A king without an heir is a king without a future.
The thought gnawed at King Shantanu as he walked along the banks of the Ganga, his boots pressing into the damp earth. The night stretched wide and silent, broken only by the murmur of water and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Overhead, the full moon cast its silver glow upon the river, turning its surface into a shimmering expanse. The palace behind him, grand and imposing, felt distant now, as though it belonged to another life. Here, by the river, he could think.
But his thoughts brought no peace.
Shantanu had ruled Hastinapura for years, his reign marked by prosperity, yet a single failure overshadowed all else. He had no son. No heir to carry the Kuru bloodline forward. The throne beside him remained empty, a silent accusation. His advisors whispered in the halls, their voices edged with doubt. A king without a child was a king without a legacy. And the whispers had grown louder.
His fingers tightened around a small pebble. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it skipping across the water's surface. One, two, three times before it vanished beneath the river. As the ripples spread outward, a sound drifted toward him, soft, melodic, like a song carried by the current.
Shantanu stilled.
The sound was not wind through the trees, nor the night birds calling. It came from the river itself. He strained to listen, his pulse quickening. The song was clear now, a voice both distant and near, its melody curling through the mist that clung to the water. Drawn by an unseen pull, he followed the sound, his steps quickening along the bank.
As he rounded a bend, he stopped.
A woman sat upon a smooth rock that jutted into the river, bathed in moonlight. Her presence was otherworldly. Her skin glowed faintly, as though lit from within, and her long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, blending seamlessly into the flowing water below. A silk robe clung to her form, its delicate embroidery shifting as if woven from the river itself. Pearls adorned her throat, each glistening like a captive star.
But it was her eyes that held him still. Deep and endless, mirroring the night sky.
Shantanu swallowed, suddenly aware of his own breath. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice barely louder than the lapping waves.
The woman turned her head slightly, regarding him with quiet amusement. Then she smiled. "I am Ganga," she said. Her voice was like the river, smooth, steady, and ancient. "I have watched you, King Shantanu. I know the burden you carry."
His chest tightened. "You do?"
Ganga slid gracefully from the rock, stepping onto the shore. Her bare feet left no imprint upon the mud. She moved toward him with the effortless grace of flowing water. "I do. And I have an offer for you." She paused, holding his gaze. "Marry me, and I will give you sons. Strong sons to carry your name and sit upon your throne."
Shantanu's breath hitched. Sons. The very thing he had longed for, prayed for. The answer to the whispers, the doubts, the empty throne beside him.
"You would do this?" he asked, his voice unsteady. "Just like that?"
"Yes," Ganga said. She was close now, close enough that he could catch the faint scent of lotus and river mist. "But there is a condition."
His shoulders tensed. "What condition?"
"You must never question me. No matter what I do." Her voice remained calm, but there was an undercurrent to it, something deeper beneath the surface. "If you agree, we will be wed. If not, I will leave, and you will never see me again."
Shantanu's mind spun. The offer was too sudden, too perfect. A woman appearing from the river with a promise of sons? A condition that demanded blind trust? He should have hesitated, questioned further, sought counsel.
But desperation is a powerful thing.
He pictured the empty halls of the palace, the lingering glances of his court, the unspoken fears that clung to him like a shadow. The weight of a kingdom without an heir bore down on him. And standing before him was the answer, wrapped in moonlight and mystery.
"Alright," he said at last, the words tasting of both relief and uncertainty. "I accept."
Ganga's smile deepened, but for a moment, there was something else within it, something sorrowful. "Good," she murmured. "Then we will be wed tomorrow."
She turned slightly, but Shantanu couldn't hold back one final question. "Why me?" he asked. "What makes me worthy of this?"
She glanced over her shoulder. "Your heart is good, Shantanu. And your lineage is favored by the gods. That is reason enough."
A chill traced down his spine. "And your condition? Why must I never question you?"
Ganga's eyes darkened, the glow within them flickering. "Because what I do is beyond mortal understanding," she said softly. "To question me is to question forces far greater than yourself."
His mouth went dry, but he nodded. "I will keep my word."
"Then be ready," she said, voice like a whisper over the waves. "Tomorrow, I will come to your palace."
She took a step toward the river. Shantanu watched, transfixed, as she did not sink, instead, her form rippled, melting seamlessly into the water. The moonlight caught her for a breath longer, then she was gone, leaving only the river behind.
He stood there, heart hammering, staring at the place where she had vanished. Doubt warred with hope within him. Who was she, truly? A goddess? A spirit? Or something else entirely?
And what did she mean by that final whisper that lingered in the air long after she had disappeared?
"Our union will birth greatness… and sorrow beyond your imagining."
Shantanu exhaled slowly, turning toward the palace. He had made his choice.
Now, he would have to live with it.