The sun hung high over Hastinapura as the sound of drums echoed through the training grounds. Karna's heart pounded in his chest. Today, Bhishma himself was overseeing the archery trials, where the young warriors of Hastinapura would prove their skill.
Karna had trained in secret for years, stealing moments with his wooden bow, watching from afar. He had mimicked their stance, their precision. He had imagined this day a thousand times.
And now, here he was.
He clutched his bow tightly as he stepped onto the field, his golden armor glinting under the sun. Boys his age, dressed in fine silks, stood in neat rows. He could feel their stares, hear their whispers.
"Who is he?"
"A charioteer's son? What is he doing here?"
Karna ignored them. He focused only on the targets ahead, on the bow in his hands, on the fire in his heart.
The competition began. One by one, the young warriors stepped forward. Some hit the mark. Some missed. But none of them impressed Bhishma, who watched in silence from his elevated seat.
Then, it was Karna's turn.
He stepped forward, lifted his bow, and notched an arrow. A deep breath. The world blurred around him. Only the target remained.
Twang!
The arrow flew.
Thud!
It struck the center, splitting another arrow cleanly in half.
Gasps filled the air. The murmurs grew louder.
Bhishma's gaze snapped to Karna, his expression unreadable.
Another shot. Another bullseye.
The whispers turned to shock. Even the warriors, who had stood with quiet arrogance moments ago, were now watching him with furrowed brows.
Karna turned, his heart hammering. He had done it. He had proven himself.
But then, a voice cut through the murmurs.
"Who are you?"
Bhishma's voice was calm but sharp, like the edge of a blade.
Karna straightened. "I am Karna, son of Adhiratha."
A silence heavier than steel fell upon the field.
A charioteer's son.
Bhishma's expression darkened. "A son of a charioteer dares to stand among warriors?"
Karna felt his stomach twist, but he held his ground. "Does skill have a caste, Your Highness?"
More murmurs. Some of the boys snickered. A few looked away in discomfort.
Bhishma's gaze was like ice. "Bloodlines determine destiny, boy. A charioteer's son cannot dream of being a warrior."
The words struck like a slap. Karna's fists clenched. He wanted to shout, to argue, to tell them they were wrong. That he was more than his birth.
But he saw the way the others looked at him now. The amusement. The dismissal.
He was not one of them. He never would be.
Karna turned away, his nails digging into his palm. He had shot better than any of them. He had outmatched even the noble-born. But it did not matter.
As he walked away, he made a vow.
One day, they would regret this insult.
One day, the world would know his name, not as a charioteer's son, but as a warrior of unmatched strength.