The conches had fallen silent for a moment, and in that pause the whole field seemed to hold its breath. A crow flapped low over the chariots and disappeared into the grey morning. Arjuna watched it go.

"May I ask you something?" he said.

Krishna turned. The reins rested across his knees, and the white horses stood quiet, ears flicking. "You may always ask."

Arjuna pressed his lips together, gathering his thoughts the way a man gathers scattered arrows. "You keep showing me two doors," he said at last. "Through one door, a person walks away from everything — sets down the bow, sets down the kingdom, sits beneath a tree and lets the world spin on without him. You speak of that with such warmth that I want to walk through it."

He lifted his hand toward the second, invisible door.

"But through the other, a person stays. He works. He fights. He carries the weight of every choice — only he carries it lightly, without grabbing at the rewards. You praise that one too. With the same warmth."

A breeze moved across the plain, lifting the edge of the chariot's banner.

"I am a simple soldier, Krishna. When I draw my bow, I aim at one mark, not two. I cannot walk through both doors at once. So I am asking you — plainly, the way you would tell a child which road leads home — which is better? Not 'both are good.' Not 'it depends.' One answer. The one I should follow."

He let his hand fall.

"Tell me, and tell me for certain. I have stopped trusting my own mind today. I would rather trust yours."

Krishna looked at him for a long, kind moment, as a teacher looks at a student who has finally asked the right question. The horses shifted. Far off, a drum began to beat.

And the answer, when it came, would not be the one Arjuna expected.