When an attendant made a mistake, Duryodhana could still lash out at him more harshly than the mistake deserved.
When someone from a profession considered low within the traditional social order approached him, Duryodhana's expression sometimes changed with visible discomfort.
He still carried a tendency to look down upon people because of the work they performed rather than judging them as individuals.
Even his patience with commoners remained limited.
If ordinary people came too close or crowded around him, he could become irritated in a way Karna never did.
Karna noticed all of it.
And some of it still irritated him.
He could not understand why a person's occupation should determine the amount of respect they received. A man who cleaned streets, a man who worked in a royal kitchen, a farmer who spent his life working the soil, or a soldier standing guard outside a palace were all human beings made by the creator. To Karna, that was the first thing that mattered. Their birth and profession came after that.
Duryodhana did not see things quite the same way.
But Karna also understood that Duryodhana was hardly unique in this regard.
Most princes had been raised within the same social structure. Most had grown up surrounded by servants who obeyed them, guards who protected them, and common people who lowered their heads whenever they passed. They were taught from childhood that certain people were above others, that some professions were respectable while others were not, and that a prince had the right to demand obedience.
Duryodhana had simply absorbed much of what his world had taught him.
Karna could disagree with it.
He could even confront him about it when necessary.
But he did not mistake these flaws for proof that Duryodhana was incapable of being his friend.
That was the distinction Karna had gradually learned to make.
Duryodhana was no longer the insecure, constantly angry prince Karna had once known. He was becoming a capable administrator, a stronger warrior and, in many respects, a better man. But he still carried prejudices that Karna could not accept, and there were parts of his character that remained troubling.
Karna could live with that.
Perhaps because he had stopped expecting perfection from anyone, including the people closest to him.
*
The celebrations surrounding Princess Dharani's birth continued for several more days, and Karna decided to hold a feast for those who were closest to the family.
Among the guests he invited were the King of Uttara Kalinga, Chitrangada, his wife, and their daughter, Princess Bhanumati, whom Karna regarded as his soul sister.
Their arrival was received with the warmth that had become customary between their families, and the palace soon became lively with the presence of familiar guests, servants moving between the halls and children occasionally running through places where they had been told not to run.
Duryodhana was among those present.
He was twenty-two now, and it had been roughly a year since he had last seen Bhanumati.
The difference was noticeable the moment she entered the palace.
At fifteen, she was no longer the little girl he had encountered during earlier visits.
She had grown taller, her features had matured, and the youthful softness of childhood was gradually giving way to the appearance of a young woman. She carried herself with the confidence expected from a princess, especially when she was among people she knew well.
Yet something peculiar happened whenever Duryodhana was nearby.
Bhanumati changed.
With Karna and his queens, she could be remarkably comfortable. She would speak freely, occasionally complain about some small inconvenience in the manner of a spoiled princess, and expect Karna to listen to her as though he were another member of her immediate family.
She had known him for years and had long since stopped behaving like a guest whenever she came to Kanipura.
Around Duryodhana, however, that confidence seemed to disappear. Her voice became quieter. Her movements became more restrained. Even her expression changed whenever she noticed him entering a room.
She did not entirely understand it herself.
Duryodhana was the only young prince outside her own family whom she had ever really encountered at close quarters.
He was older than her by seven years, physically imposing and already carried himself with the confidence of someone who had spent years training as a warrior and preparing for kingship. His broad shoulders, powerful build and calm manner naturally drew her attention, particularly now that she was passing from childhood into adulthood.
She did not know what to make of the unfamiliar feeling, so she simply became shy whenever he was around.
Duryodhana noticed that she was different from the girl he remembered.
He also noticed that she often looked away whenever their eyes met.
He tried a few times to speak with her, but somehow an opportunity never presented itself. Whenever he was near her, someone else would arrive, Karna would call him away, one of the queens would begin speaking with Bhanumati, or the conversation would simply move in another direction.
It was not as though Duryodhana deliberately avoided her. He simply never found the right moment to have an actual conversation with her.
And Bhanumati was hardly going to create one herself.
Whenever he appeared, she suddenly found the floor, the curtains, the decorations or literally anything else in the room fascinating.
Karna, meanwhile, remained completely unaware of the quiet awkwardness developing behind him.
His attention was elsewhere.
He was surrounded by his family, and for perhaps the first time since Dharani's birth, there was no immediate problem demanding his attention. He watched his children move around the palace, listened to his queens speak, and spent much of his time with the newest member of the family. Dharani was still too young to do anything except sleep, feed, and occasionally open her eyes to the world, yet Karna seemed perfectly content to spend long periods simply holding her.
There was no destiny in those moments.
No kingdom.
No war.
No politics.
Only his daughter.
He occasionally touched her tiny fingers with his own, watching them curl instinctively around one of his fingers. He found himself smiling every time she did it. Whatever destiny might eventually come looking for Dharani, Karna had no intention of allowing it to steal away her childhood before it even began.
For now, she was simply his little girl.
And that was enough.
***
Far away from Kanipura, the atmosphere was considerably different.
In the forests of southern Panchala, inside a large natural cave, the five Pandavas stood alongside Kunti before two figures whom they were preparing to leave behind.
Hidimbi stood before them.
Beside her was Ghatotkacha.
The son of Bhima had already reached adulthood in his own unusual way. His Rakshasa heritage had caused his body to mature far more rapidly than a human child's, and he now possessed the imposing size and strength expected of a warrior of his bloodline. He had been crowned king of the Rakshasa tribe that inhabited the region, and the Pandavas had decided that their journey could no longer remain centered around this forest.
They had responsibilities elsewhere.
The farewell was therefore inevitable.
But inevitable did not make it easy.
Bhima stood before Hidimbi for a long time without speaking. The warrior who could face armies without hesitation now struggled to find words for the woman he was leaving behind. Hidimbi had chosen him despite everything that separated their worlds, and together they had shared a life that could not simply be dismissed because the Pandavas had to continue their journey.
Ghatotkacha stood nearby, watching his parents.
He knew his father's duty.
He also knew that Bhima could not remain.
Eventually, Bhima embraced Hidimbi tightly. She held him just as firmly, neither pretending that the separation was easy nor asking him to abandon the path he had chosen. There was sadness in her eyes, but also acceptance. Ghatotkacha then approached his father, and Bhima placed a hand upon his son's shoulder before embracing him as well.
The moment lasted longer than either expected.
Kunti watched quietly.
Yudhishthira, Arjuna, Nakula and Sahadeva also remained silent. None of them wanted to interrupt what was clearly a private moment between father, wife and son.
Finally, the time came.
Bhima stepped away.
He looked back once.
Hidimbi stood beside Ghatotkacha at the entrance of the cave, watching him leave.
The Pandavas then turned and began walking.
Their footsteps carried them deeper into the forest path, taking them toward their next settlement and whatever awaited them there. Behind them, Hidimbi and Ghatotkacha slowly disappeared from sight.
Bhima did not speak for a long while.
He kept walking.
But every few moments, his eyes moved backward toward the path they had left behind.
He knew he had done what was necessary.
Knowing that did not make the farewell hurt any less.