The night sky stretched endless over Hastinapura, a canopy of deep indigo flecked with stars. Below, the city pulsed with life. Torches burned like captured suns, their golden light casting flickering patterns on the ancient stone streets. Laughter, music, and the heady scent of roasted meats and sweetened wine filled the air.
Tonight was a night of unity.
At the heart of the grand courtyard, Satyavati stood poised, her dark blue sari rippling like the Yamuna in the breeze. The silver embroidery shimmered as she raised her arms, commanding the attention of lords, merchants, warriors, and commoners alike.
"The festival of unity begins," she declared, her voice clear and regal. "For too long, the ties that bind us have been stretched thin. Tonight, we remember that before we are warriors and nobles, traders and kings—we are one."
A cheer erupted through the crowd. Beneath the golden banners of Hastinapura, wine flowed, dancers twirled, and men who had once eyed each other with suspicion now clasped hands in celebration. But not all were deceived by the illusion of peace.
From the palace balcony, Bhishma stood watching, unmoved.
Bhishma did not drink, nor did he revel. His armor gleamed silver under the torchlight, his sword resting against his hip. To the unknowing eye, he was still, impassive—a statue carved from unyielding stone.
But beneath the surface, his mind churned.
Satyavati's festival was brilliant in its design. A night where old grudges were drowned in wine, where warriors and merchants alike found common ground. But Bhishma had lived too long, fought too many battles, to believe in such illusions.
Kritavarma had not sent word.
The ruler of Bhojakata had once been an ally, bound by the politics of Hastinapura. But now, silence stretched across the western border like an unsheathed blade. And Bhishma had learned, long ago, that silence was the language of war.
A breath of wind curled around him, carrying the echoes of his old friend's voice. "Not everything is a battlefield, Bhishma."
Perhaps not.
But everything could become one.
Beneath the grand pavilion, Shantanu sat upon his throne, the weight of years pressing heavily upon his shoulders. Once, he had been mighty—his hands strong, his voice commanding. But now, the silks he wore felt heavier than the armor he had once donned.
Satyavati stood beside him, ever watchful.
"Is this to be my last festival?" Shantanu murmured, his voice tinged with wistful amusement.
Satyavati's fingers tightened around his. "It is the first of many," she said, though her heart twisted at the lie.
He smiled, but his eyes betrayed him. He knew.
Through the revelry, his gaze sought Bhishma. The son who had given up everything for him. The warrior who stood alone, always watching, always waiting.
Bhishma met his father's gaze across the courtyard.
A silent promise passed between them.
Whatever came, Bhishma would bear it.
Satyavati stepped forward once more, her bangles clinking softly as she raised her arms.
"Hastinapura has stood for generations," she proclaimed. "But unity is not inherited—it is earned. And tonight, we honor the lifeblood of our kingdom."
The crowd stilled. Even the drunken lords lifted their heads.
"In honor of our rivers, in honor of our people, let the river races begin!"
A roar of approval followed.
Beyond the palace walls, the Yamuna shimmered beneath the moon, its waters alive with torchlight. Boats lined its banks, rowers tightening their grips on oars, eager to prove their skill.
From her throne, Satyavati turned to Bhishma, amusement dancing in her gaze.
"Will you not race?" she teased.
Bhishma shook his head. "I race toward battles, not victories of sport."
She laughed. "Always the sentinel."
He did not smile. "Always."
As the boats surged forward, the crowd erupted in cheers. But Bhishma's attention was elsewhere.
A flicker of movement at the city's edge. A shadow slipping between the revelers—too deliberate, too cautious.
Bhishma did not hesitate.
He moved, silent as the wind, his feet carrying him past the laughter and light, into the darkness beyond.
The alley was narrow, swallowed by shadows. The sounds of celebration faded behind him, muffled by stone and distance.
Bhishma stepped forward, his voice low but commanding. "Show yourself."
Silence.
But then—a breath held too long.
He moved.
The dagger struck where he had been a moment before. Bhishma caught the assailant's wrist, twisting sharply. A gasp of pain, a blade clattering to the ground.
The figure struggled, but Bhishma did not release him. Instead, he turned the man toward the sliver of moonlight cutting through the alley.
A young face. Not a warrior. Not a trained killer.
A messenger.
"Who sent you?" Bhishma demanded.
The boy's breath hitched. "I… I bring a warning."
Bhishma's grip tightened. "Then speak."
The boy swallowed hard. "The western border is restless. Kritavarma does not move yet, but he watches. He waits."
Bhishma's jaw clenched. "And the dagger?"
The messenger hesitated, then looked away. "A test."
Footsteps echoed at the alley's entrance. Bhishma turned sharply, but no one emerged. Only the wind.
He released the boy, pushing him toward the light. "Go. And tell your master I am waiting."
The messenger fled.
Bhishma exhaled slowly, lifting his gaze toward the moonlit sky.
Somewhere in the distance, a boat reached the river's end, and the crowd erupted in cheers.