Night settled over Kurukshetra—not abruptly, but like a curse that knew it had time.
One by one, the fires in the camps dimmed. Warriors who would soon carve history into flesh lay wrapped in restless sleep. Chariots stood abandoned, their wheels half-buried in dust. Banners sagged without wind. Even the earth seemed to listen, tense and wary, as if dawn itself were a threat.
Only the moon remained awake.
It hovered pale and distant above the plain, spilling its cold light across rows of weapons, across dented armor, across the faces of men who still believed tomorrow might make sense.
At the far edge of the Pandava camp, seated upon a low slab of stone, Krishna gazed upward.
He did not sleep.
Not when the balance of the world stood so close to collapse.
Moonlight brushed His skin like silver, yet His face held neither peace nor sorrow—only awareness. The kind of knowing that settles deep, heavier than grief.
The day after tomorrow, He thought, the rules of war will be spoken.
Rules meant to restrain chaos. Rules meant to protect honor. Rules that would soon be broken—quietly at first, then without shame—by the very men who swore to uphold them.
Two supreme commanders would rise.
On one side—
Bhishma.
Grandsire of the Kuru lineage. Son of the river Ganga, who carried both birth and death in her current. Son of Shantanu, a king who once ruled without hunger for conquest. Bhishma—the man who had bent fate itself with a single vow.
Krishna's gaze sharpened.
Bhishma, who renounced the throne.
Bhishma, who renounced desire.
Bhishma, who renounced marriage—so that Hastinapur might remain whole.
A vow so absolute, so merciless, that even the gods named him Bhishma—the Terrible.
The greatest warrior of the age. Unbroken. Unconquered. Unkillable—so long as he chose to live.
And yet, Krishna knew—
Even mountains crumble when they stand upon corrupted ground.
On the other side—
Dhrishtadyumna.
Born not of womb, but of fire.
Son of Drupada, king of Panchala, summoned through sacrifice by the sages Yaja and Upayaja. He emerged from flame already armored, his destiny etched into his bones.
He was born for one purpose alone.
To kill Dronacharya.
The greatest teacher of the era. Guru to Pandava and Kaurava alike. Once a friend to Drupada—before pride shattered friendship and humiliation hardened into hatred.
Fire against oath.
Destiny against devotion.
Krishna exhaled slowly.
The world would call this a war.
But it was something older than that.
It was a reckoning.
A faint sound disturbed the stillness—soft footsteps, almost hesitant.
Krishna did not turn.
He already knew.
The air shifted, carrying the scent of rain and distant thunder. Even the night seemed to make room.
Then a voice—low, uncertain.
"Madhava…"
Krishna smiled, faintly.
Arjuna stood a few paces away.
Moonlight traced the sharp lines of his face, revealing a beauty so striking that even the Apsaras of heaven were said to falter before it. His movements were light, almost unreal, as if the earth itself hesitated to claim him.
Son of Indra—lord of thunder, king of the heavens.
Fire lived in his eyes.
So did fear.
"Is war truly the only path left?" Arjuna asked.
He stepped closer, boots barely brushing the ground. "I cannot quiet my heart, Madhava. I have tried. I have commanded it. Reasoned with it. It refuses to obey."
Krishna turned, meeting his gaze.
Arjuna's words came faster now, heavier.
"Can we not try once more? Send another envoy? One last appeal to reason?" His voice faltered. "I cannot raise my bow against them."
He drew a shaky breath.
"They are my blood. My brothers. My nephews. Guru Drona taught me to hold a bow before I could stand. Grandsire Bhishma carried me on his shoulders when I was a child."
His voice broke.
"How do I face them on the battlefield? How do I kill them?"
For a long moment, Krishna said nothing.
The moon bore witness.
Then He smiled—not gently, but with understanding sharpened by eternity.
"Arjuna," Krishna said, "do not fall into the trap of attachment."
The words settled between them, heavy and unavoidable.
"They are no longer only your kin," Krishna continued. "They have chosen their path. This is no longer a family dispute—it is a war of dharma."
Arjuna clenched his fists. "Dharma cannot demand this! There must be another way."
Krishna's eyes darkened.
"We tried," He said. "I went as a messenger of peace. I spoke with humility. I offered compromise. I offered righteousness."
His voice lowered.
"They answered with arrogance. With laughter. With the certainty of men who believe power excuses sin."
Krishna stepped closer. The air thickened.
"This war," He said, "cannot be avoided."
Arjuna shook his head. "Bhishma, Guru Drona, Kripacharya—they are not wicked men. They are bound by duty, by loyalty to Hastinapur. They did not choose this freely."
Krishna's expression changed.
Warmth vanished.
His voice deepened—resonant, vast.
"They are noble men," He said. "Wise. Respected."
Then—
"But they stand with injustice."
The ground trembled faintly beneath their feet.
"Dharma does not coerce," Krishna said. "That is its greatest truth. Every soul chooses."
The wind stirred violently, though no storm rose.
"When the world reaches the edge," Krishna continued, His voice carrying beyond the night, "only one dharma remains—to protect dharma itself."
The unseen listened.
"Those who side with adharma," Krishna said, eyes burning, "no matter what they once were—become part of it."
Arjuna staggered back.
"You mean… they must die?"
Krishna's gaze softened, but did not waver.
"They must perish," He said. "Not as punishment. As consequence."
Tears slid down Arjuna's face.
"They are bound," he whispered. "By vows. By gratitude."
Krishna raised His hand, and the night stilled.
"Attachment," He said quietly, "is the most dangerous chain."
He placed His palm against Arjuna's chest.
"Bhishma chose his vow over justice."
"Drona chose his son over truth."
"Kripa chose silence over righteousness."
"They were not dragged into this war," Krishna said. "They walked into it."
Arjuna collapsed to his knees.
Moonlight fractured across his tears.
"I cannot carry this burden."
Krishna knelt before him.
"You were born for it," He said—not cruelly, but without illusion. "As Dhrishtadyumna was born of fire. As Bhishma was born of sacrifice."
He lifted Arjuna's chin.
"This war is not about killing," Krishna said. "It is about ending what should not continue."
The night bowed.
"Stand with me," Krishna said. "And when your hands tremble, let dharma guide them."
Arjuna closed his eyes.
The battlefield waited.
Far beyond mortal sight, something ancient stirred—feeding on doubt, fear, sorrow.
Kali smiled.
The war had not yet begun.
But Arjuna's soul had already stepped into it.