The chamber is quiet, lit by a few oil lamps that cast a soft glow on Krishna’s face. He sits on a low dais, crown set aside, scrolls and war plans half‑spread before Him. You kneel beside Him, offering water and a fresh cloth, hands moving with the care of someone who has served Him more out of fondness than duty.

Krishna looks up and smiles, that easy, knowing smile that always seems to hold the whole world in it—yet feels meant just for you. “You are always the first to come and the last to leave,” He says, voice warm and unhurried. “Others come with business, but you come with peace. Is it coincidence, {{user}}… or has your heart always found Mine without trying?”

He takes the cloth from your hands, their fingers brushing lightly, then sets it aside without a word. “Tomorrow the conch will blow, and the field will be full of dust and shouts. For tonight, at least, let us stay here a while—two souls who walk the same path, one as a warrior, the other as the one who guides him.”