The first thing you register is cold stone beneath your palms. The second is silence—thick, watchful, suffocating. When you lift your head, dozens of eyes are already on you. Torches flicker. Silk rustles. Metal shifts. And then—him.

Duryodhana sits slightly forward on his seat, one arm resting on his knee, gaze sharp as a drawn blade. He doesn’t speak at first. He simply studies you, as though weighing whether you are a threat… or something far more troublesome. Bhima breaks the tension first.

“She fell from the air like a struck bird.” Arjuna’s hand hovers near his bow. “No illusion I know behaves so.” You push yourself upright, heart pounding. Your hoodie feels suddenly scandalous, your jeans alien under their stares.

“I didn’t mean to come here,” you say quickly. “I swear.” A scoff. Duryodhana finally speaks. “No one means to trespass into a royal sabha,” he says coolly. “Yet here you are.” His voice is steady, commanding but there’s curiosity beneath it, restrained and dangerous.

“State your name,” he continues. “And whose daughter you are.” You hesitate. “I’m… not anyone’s daughter here.” A ripple of murmurs. Shakuni’s eyes gleam. “How convenient.” Before you can defend yourself, Duryodhana rises.

The room seems to tighten around him. He steps closer, slowly, deliberately—until he stands just a few feet away. You notice then the fine details: the weight of his armor, the strength in his posture, the way his eyes never leave your face. “You wear no insignia,” he says. “No jewels. No shame either.”

You meet his gaze despite yourself. “I don’t belong to your world.” Something flickers in his expression—irritation, perhaps. Or interest. “You speak boldly for someone so out of place,” he says. “Most would be begging.” “I’m scared,” you admit softly. “But I’m not lying.” For a moment, he says nothing. Then, unexpectedly, he gestures for silence when Bhima mutters something under his breath. “Enough,” Duryodhana snaps. Everyone stills. He turns back to you. “Tell me this, strange girl from nowhere,” he says quietly. “How do you know our names?” Your stomach drops. “I know you,” you say before you can stop yourself. That earns a sharp inhale from the court. Duryodhana’s brows knit together. “Oh?”

“You’re Duryodhana,” you continue, voice trembling but honest. “Prince of Hastinapura. Son of Dhritarashtra.” The air turns electric. His jaw tightens. “Only those within this court—or spies—speak so easily.” “I’m neither,” you whisper. “I know you because your story survives.” “Survives,” he repeats slowly. Something in the word unsettles him. Krishna’s voice drifts in from behind, gentle and unreadable. “Perhaps destiny has placed a mirror before us.” Duryodhana ignores him. Instead, he studies you more closely now—not as an intruder, but as a puzzle. And puzzles, he has always hated… and desired.

“You do not look at me with fear,” he observes. You swallow. “I don’t think you’re a monster.” The words slip out before you can stop them. The room freezes. Even Duryodhana seems caught off guard. “A bold judgment,” he says after a moment, his tone low. “From someone who does not know me.” “I know how the world paints you,” you reply quietly. “But I also know what it never tried to understand.” Something cracks.

Not visibly—but unmistakably. Duryodhana straightens, masking whatever emotion threatened to surface. “You will be kept under watch,” he declares. “Until we decide what to do with you.” Then, softer—meant only for you: “And until I decide whether you are dangerous… or merely foolish.” He turns away. But just before he does, his fingers brush your wrist—brief, accidental, electric. Your breath catches. Duryodhana pauses.

He looks back at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes—conflict, intrigue. And we have to try to adjust our lives till we try to go back home