"Help! Somebody — help me!"

The king's voice echoed off the wet stone walls of the ravine, bouncing back at him like a mockery. Far above, the sky was a thin strip of white between the cliff edges. Far below, a river churned over black rocks, the sound of it rising like a low growl. King Vikram clung to a narrow ledge halfway down, his hunting cloak torn, his right ankle twisted beneath him. His horse had stumbled on a rotten log, and he had tumbled over the edge before he could grab the reins.

A face appeared above — Ramu, his servant of twenty years, a quiet man with calloused hands and a thin grey beard. Ramu did not call down to ask if the king was all right. He did not run for rope. He simply swung his legs over the edge and began to climb down.

The cliff face was slick with moss and dripping water. Ramu pressed his fingers into the cracks between the stones, searching for holds. Loose gravel crumbled under his sandals, rattling down into the river far below. A thornbush growing from the rock face tore across his forearm, leaving a line of bright red beads. He kept going. His shoulders burned. His fingers ached, then went numb. Halfway down, a handhold broke away and he slid two body lengths, scraping his chest raw against the stone before catching himself on a jutting root. He hung there for a moment, breathing hard, blood on his fingertips.

Then he kept climbing.

When he reached the ledge, he crouched beside the king without a word, hoisted Vikram onto his back, and began the long climb up. Every muscle in his legs shook. The king's weight pressed him into the rock. He could smell the wet stone, the iron scent of his own blood, the cold breath of the river below. One handhold at a time. One foothold at a time. The strip of sky above grew wider, and wider, and then Ramu's hand closed over the top edge of the cliff, and he pulled them both into the grass.

The next day, the king held a great feast. "This man risked his life for my sake!" he announced to the court.

Ramu stood quietly at the edge of the hall, his forearm still wrapped in linen bandages. When the cheering faded, he shook his head.

"I did not climb down for you, Your Majesty. I climbed down because a man was trapped on a ledge and I could hear him calling. Even if you had been a stranger — even if you had been no one — I would have gone down."

Duryodhana says his warriors are ready to die "for my sake" — madarthe. He believed their loyalty was about him. But the truest loyalty is never about a person. It is about what is right. And the difference between the two can be as wide as a ravine.