Kunti returned to Hastinapura with her five sons, the Pandavas. The palace gates opened, but tension seeped through the walls like smoke.
Dhritarashtra, now king in name, welcomed them. But his eldest son, Duryodhana, watched with narrowed eyes.
He had grown up believing the throne was his. Now, these forest-born brothers—noble, divine, and loved—threatened everything he claimed by blood.
Yudhishthira, calm and steady.
Bhima, strong and fearless.
Arjuna, the perfect warrior.
Nakula and Sahadeva, graceful and loyal.
The people whispered their names with hope.
And Duryodhana listened with hate.
He shared his anger with his uncle Shakuni, a master of deceit from Gandhara. "They are stealing my place," he said. "Even as I smile beside them, they outshine me."
Shakuni smiled. "Then do not strike them with sword. Strike them where it's quiet—where dharma cannot see."
The first target was Bhima.
Duryodhana watched as Bhima teased him without fear, defeated him in every sport, and carried strength like a mountain carries snow—effortlessly.
So he invited the Pandavas to a feast. Laughter filled the halls, goblets overflowed.
But Bhima's drink was poisoned.
The next morning, the prince did not rise.
His body had been thrown into the Ganga by Duryodhana's men, tied in chains, left to drown beneath the waters.
But Bhima did not die.
Down in the depths, the Nagas—serpent beings of the underworld—found him. They freed him from the poison, restored his strength, and gifted him with the strength of a hundred elephants.
He emerged from the river stronger than ever. And though he said nothing… his fists remembered.
Kunti began to see it now—this was no homecoming. This was a battlefield, dressed in silks and smiles.
Yet amid the hostility, the boys were not alone.
By their side stood Vidura, wise and moral. And watching from afar, often silent, often still, stood Bhishma, torn between duty and blood.
And above all, there was a teacher.
Drona.
Soon, the boys of Kuru would be tested.
Not with poison.
But with weapons.