Krishna did not raise his voice. He did not need to. The picture he was painting was already sharp enough to cut.

"Now think about the other side of the field," he said. "Not the men who respect you. The ones who hate you."

Arjuna's eyes moved, almost against his will, to the center of the Kaurava formation where Duryodhana stood in his chariot. Even at this distance, Arjuna could see the golden armor, the heavy mace resting against the chariot rail, the broad shoulders that held themselves with the particular arrogance of a man who had never once been told he was wrong.

"If you leave," Krishna said, "Duryodhana will laugh."

The word landed like a stone in still water.

"Not the laugh of relief. Not the laugh of a man who has escaped danger. The laugh of a man who was right all along — who always said the Pandavas were weak, who always called you cowards hiding behind Krishna's protection, who told anyone who would listen that when the real test came, you would break." Krishna's voice was precise, surgical. "He will turn to his soldiers, and he will laugh, and they will laugh with him. And then he will say things."

Krishna let the silence build.

"Things about your skill — that it was overstated, that Drona's praise was the fondness of an old man for a pet student. Things about your courage — that the great Arjuna, the winner of Draupadi's hand, the conqueror of the Nivata-kavachas, could not stomach a real fight. Things about your brothers — that the Pandavas were a family of boasters who crumbled when the stakes were real."

Arjuna's knuckles had gone white around Gandiva's grip.

"These are not words that fade, Arjuna. They are not insults shouted in anger and forgotten by morning. They are the kind of words that get carved into the story of who you are. They will be repeated in courts and taverns and around campfires for generations. Your enemies will dine on your retreat for the rest of their lives."

He paused. "Tell me — what pain could be worse than giving Duryodhana that pleasure?"

Arjuna said nothing. But something shifted behind his eyes — a door closing on one kind of fear and opening onto another, harder thing. His jaw set. His breathing, which had been shallow and ragged since the conch shells fell silent, steadied into something slower and more deliberate. Gandiva's weight in his hand felt different now — not like a burden, but like an answer.

Duryodhana could laugh all he wanted. He would not be laughing long.