I was born of the blind king's blood, yet my mother was no queen.
A Vaishya's womb carried me, but I was called a Kshatriya—
only because my father sat on a throne.
Had he been a lesser man,
I would have been just another bastard, discarded and forgotten.
Honour is all I have, because I was born from its absence.
I have watched my brothers—my blood—set fire to a world they will never live to rule.
They call it war, but it is a massacre waiting to unfold.
A hunger that will consume kings, castles, and men alike.
And I must fight against them.
Not for power, not for land, not for gold—
but because the Pandavas still have dharam on their side.
Because someone must stand against the storm.
I must kill my own blood to cleanse my soul.
I must betray my brothers to save them.
I must stain my hands to keep them clean.
I do not want this. But I must.
So I will.