The morning air was crisp, carrying the sharp tang of sweat and metal as the palace courtyard filled with the steady rhythm of footsteps and the whistling of arrows slicing through the wind. Bhishma stood with his arms crossed, his gaze cutting across the ranks of assembled soldiers—new recruits and seasoned warriors alike. He had seen generations of warriors come and go, but his discipline remained unchanged.
Today was no different. Training was an unbroken ritual, a duty as sacred as war itself.
"Draw," Bhishma commanded, his voice steady as the wind rustling through the banners above.
A hundred bows were raised in perfect unison. The morning sun gleamed off the metal arrowheads, a deadly glimmer of steel poised to strike.
"Loose."
A single moment of silence. Then, the sharp hiss of arrows filled the air.
The sky darkened for an instant as the missiles soared, their trajectories clean and swift. Most struck their targets. Some wavered, slightly off-mark. A few missed entirely, embedding themselves uselessly in the ground.
Bhishma did not react immediately. He strode forward, stepping over fallen arrows, his fingers brushing the shaft of one that had landed far from the target. He picked it up and turned, facing the men with a gaze that felt like iron pressing against their resolve.
"A weapon in uncertain hands is worse than no weapon at all," he said, his tone calm but carrying the weight of unyielding truth. "It betrays you. It betrays the throne."
The soldiers stood straighter, their jaws tightening. Failure was not taken lightly in Bhishma's presence.
He let the arrow fall from his hand and turned. "Again."
This time, when the arrows flew, there were fewer mistakes.
Bhishma allowed himself the smallest flicker of approval. But training was only one part of his duties. The palace itself had begun to shift, unseen currents moving beneath its foundations, and he would not allow them to go unchecked.
As the drills ended and the soldiers dispersed, Bhishma lingered at the edges of the courtyard. His sharp eyes scanned the palace corridors, noting the quiet conversations that flickered like dying embers.
Near the eastern walls, a cluster of men stood in hushed discussion. He recognized the insignia of Kritavarma's household. Their postures were careful, their eyes darting subtly to ensure they remained unnoticed.
But nothing escaped Bhishma.
He remained motionless, watching as they slowly dispersed, each man disappearing into different corridors, moving as if their meeting had been meaningless.
It was not.
Turning on his heel, he strode towards the barracks.
Aruni and Vikrama were waiting when he arrived, both seated around a low wooden table scattered with parchments. Maps and duty rosters were spread before them, detailing the deployment of palace guards and patrols.
Bhishma did not hesitate.
"Kritavarma's men whisper in corners," he said, his voice sharp and controlled. "I want to know why."
Aruni, the older of the two, exchanged a brief glance with Vikrama before stepping forward. "There have been murmurs, my lord. Some fear that with only one heir and your vow, the throne stands vulnerable."
Bhishma exhaled slowly. The same doubt that had tainted the feast now spread through the ranks. He had expected it. But expectation did not lessen the need for action.
"I followed one of them last night," Vikrama added, his voice low. "He met with another outside the palace walls, near the old granaries. The meeting was brief. Careful."
Bhishma's jaw tightened.
Caution was the tool of the scheming. It meant that whoever they spoke to was not meant to be seen.
Aruni leaned forward. "We must act. A show of strength—let them see that the kingdom does not waver."
Vikrama shook his head slightly. "Or we move in silence. If they conspire, they will guard their words more carefully if they suspect we're watching."
Bhishma weighed their words. Aruni's suggestion was bold—an open display of power. But Vikrama's method was subtler, allowing them to pull at the threads before the web became too tangled.
Both had merit.
"We do both," Bhishma decided. "Aruni, reinforce the guard. Increase their presence at the gates, the halls, the treasury. Let them see that we remain vigilant."
Aruni nodded, already considering how best to execute the plan.
"Vikrama," Bhishma continued, turning to the younger man, "watch them closely. Learn what they intend."
Vikrama nodded once. "I will return with answers."
He slipped into the shadows, already vanishing into the palace's unseen corridors.
That night, Bhishma stood at the edge of the palace walls, looking down at the great river below. The Ganga moved with quiet strength, its endless flow steady against the shifting uncertainties of men.
He had not been to this spot in years. Not since the night he had sworn his vow.
A familiar voice echoed in his memory. Kshema—his old friend, his companion in youth.
"You do not waver, Bhishma. But one day, you may have to."
The wind stirred the surface of the water. Bhishma's grip on the hilt of his sword tightened.
No.
His vow remained, unbroken. His duty held firm.
But the court whispered of weakness. The nobles weighed the fate of the throne in hushed voices. Factions stirred in the dark, seeking a path to power through doubt.
Bhishma closed his eyes briefly, feeling the weight of centuries pressing upon him.
If the throne was to be guarded, he would guard it. If men sought to shake its foundation, he would stand unmoved.
And if war came, he would meet it with steel in his hand.
But he would not waver. Not now. Not ever.