The stone corridors of Hastinapura's palace ran deep, their shadows stretching long beneath flickering torchlight. The air, once perfumed with the fragrance of sacred sandalwood and the crisp scent of lotus, now carried a darker weight—whispers laced with contempt, secrets curling like smoke in the corners where the wary dared not tread.
Beneath the grandeur of the throne, dissent brewed.
Kritavarma stood at the heart of a dimly lit chamber, the light from a single oil lamp casting jagged shadows across the cold marble walls. Around him gathered a handful of nobles—men of rank and lineage, their bloodlines tracing back through generations of kings and warriors. They bore the sigils of Hastinapura, yet in their eyes gleamed doubt, and beneath their tongues, venom.
"The river-born queen sits high," Kritavarma sneered, the disdain in his voice curling like a serpent poised to strike. "A fisherman's daughter upon the throne of Bharata—what legacy is this?"
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. Some faces were unreadable, their silence a veil over their true thoughts. Others nodded, their jaws set, their pride bruised by the very idea of Satyavati wearing the crown.
"She came from the water, like some spirit conjured from the depths," muttered one noble, his fingers tapping against the hilt of his blade. "But the river does not purify blood—it only carries filth downstream."
Kritavarma's lip curled in satisfaction. "And filth festers when left unchecked." He leaned forward, his voice dropping lower. "She holds no royal lineage, no sacred claim. Yet she dares to bear the king's heir."
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.
An older noble, his beard streaked with silver, exhaled sharply. "The king loves her. And Bhishma stands behind his father's every word. Any move against her would bring his wrath upon us."
Kritavarma's smile did not waver. "Bhishma may be the mightiest warrior alive, but even he cannot silence the will of the court. This kingdom has seen queens before her—none of them born of fishermen's nets." He let the thought settle before adding, "Not all battles are fought with swords."
A hush fell over the chamber.
They understood.
Across the palace, Bhishma moved through the halls with practiced ease, his steps measured, his senses sharpened. The air around him stirred faintly, an omen of something unseen yet pressing.
A servant bowed low as he approached, his hands trembling slightly. Bhishma halted, his piercing gaze catching the unease in the man's posture.
"You have something to say," Bhishma said, his voice calm but unyielding.
The servant swallowed hard, eyes flickering left and right before speaking in a hushed whisper. "My lord… there is talk. Lord Kritavarma and his men… they speak against the queen."
Bhishma's expression did not shift, but something in his presence turned colder.
"Where?"
The servant hesitated. "The eastern wing… the old council chamber."
Bhishma nodded once. "You have done well." He turned, his robes whispering against the stone as he strode away.
The wind picked up in his wake, as if the palace itself had sensed the gathering storm.
It did not take long for Bhishma to find his way to Aruni's chambers. The scholar was seated beside an oil lamp, a scroll unfurled before him, his keen eyes scanning the ancient texts.
Bhishma stepped forward. "Aruni."
The older man looked up, taking in the solemn set of Bhishma's jaw. He set the scroll aside, fingers steepling before him. "Something troubles you."
"Kritavarma and his ilk." Bhishma's voice was even, but there was steel beneath it. "They whisper of the queen's bloodline. Their tongues sow unrest."
Aruni sighed, rubbing his temples. "It was inevitable."
"And it cannot be allowed to fester," Bhishma said.
Aruni studied him carefully before speaking. "You have always been a warrior, Bhishma, but this battle cannot be won with steel alone. If you strike down opposition, more will rise in its place. That is the way of men."
Bhishma listened, but his resolve did not soften. "You suggest I do nothing?"
"I suggest you temper force with wisdom," Aruni said. "Show them that the queen is not a threat, but a necessity. The dynasty must endure."
Bhishma held his gaze for a long moment before turning away. "I will consider your words."
But the shadows in his mind did not lift.
He found Vikrama by the training grounds, sharpening the edge of his sword. The younger warrior's stance was relaxed, but his eyes, sharp as the blade in his hands, missed nothing.
Bhishma approached. "There is treason in the court."
Vikrama did not look up from his blade. "Then it must be cut down before it grows."
Bhishma studied him. "You would have me silence them?"
"I would have you remind them why they kneel." Vikrama tested the weight of his sword. "Fear is a better leash than kindness."
Bhishma exhaled through his nose. "And yet, a kingdom ruled by fear alone crumbles from within."
Vikrama finally met his gaze. "Perhaps. But a kingdom ruled by weakness crumbles all the same."
A long silence stretched between them.
Bhishma knew Vikrama's approach was reckless, yet there was truth in his words. He could not allow the court's murmurs to gain strength. And so, he made his choice.
"I will not strike first," Bhishma said at last. "But I will be ready."
Vikrama nodded, approving. "Then let them whisper. And when the time comes, let them choke on their own words."
That night, Bhishma stood upon the palace's highest terrace, his gaze sweeping over the vast city below. The wind curled around him, cool against his skin.
The court had always been a den of schemes, but now the stakes had changed. Satyavati's presence had shifted the balance, and there were those who would not accept it.
Yet, as he looked toward the river, where the waters of the Ganga still shimmered beneath the moonlight, he knew one thing with certainty—
He had sworn to protect this kingdom.
And he would not allow shadows to take root beneath his watch.
Bhishma turned, his expression unreadable, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.
Let them scheme.
He would be waiting.