The hall remained silent.
But it was not empty.
Silence here was not the absence of sound—it was presence. Dense.
Layered.
Alive in its own way.
Every word that had been spoken did not fade.
It lingered, settling into the very space around them.
"Something buried."
"Something ancient."
The phrases echoed—not outwardly, but within thought.
Their meaning was still unclear.
But their weight—
Was undeniable.
Duryodhana stood firm at the center.
His posture remained strong, unwavering as ever.
But beneath that composure, something had begun to shift.
His patience—
Was thinning.
"You keep speaking in fragments."
His voice broke the stillness.
Controlled.
But carrying clear frustration.
"Say it clearly."
A few of the seated figures shifted slightly.
Not in offense.
Not in resistance.
But in attention.
As if this moment—
Had been expected.
The old man did not respond immediately.
He simply watched.
Not just Duryodhana—
But both of them.
Measuring.
Then—
