Vikarna's words had barely settled in the air when Duryodhana erupted.
His chair scraped violently against the ground as he rose, towering, his shadow swallowing the lamp-light. Veins pulsed along his neck, and his eyes burned with wounded pride.
"Vikarna!" he roared.
"Do you forget whose son you are?"
The tent trembled under his voice.
"Are you born of Pandu, or of Dhritarashtra?" he demanded. "We came from the same womb, drank the same milk, swore the same oaths—yet you stand here speaking for them?"
His finger jabbed forward like a spear.
"You dare lecture me on right and wrong? You dare invoke Draupadi in my presence?"
Dushasana's lips curled in contempt. Shakuni's single eye narrowed, calculating the fracture growing before him.
Duryodhana's voice dropped, heavy with accusation.
"Did you forget the vow we ninety-nine brothers swore?" he asked.
"To stand with me—even against the world. Even unto death."
The tent fell silent.
Vikarna did not flinch.
Slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward. His voice, when it came, was calm—almost mournful.
"I remember every vow, brother."
He lowered his gaze, not in submission, but in sorrow.
"I will stand by you even if the world turns against us. That oath still binds my soul."
Duryodhana's expression hardened—but Vikarna continued.
"But loyalty does not mean blindness."
The words struck sharper than any insult.
"You wronged Draupadi," Vikarna said quietly. "Not as an enemy—but as a woman. As a queen. As a guest in our court."
Duryodhana scoffed, but something flickered—brief and buried.
"That day," Vikarna went on, "the foundations of our clan cracked. The heavens witnessed it. Our ancestors turned their faces away."
He looked up now, meeting Duryodhana's eyes directly.
"It is only by the grace of Vasudeva Krishna that peace was still offered to us. He came not as a warrior, but as a messenger."
Vikarna's voice softened.
"Even now, brother—even now—if you offer peace, Yudhishthira will accept it."
Duryodhana laughed bitterly.
"Peace?" he spat. "After they were exposed? After they broke exile?"
"You know the truth," Vikarna replied. "So do I."
Duryodhana's anger surged.
"They come begging for kingdoms they lost by their own folly!" he thundered. "And you ask me to kneel? To apologize?"
Vikarna stepped closer—and then, to the shock of all present, he knelt.
The golden lamps flickered.
"Brother," he said, his forehead touching the ground, "I beg you."
The word echoed like a bell of doom.
"Our clan stands at the brink of annihilation. What was done to Draupadi has already summoned disaster."
His voice trembled—not with fear, but grief.
"Our forefathers watch from the heavens in shame. Please—do not let ambition and jealousy turn the Kuru name to ash."
He raised his head, eyes wet but unyielding.
"If this war begins," Vikarna said, "there will be no victors. No heirs. No future."
The tent felt suddenly smaller.
"Our glory will rot on the battlefield. Our women will weep. Our lineage will vanish like smoke."
A long silence followed.
Then Duryodhana laughed.
It was harsh. Hollow. Defiant.
"War," he declared, "is the playground of Kshatriyas."
He strode forward, looming over Vikarna.
"Death is our glory. Wounds are our jewels. And bravery—bravery is remembered even after the body turns to dust."
His chest rose proudly.
"If I win, I will sit upon the royal throne.
If I fall, I will sit upon the throne of death."
His eyes blazed.
"Either way—my name will be immortal."
An unseen wind rushed through the tent.
Then—
A new voice cut through the fire and arrogance like cold steel.
"Bravery, brother… is not what you think it is."
Everyone turned.
At the entrance stood Yuyutsu.
Born of a maid, scorned by blood, yet bearing the unmistakable aura of the Kuru lineage—he stood tall, unafraid, his eyes steady.
Duryodhana's smile faded.
"You," he said coldly. "Have you come to preach as well?"
Yuyutsu stepped forward, his voice controlled but heavy with truth.
"True bravery," he said, "is not shouting at destiny.
It is standing against wrong—even when it costs everything."
The lamps dimmed.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly across the horizon.
The war was drawing closer.
And within the Kaurava camp, brother now stood against brother, not with weapons—but with truth and pride, each sharpening the blade that would soon drown Kurukshetra in blood.