While Karna travelled between kingdoms, building alliances, strengthening Dakshina Kalinga, and slowly shaping his realm into something different from the rest of Aryavarta, the political air inside Hastinapura had also continued to change.
And for Duryodhana… those changes had become increasingly hard to bear.
The people of Hastinapura had grown deeply satisfied with Yudhisthira's administration after his anointing as Crown Prince nearly two years earlier. At first, many nobles and ministers believed the son of Dharma would simply become another calm, obedient prince who followed tradition carefully and brought little real change. But as the months passed, the public began praising him more and more.
Not loudly at first.
Not openly.
But steadily—like water filling a lake during the monsoon.
Every court hearing where Yudhisthira listened patiently to commoners.
Every fair judgment.
Every tax dispute solved without arrogance.
Every village matter handled with quiet care.
The stories spread. Soon people began saying openly in the markets and gathering places that the Crown Prince had already surpassed even Late King Pandu in governance.
Meanwhile the other Pandavas also continued to rise in public admiration.
Bhima had become famous among common soldiers and labourers for his straightforward nature and terrifying strength. Villagers often exaggerated tales about him—claiming he could wrestle elephants bare-handed or uproot trees like weeds. Children followed him during festivals with sparkling eyes, while soldiers admired his fearlessness.
Arjuna continued gaining fame as Hastinapura's greatest young warrior. His victories in hunting expeditions and campaigns against rakshasas had spread across nearby kingdoms. Younger nobles in the Kuru kingdom admired him endlessly; even senior warriors acknowledged his extraordinary talent.
Nakula and Sahadeva too had earned quiet respect—Nakula for his elegance, mastery of horses and refined conduct; Sahadeva for his intelligence, mastery over astrology and counsel despite his youth.
Together the five brothers had slowly become symbols of ideal princes in the eyes of the people.
And that reality was slowly suffocating Duryodhana.
Every praise directed toward Yudhisthira felt like a blade twisting deeper into his chest. Every cheer for the Pandavas echoed in his mind long after the crowd had fallen silent. At times, while standing in court assemblies, Duryodhana genuinely felt as though he himself had become invisible inside his own kingdom.
No matter what he did, the Pandavas overshadowed him.
Even when he worked harder.
Even when he improved himself.
Even when he changed.
And perhaps that was what angered him most.
Because, unlike before, he truly had changed in some ways.
After visiting Dakshina Kalinga and witnessing Karna's governance with his own eyes, Duryodhana had begun proposing several reforms in court. He pushed for cleaner public districts, stronger city patrols, stricter punishments for corruption, and improvements to the military based on merit rather than birth alone.
At first the elders were surprised. Even Vidura had looked at him thoughtfully several times during assemblies. Bhishma himself once nodded faintly in approval when Duryodhana proposed better living conditions for lower-ranked soldiers.
Slowly, people began speaking differently about him as well.
"The prince has matured."
"Perhaps he was misunderstood before."
"Maybe the rivalry between the cousins is finally ending."
Those whispers spread gradually through Hastinapura. And because of them, even the Pandavas themselves had lowered their guard around him over time—especially Yudhisthira.
Yudhisthira always wanted to believe the best in people. It was both his greatest virtue… and perhaps his greatest weakness.
Even Bhima, who distrusted Duryodhana more than anyone else, had stopped openly confronting him, because Duryodhana no longer created trouble during assemblies or public functions. Instead he behaved almost perfectly—too perfectly. Like a river whose surface appeared calm while dangerous currents moved beneath.
Then, eventually, Duryodhana approached King Dhritarashtra with another proposal: a grand festival at Varanavata.
He spoke of strengthening ties with distant regions, of honouring traditions, of allowing the people there to witness the royal family in person. And more importantly, he personally volunteered to construct a magnificent residence for the Pandavas there.
When the proposal was first presented in court, Bhima immediately frowned. His instincts screamed at him. Something felt wrong—too convenient, too generous.
