The palace had never felt so alive. The lingering echoes of wedding drums still resonated through Hastinapura, blending with the hum of courtly murmurs and the rustle of silk against marble. Golden lamps bathed the grand hall in a warm glow, casting flickering shadows on the intricate columns that bore the weight of the kingdom's history.
At the heart of it all, seated upon an ornate throne beside Shantanu, was Satyavati—the new queen.
She wore the garments of royalty now, deep indigo silk embroidered with gold, a statement of her elevated status. Pearls adorned her wrists, sapphires glittered in her crown, and yet, she felt their weight not as ornaments but as shackles. The nobles of Hastinapura were gathered before her, their expressions polite but unreadable, their whispers rustling like dry leaves in an autumn wind.
Bhishma stood at his father's side, his presence like an unsheathed blade—silent but keen. His celestial bow, gifted by the gods, lay within reach, a quiet reminder of the strength that upheld this throne.
Lord Kritavarma, a senior noble and one of the more outspoken members of the court, took a step forward. His robes, embroidered with the crest of his house, swayed as he offered a low bow—deferential in action, but his voice carried a hidden edge.
"May the gods bless our king and his bride," he said, but then, after a pause just long enough to be noticed, he added, "Though I must admit, it is rare to see the throne of Bharata's line graced by a queen of such... humble origins."
A murmur rippled through the court. Some masked their amusement behind jeweled hands, while others cast furtive glances at Bhishma, measuring his reaction.
Satyavati's fingers curled against the arms of her throne. She had expected resistance—Shantanu's love had lifted her from the riverbanks, but it had not washed away the scorn of those who had spent their lives within these halls.
Shantanu's expression darkened, his fingers tightening against his staff, but before he could speak, Bhishma moved.
The air shifted.
A sudden gust of wind swept through the chamber, strong enough to send scrolls fluttering from scribes' hands and flicker the sacred flames at the altar. The murmurs ceased.
Bhishma's voice, steady as a river carving stone, filled the silence.
"She is your queen." His gaze swept across the assembled nobles, piercing and unrelenting. "This throne does not ask where one is born—it commands only loyalty. If you cannot kneel before your sovereign, then leave. Now."
Kritavarma stiffened. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might answer. But the hush in the hall was absolute. Even the most foolish courtier would recognize the unspoken warning in Bhishma's voice.
One by one, the nobles lowered their heads. Some with genuine respect, others with calculated compliance. Kritavarma was the last to bow, his pride yielding beneath necessity.
Satyavati exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing. She turned her head slightly, meeting Bhishma's gaze. There, in that fleeting moment, passed something unspoken—an acknowledgment. Not gratitude, for she was not one to thank a man for defending her right to stand where she did. No, it was something else. A recognition of alliance.
Shantanu, watching this exchange, smiled—proud, relieved, but not blind to the undercurrents in the room. His queen had ascended, but not without cost.
The court had accepted Satyavati, for now. But acceptance was not loyalty.
As the assembly dispersed, Kritavarma turned slightly, speaking in a voice meant to be heard. "Fish-scent in the throne room," he murmured to an ally, his smirk sharp as a dagger. "Who bows to that?"
Bhishma did not turn, nor did he answer. But the next gust of wind that swept through the hall rattled the chandeliers above, shaking loose a single pearl, which clattered onto the floor at Kritavarma's feet.
A warning, carried on the breath of the gods.