. "That's a tale I've heard before. What went wrong?"
Drona's jaw tightened, his hands unclenching only to curl again. "Life went wrong," he said, his tone bitter now, sharp as a blade's edge. "Drupada became king of Panchala. I fell to poverty. My robes turned to rags, my home to dust. I went to him, years later, seeking aid—not as a beggar, but as a friend. He laughed." His voice dropped, a raw wound laid bare. "Laughed at me, his equal, standing there in tatters. He called me lesser, a shadow of what he'd become."
Bhima slammed a fist on the table, the lamp rattling, its flame flaring high. "He did what?" he said, his voice loud and outraged. "I'd smash him for that, guru! King or not, no one mocks a friend like that!"
Drona's lips twitched, a faint, bitter smile. "I thought the same," he said. "But I had no army, no gold. Just my skill. And my shame."
Arjuna shifted, his voice soft but firm. "You're more than he ever was," he said, his eyes locked on Drona's. "He's the lesser one, not you."
Drona met his gaze, a flicker of gratitude passing through his expression. "Kind words, prince," he said. "But they don't erase the sting." He turned back to the group, his voice hardening. "Drupada's laughter drove me. I swore I'd rise again, prove him wrong. I wandered, taught where I could, honed what Parashurama gave me. And now I'm here."
Duryodhana's smirk widened, his tone sly and intrigued. "Vengeance, eh?" he said. "I like that. A king brought low by a Brahmin's bow. That's a story worth telling."
Yudhishthira frowned, his hands folding in his lap, his voice gentle but probing. "Couldn't peace heal it, guru?" he said. "Forgiveness, maybe? Instead of vengeance?"
Drona fell silent, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the lamp. The room chilled, the air thickening with his unspoken answer, and the princes shifted, their breaths shallow. Beside him, a boy with wild hair—Ashwatthama—gripped his staff tighter, his knuckles whitening, his fierce loyalty a silent echo of his father's pain.
"No," Drona said at last, his voice a quiet thunder. "Some wounds cut too deep. Peace is a dream for those who haven't bled." He straightened, his shadow looming larger on the wall. "You'll be my vengeance. I'll forge you into warriors no king can laugh at. You'll carry what I've lost, and you'll make it greater."
Bhima leaned forward, his indignation still burning. "We'll do it," he said, his voice fierce. "I'll break anyone who mocks you, guru. Just say the word!"
Arjuna nodded, his tone steady. "I'll learn for you," he said. "Your skill, your strength—it's worth honoring."
Duryodhana chuckled, a low, dark sound. "I'll take that challenge," he said. "Vengeance suits me. Let's see Drupada laugh when we're done."
Yudhishthira sat back, his frown deepening, though his voice stayed warm. "I'll follow you," he said, "but I hope there's more than vengeance in this, guru. Something brighter."
Nakula stretched, his voice light despite the tension. "Sounds like a big job," he said, nudging Sahadeva. "Think we're up for it?"
Sahadeva grinned, his tone quick and bright. "We'll keep up," he said. "Might even add a twist or two."
Drona stepped back, his hands clasping behind him again, his gaze sweeping over them all. "Disperse now," he said, his voice soft but heavy with purpose. "Sleep on this. Think on what I've told you. It's yours to carry."
The princes rose, their cushions rustling, their minds buzzing with the weight of his tale. Bhima clapped Arjuna on the shoulder, his voice loud in the quiet. "That's a fire worth stoking, eh?" he said. "Drupada's got it coming!"
Arjuna smiled faintly, his eyes still on Drona. "It's more than fire," he said. "It's a reason. I'll remember it."
Duryodhana lingered, his smirk fading into a thoughtful frown. "Vengeance," he murmured, almost to himself. "That's a goal I can hold to."
Yudhishthira paused at the door, glancing back, his tone gentle. "Sleep well, guru," he said. "We'll carry it, one way or another."
Nakula and Sahadeva slipped out together, their voices a soft chatter. "Big story," Nakula said. "Big plans too."
"Big enough for us," Sahadeva replied, his grin widening. "Let's see where it goes."
The chamber emptied, the torchlight flickering as the princes' footsteps faded down the corridor—Bhima's loud outrage, Arjuna's quiet respect, Duryodhana's sly intrigue, Yudhishthira's compassionate doubt, Nakula and Sahadeva's light banter. Drona stood alone, save for Ashwatthama, who moved to his side, his staff still in hand, his loyalty a silent flame. The lamp burned low, its shadows stretching long and lean, and in that stillness, Drona's past bound them all, a shared wound igniting their resolve, though Yudhishthira's hope lingered like a whisper against the dark.