The Pandava army stretched across the plain like a dark ocean. Banners in every color — saffron, crimson, deep blue — snapped and shuddered in the morning wind. Elephants swayed in the front lines, their war paint still wet, tusks capped with iron. Behind them, thousands of chariots gleamed in the pale dawn light, their wheels freshly oiled, their horses stamping and snorting in the dust.

Duryodhana stood in his own chariot and stared. His gold armor felt heavier than usual. Sweat prickled on his palms where they gripped the railing. He counted the enemy banners, and then counted again, and the number did not shrink.

He clenched his jaw. He wanted to say something commanding, something a prince should say before battle. But no words came. Instead, he stepped down from his chariot. His sandals hit the dry earth, raising a small cloud of red dust. He could feel the weight of his armor with every step — the bronze plates pressing against his shoulders, the leather straps biting into his skin.

He walked past his own generals. Past Karna, who raised an eyebrow. Past his brother Dushasana, who called out, "Where are you going?" Duryodhana did not answer.

He walked until he reached the chariot of Dronacharya — his teacher. The old warrior sat still as stone, his white hair tied back, his bow resting across his knees. Drona looked at Duryodhana and said nothing. He simply waited.

For one heartbeat, Duryodhana hesitated. A part of him knew that Drona's heart was divided. This was the man who had trained both sides — who had taught Arjuna to shoot arrows by starlight, who had loved the Pandavas like his own sons. Running to Drona for comfort was like running to a river that flowed in both directions.

But Duryodhana was not looking for wisdom. He was looking for someone to tell him everything would be all right. And there is a world of difference between the two.