They called it a test.

  But no one asked Bhal if he wanted it.

  No one asked any of us.

  It came as a challenge—dressed in silk words, wrapped in the authority of a prince.

  And when a prince asks a question like that, it’s not a question.

  It’s a command in disguise.

  The AnnouncementIt happened on a bright morning, the kind where dust floats like gold in the sun, and sweat clings to skin before the first weapon is drawn.

  We were setting up the courtyard for sparring drills. Arjuna was oiling his bowstring. Bhima was pacing like a caged bull. I was ying out staves for the aides to use when Duryodhana walked into the yard with an unusually sharp grin.

  “Acharya,” he said, “may I request something different today?”

  Drona looked up from his scrolls.

  “Speak.”

  “The aides—we speak of them often. Some say they’ve grown bold. Others say they’re sharp.”

  His eyes flicked to us—me, Bhal, Chaitra, Riksha.

  “I wish to spar one of them. A friendly test. To compare their growth to ours.”

  Drona’s eyes narrowed. Not angry—measuring.

  “And whom do you wish to spar?”

  Duryodhana pointed directly at Bhal.

  “The one who trains beside Bhima. I hear he hits like a second thunder.”

  Bhima stood abruptly.

  “He’s not here for your games.”

  “He’s here to serve,” Duryodhana said coolly. “Let him prove what he’s learned.”

  Bhal didn’t look at anyone. He just stepped forward and said:

  “I accept.”

  The Match BeginsDrona signaled to clear the ring. No weapons. Just strength, movement, control.

  Bhal removed his upper tunic and stepped barefoot into the courtyard. Duryodhana did the same, chest puffed, cracking his neck as if entering a feast.

  Around the ring, murmurs began.

  The aides lined the back.

  The Pandavas stood in silence.

  Ashwatthama leaned against a column, arms crossed, unreadable.

  Drona nodded.

  “Begin.”

  The CshDuryodhana struck first.

  He moved like a man who expected to win. Fast, heavy-handed, aggressive. Bhal blocked the first few blows, stepping back, absorbing pressure like a wall that hadn’t decided if it should colpse.

  Then he pivoted.

  Landed a clean blow to Duryodhana’s ribs.

  The crowd gasped.

  Duryodhana snarled. Came again, harder.

  Bhal ducked. Spun. Elbowed into the shoulder.

  Another point.

  Bhima muttered at the edge:

  “That’s it. Keep your hips low.”

  Arjuna murmured:

  “He’s reading Duryodhana’s lead leg. Smart.”

  The third exchange was slower. Duryodhana adjusted. He began feinting—testing. Bhal caught one, missed the second, and took a fist across the temple.

  He stumbled.

  Duryodhana grinned.

  He moved in for the finisher.

  But Bhal held.

  Didn’t fall.

  Didn’t yield.

  He raised his fists again.

  And Duryodhana—furious now—tackled him into the ground.

  The match ended there.

  Not in a knockout.

  But in a standstill.

  Because Drona raised a hand and said:

  “Enough.”

  The ReactionsBhal y breathing, blood in his mouth.

  But his eyes were calm.

  Duryodhana stood above him—not victorious, just loud.

  “You see?” he barked. “He’s just a servant.”

  Bhima walked past Duryodhana without a word.

  He crouched next to Bhal.

  Helped him up.

  “You didn’t win,” Bhima muttered. “But you stood. That’s enough.”

  Chaitra spped Bhal’s shoulder as he passed. Riksha grinned like it was their victory.

  I said nothing.

  But I saw Drona watching all of it.

  And I saw Ashwatthama coming toward me.

  Ashwatthama and MeHe didn’t announce himself.

  He just stopped beside me, arms folded, head tilted slightly.

  “What are you?”

  I looked at him.

  “A shadow.”

  “That’s what you call it. But that’s not what you act like.”

  “How do I act, then?”

  “Like someone waiting to be seen. But too smart to step forward.”

  I said nothing.

  He studied me for a long moment.

  “Why don’t you challenge them? Why don’t you ask to be trained properly?”

  “Because we weren’t born to be taught.”

  “You accept that?”

  “No. I endure it.”

  He nodded.

  Then:

  “Bhal’s form—his footwork was tight. You’ve been watching.”

  “I observe.”

  “You guide them?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’d rather the world be surprised by them than pity them.”

  He smiled. A rare thing on that face.

  “You’re a quiet kind of dangerous.”

  Then he left.

  Drona’s Private ThoughtLater, Drona stood in the empty ring.

  Everyone had gone.

  He looked down at the dusty footprints, the dried blood, the discarded cloth.

  He thought of Duryodhana’s power.

  Bhima’s fire.

  Arjuna’s brilliance.

  And then he thought of Bhal—a boy who had no title, no armor, no legacy.

  But who stood.

  Who bled and rose again.

  And he whispered to himself:

  “The lesson today wasn’t Bhal’s.

  It was Duryodhana’s.”

  Then he turned.

  And for the first time in years, he restructured his teaching pns.

  Not for the aides.

  For the princes.