"She is destruction incarnate-everything she touches turns to ash."
Ishani, a sharp-witted and fiercely independent businesswoman from the modern world, trusts no one, least of all men. But fate has other plans. Thrust into a treacherous era of warr...
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The royal kitchen of Hastinapur, usually a picture of organized efficiency, was currently in a state of mild pandemonium. The Pandavas, true to their word, had taken over, their attempts at preparing a simple meal for a resting Draupadi evolving into something far more ambitious, and considerably messier. Flour dusted Yudhishthira's normally serene face, a smear of ghee adorned Nakula's cheek, and Sahadeva seemed to be engaged in a wrestling match with a recalcitrant bag of spices. Only Bhima, wielding a massive ladle, looked somewhat in his element, albeit a rather destructive one.
Suddenly, the kitchen doors swung open with a flourish, and Duryodhana strode in, followed closely by a gaggle of his brothers. He carried a determined air, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic scene with a mixture of disdain and amusement.
"What in the heavens is going on here?" Duryodhana, or Suyodhana as his brothers affectionately called him, drawled, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
Yudhishthira, wiping flour from his hands onto his already soiled dhoti, offered a sheepish smile. "We are attempting to prepare a meal for Panchali, Suyodhana."
Duryodhana snorted. "Clearly. It looks as though a cyclone has decided to take up culinary arts." He then turned his attention to a relatively unoccupied corner of the counter and began gathering ingredients. "Actually, if you'll excuse me, I intend to make something for myself."
"What's the occasion, Suyodhana?" Arjuna asked, pausing mid-chop of what looked suspiciously like an entire watermelon.
Duryodhana's movements stilled for a moment, a subtle stiffness entering his posture. He cleared his throat. "It's... my birthday." He said it almost as an afterthought, his tone carefully casual.
A sudden silence fell over the kitchen. The Pandavas exchanged surprised glances. Bhima, his usual booming laughter absent, shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Oh," he mumbled, scratching his head. "Happy birthday, Suyodhana. We... we didn't realize."
A small, almost sad smile touched Duryodhana's lips. "No one ever does. It hardly matters. The palace always seems to remember the Pandavas' milestones with remarkable alacrity." There was a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes before it was quickly masked by his usual sardonic smirk."
Before the awkwardness could settle, Bhima, in his characteristic way, blurted out, "Well, then! What better way to celebrate than with more food? We're trying our hand at cooking for Panchali. Why don't we... cook something for you too?"
Before Duryodhana could formulate a suitably cutting reply, several of his brothers stepped forward. "Actually, Bhrata Bhima," Duryodhana's younger brother, Lakshmana, piped up, his eyes wide with genuine curiosity, "would you mind showing us how you make some of those... robust-looking dishes of yours? We've always been rather... less skilled in the culinary arts." Several other Kauravas nodded in agreement, their expressions a mix of curiosity and an almost childlike eagerness to learn.
