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Vrindavan smelled of milk, dust, and grass kissed by morning rain.
The road into the village curved gently, flanked by flowering trees and lines of hand-carved wooden fences. Cows meandered freely. Children laughed barefoot under the trees. Every breeze carried the breath of a lullaby half-remembered.
Karna arrived with no banner.
No crown.
Only a thin bag on his back and a promise in his heart.
Radha had kissed his forehead that morning, silent and tight-jawed. She hadn't asked where he was going. She had only said, "If your feet lead you to light, don't forget how to walk in shadow."
Now, as he passed the first ring of houses, he felt eyes on him.
Friendly. Curious. But cautious.
The villagers had seen his skin before—a little too golden. His stride—a little too sure. A boy from the wrong caste, walking like a king.
But before anyone could question him, a high voice called out:
"Karna!"
He turned.
Krishna stood barefoot on the riverbank, arms wide, grinning like the sun had learned to smile.
"I told them you'd come," he said.
Karna raised an eyebrow. "You did, did you?"
Krishna ran to him and threw his arms around his waist.
"You're late," he added, muffled against Karna's chest.
Karna laughed, surprised. "You knew I'd come?"
"Agasthya told me. He said you needed to."
Karna froze.
"You remember him?" Krishna asked, stepping back.
"Every day," Karna said.
Krishna nodded solemnly, then turned and shouted toward the nearby pasture. "BALARAM! HE'S HERE!"
A taller boy came bounding over the hill, dust flying behind him.
He was broad for his age, muscles already forming in his limbs, and eyes that shone with blunt honesty.
Balarama skidded to a stop and stared. "You're Karna?"
"I suppose I am."
"You look older than my brother."
"I am."
Balarama blinked. "Well, alright then."
And just like that, Karna was part of them.
---
Days passed like dreams.
Karna slept in a small hut behind the cow pens, sharing chores with the other boys. He helped Yashoda churn curds. He fed calves. He dug irrigation channels when the rains came late.
And every day, he and Krishna trained.
Not in polished dojos or stone courtyards—but in grass fields, using carved bamboo staves, river stones, and mud-drawn targets.
Krishna was fast, clever, unpredictable.
But Karna was inevitable.
Where Krishna danced, Karna anchored. Where Krishna laughed, Karna listened.
And when Krishna slipped on a wet rock during sparring, it was Karna who caught him with a single hand before he fell.
"Again," Krishna grinned.
"You're not tired?"
"No."
"Good. Neither am I."
They circled again.
Balarama watched from the hillside, arms crossed. "They move like they've done this before."
Yashoda, sitting beside him, hummed softly. "Some friendships are older than our memories."
---
That night, Krishna sat alone by the river.
The water reflected the stars. Not clearly—just enough to hint at constellations no child should recognize.
Karna approached quietly, drying sweat from his brow.
"You're staring like a sage."
Krishna didn't turn. "Do you ever feel like you weren't meant to arrive here?"
Karna sat beside him. "All the time."
"Like something bigger tried to move you—but couldn't?"
"Like a story that lost a page," Karna said.
Krishna smiled faintly.
"I'm glad you're here," he said.
Karna nodded.
But Krishna wasn't looking at him anymore. His gaze remained on the river, where a small whirlpool danced under moonlight.
Quietly, he whispered to the water:
"You're not from here."
The water gave no answer.
And Karna said nothing.
But far behind Krishna's eyes, something stirred.
Not suspicion.
Something older.
Recognition.
And in his heart, a small voice whispered:
This one is not of Pandava… nor Kaurava.
But he will matter.
---
Back in the forest, Bhishma watched Agasthya slice through three dummies with a wooden sword.
The boy did not blink.
And his eyes had begun to look more like Krishna's.
The training would not last forever.
The world was beginning to move.
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