"It is desire," Krishna said. "And its twin is anger."

His eyes were dark — not with anger, but with the gravity of a physician naming the disease at last.

A wind moved through the ranks of soldiers, carrying the smell of dust and iron. The war horses shifted uneasily, as though even they could feel the weight of what was being spoken.

"They are born from rajas — the fire in the blood, the restlessness that makes you want things, grab things, claim things as your own. Desire arrives first, wearing a smile. It whispers: 'Just this one thing, and you will be happy.' So you reach for it. And when you cannot have it — or when someone takes it away — desire peels off its mask, and underneath is anger."

Krishna picked up a handful of dry earth from the chariot floor and let it trickle through his fingers. "A fire in the forest does not say, 'I have burned enough trees. I will stop now.' It does not stop. It eats and eats until there is nothing left. Desire is that fire, Arjuna. It is mahashana — the great devourer. The more you give it, the larger it grows."

Arjuna looked down at his own hands. Strong hands. Warrior hands. Hands that had drawn Gandiva ten thousand times and never once missed a target. But this enemy — this one could not be struck by any arrow.

"So where does it live?" he asked quietly.

"Everywhere," said Krishna. "In the taste that makes you want a second sweet when one was enough. In the pride that makes you replay a victory long after the contest is over. In the rage that floods your chest when someone speaks a careless word. It lives wherever you are not paying attention."

The conch shells were silent now. Even the wind had stopped, as though the battlefield itself was listening.

"Know this enemy," Krishna said, and his voice held the steady force of a hand placed on a shaking shoulder. "Do not look for it on the other side of the field. It is here." He placed his hand over his own heart. "And until you face it here, every other battle is a distraction."