The ride to the Yamuna was silent.
Shantanu, clad in royal silks, sat stiffly atop his horse, his grip on the reins tight. Devavrata rode beside him, his expression calm, his mind steady. But beneath his stillness, a storm brewed—one that would shake the very foundation of Hastinapura.
Word had spread. By the time they neared the riverbank, a crowd had gathered—fisherfolk, traders, soldiers who had caught wind of the prince's journey. They lined the shores, murmuring among themselves, waiting.
Dusharaj stood at the water's edge, arms crossed over his broad chest, his weathered face unreadable. Beside him stood Satyavati, her gaze sharp, as if she had already guessed what was about to unfold.
Devavrata dismounted. The air was heavy with expectation.
Then, with measured steps, he approached the fisherman chief.
"I have come to speak before all," Devavrata announced, his voice carrying over the water. The wind stirred his hair, the Yamuna lapping restlessly behind him.
Dusharaj raised a brow. "And what does the prince of Hastinapura wish to say?"
Devavrata inhaled slowly. Then, in a voice as steady as the earth beneath him, he declared, "You asked for your daughter's sons to rule in my place."
A hush fell over the gathered crowd. Shantanu stiffened beside him, as if he could already sense what was coming.
"I accept."
Gasps rippled through the villagers. Even Dusharaj's eyes flickered with brief surprise before he masked it.
"I, Devavrata, son of Shantanu and child of the Ganga, renounce my claim to the throne of Hastinapura."
Shantanu's breath hitched. His hands trembled. "Devavrata—"
Devavrata did not turn to face him. If he did, he might falter. Instead, he continued.
"But a prince's claim is not merely written in decree," he said, his voice ringing clear. "It is bound in blood. So I go further."
He stepped forward, locking eyes with Dusharaj.
"To ensure that no son of mine shall ever challenge Satyavati's bloodline, I swear this upon my soul—"
His voice rose, his words rippling across the water.
"I take the vow of lifelong celibacy."
A silence fell so deep it seemed the world itself had stopped breathing.
Shantanu staggered, his face paling. A broken whisper left his lips. "No."
The wind howled. The waters of the Yamuna surged, waves breaking against the shore as if nature itself reeled from the force of his words.
Then, as if in answer, the sky thundered.
A tremor ran through the earth. The clouds above darkened, shifting as if unseen hands stirred them. The Ganga pulsed, its waves rising unnaturally high, the river answering its own blood.
The villagers fell to their knees. Even the fisherman folk, hardened by a life of toil, lowered their heads in awe.
Devavrata stood unmoving, his vow echoing in the heavens.
Dusharaj, for all his cunning, had no words. He had bargained with kings, had held firm against power and wealth—but never had he expected this.
He let out a slow exhale, eyes narrowing. Then, with a nod of respect, he said, "Bhishma."
The name fell like iron, shaping itself into something unshakable.
"The one of the terrible vow."
The name was not a title. It was a truth. A weight. A declaration that could never be undone.
The crowd murmured it, whispers growing into a chant.
"Bhishma."
"Bhishma."
"Bhishma!"
Satyavati had not spoken until now. But as she looked upon Devavrata—no, Bhishma—something in her gaze softened. She stepped forward, ever so slightly, and in that single movement, a flicker of gratitude shone in her dark eyes.
She said nothing, but it was enough.
Shantanu fell to his knees.
His son—his pride, his future—had just given away everything. And for what?
For love.
For duty.
For him.
Tears slipped down the king's face. Devavrata—no, Bhishma—turned to him at last.
"You've saved me," Shantanu whispered, voice thick with sorrow. "And broken my heart."
Bhishma knelt beside him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
"No, Father," he said gently. "I have given you happiness. That is all I ever wanted."
Shantanu pulled him into an embrace, his body shaking with the force of emotions too great to bear.
The crowd still chanted his name.
But Bhishma, the son who had given everything, only closed his eyes.
For he had already said all that needed to be said.