But then months continued to pass peacefully. No conspiracies. No public insults. No sabotage. Duryodhana attended assemblies regularly, worked actively in governance, and even supported several proposals beneficial to the kingdom. And slowly even Bhima's suspicion weakened beneath the endless repetition of normalcy.
Meanwhile Yudhisthira completely accepted the idea that Duryodhana had matured—because Yudhisthira believed people could change, and because he himself never held hatred easily.
And thus nearly twenty-one months passed since Yudhisthira became Crown Prince. The people praised him constantly. The Pandavas flourished. And Duryodhana smiled through it all.
But inside, something uglier had begun to grow—something fed by frustration.
At first Duryodhana's plans regarding Karna had been entirely political. Simple. Calculated. Reasonable. He wanted Karna as an ally. Nothing more. Because Duryodhana understood Karna's value better than most kings in Bharatavarsha.
Karna was no longer merely a powerful warrior. He was becoming a force—a king with wealth, with trade dominance, with a terrifying military, respected by both commoners and rulers alike. And perhaps most importantly, a king capable of changing the political balance of the entire Aryavarth.
Duryodhana had originally planned carefully. If Dushala married Karna, then through kinship Karna would naturally stand firmly beside him. With Karna's support, even if succession disputes escalated toward war someday, victory would become possible.
But before that, he needed legitimacy. He needed support from the elders. He needed public approval. That was why he restrained himself. That was why he acted maturely. That was why he worked hard in assemblies and governance. That was why he tried to improve his image slowly.
And for a while it worked.
But then Yudhisthira's popularity rose too much, too quickly—like a tree growing so large that everything nearby remained trapped in its shadow. No matter what Duryodhana accomplished, the praise always returned to the Pandavas. Always.
And that endless frustration gradually poisoned his thoughts.
Until eventually, under the influence of Shakuni, another path appeared before him—a darker one, built not on competition but on elimination.
Shakuni never fully trusted the idea of relying upon Karna. Karna was unpredictable—too righteous in some matters, too independent, too difficult to manipulate. And so Shakuni whispered another solution.
"If the obstacle disappears," he once told Duryodhana quietly during a late-night discussion, "then you no longer need to climb over it."
Those words remained in Duryodhana's mind afterward like poison dissolved into water. And slowly the plan for Varanavata transformed into something far more sinister beneath the surface—a palace, a festival, a celebration… wrapped carefully around hidden death.
And now the plan had already begun moving. The Pandavas, along with Kunti, had finally deci9ded to depart toward Varanavata.
That very same day, Duryodhana received Dushala's letter from the outskirts of Hastinapura. He sat alone while reading it. The corners of his lips slowly curled upward.
The timing was perfect.
Pandavas leaving.
Karna arriving.
Dushala with him.
Everything seemed to move exactly according to fortune itself.
For several moments Duryodhana leaned back silently in his chamber while torchlight flickered across his face. Then slowly a dangerous thought entered his mind.
If everything succeeds at Varanavata…
do I even need Karna anymore?
The thought lingered heavily. Because if the Pandavas disappeared, the throne would naturally become his. No war necessary. No political balancing. No dependence upon another powerful king. And if that happened, why should Dushala become merely one among Karna's many queens? Why not marry her into another allied kingdom entirely—a kingdom easier to influence, a kingdom loyal directly to him?
Duryodhana's expression darkened slightly as these thoughts twisted inside his mind. It was not sudden betrayal. It was ambition slowly changing shape.
At first Karna had seemed necessary.
Now… perhaps not.
And somewhere deep inside himself, even Duryodhana realised that his path had begun drifting far away from the man Karna respected—far away from open competition, far away from honour, toward deceit, toward shadows, toward something that even he himself once might have despised.
Yet despite everything—despite all the planning, despite all the confidence—a strange uncertainty still lingered within him. Because no matter how many times he justified his decisions, no matter how many times Shakuni reassured him, one uncomfortable truth remained buried beneath it all.
If Karna ever discovered the truth behind Varanavata…
then the friendship Duryodhana hoped to preserve would burn far more violently than any lacquer palace ever could.