The golden embers of the festival still smoldered in the air when the weight of reality came crashing down.
The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine had barely faded when whispers spread like wildfire—the king had collapsed.
By the time Bhishma reached Shantanu's chambers, the grand halls of the palace had already fallen into hushed tension. Servants moved like wraiths, their footsteps barely audible against the polished floors. The torches burned low, their flames flickering uncertainly, as if even the fire itself hesitated in the face of what was to come.
Bhishma entered the chamber in silence.
Shantanu lay in his vast, canopied bed, the once-mighty king reduced to a frail shadow of himself. His breathing was labored, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythms. The weight of the years had settled upon him all at once, pressing him down into the silken sheets that had once seemed unworthy of his strength.
And at his side, Satyavati sat unmoving.
She held his hand, her fingers clasping his as if she could tether him to the world a little longer. The festival's grandeur was gone now; her silks were wrinkled, her bangles motionless. The queen who had commanded lords and warriors with a single glance now seemed smaller, her sharp gaze dulled by sleeplessness and fear.
Bhishma stepped forward, his presence filling the chamber.
Her head lifted, dark eyes finding his. "He does not wake," she whispered.
Bhishma knelt beside the bed, studying his father. The man who had once led Hastinapura with the strength of an unyielding tide now seemed fragile, like a flame in the wind.
Bhishma reached forward, pressing two fingers lightly to his father's wrist. The pulse was there—weak, but steady.
"He still fights," Bhishma murmured.
Satyavati exhaled a breath she had not realized she was holding. But her relief was fleeting.
"He will not fight forever," she said, her voice raw.
Bhishma did not answer. There was nothing to say.
By dawn, Shantanu's condition had not improved. The king remained unconscious, his breath shallow, his skin clammy with fever. He stirred only in whispers, half-formed words slipping from his lips—memories of battles long past, of rivers and regrets.
Satyavati refused to leave his side.
Bhishma, however, had no such luxury. The court would not wait.
And so, as the morning light bathed Hastinapura in gold, he strode into the council chambers.
The nobles were already assembled, their faces drawn with worry.
"We must prepare for what is to come," one lord murmured. "If the king—" He hesitated, glancing toward Bhishma. "If the king does not recover, we must ensure stability."
Bhishma's gaze was like steel. "There will be no disorder in Hastinapura."
The room stilled.
Bhishma did not speak in threats. He did not need to.
The nobles nodded, reassured by his mere presence. If Shantanu was the crown, Bhishma was the foundation beneath it—the unshakable force that held the kingdom steady.
But even stone cracks beneath the weight of time.
That night, Bhishma returned to the king's chamber.
Satyavati still sat beside Shantanu, but her posture had changed. She was no longer the silent, grieving wife—she was the queen once more.
Her gaze lifted to Bhishma. "Come."
He stepped closer.
For the first time since the collapse, her voice was steady. "Hastinapura cannot afford uncertainty."
Bhishma nodded. "It will not falter."
She studied him for a long moment, then exhaled. "Chitrangada."
The name hung between them.
Her son. The prince. The heir.
The future.
"He must be ready," she said. "If Shantanu…" Her voice caught, but she pressed on. "If Shantanu does not wake, Chitrangada must rise. The kingdom must see him, must know him as their king."
Bhishma said nothing.
Satyavati's gaze hardened. "You do not believe in him?"
Bhishma's expression did not waver. "He is young."
Satyavati's fingers curled into fists. "Then he must grow quickly."
Bhishma understood. She was not asking for his faith—she was demanding his guidance.
He inclined his head. "I will teach him."
Satyavati closed her eyes briefly, exhaling. When she spoke again, her voice was softer.
"Shantanu trusted you beyond all others." She paused. "So do I."
It was not an easy thing for her to admit.
But Bhishma, in all his unshakable strength, did not dismiss it.
"I will not fail Hastinapura," he vowed.
Hours passed. The torches burned low.
The night stretched endless when, at last, Shantanu stirred.
Satyavati was the first to react, leaning forward, her hands clasping his. "Shantanu?"
His eyelids fluttered. His lips parted, a whisper escaping.
Bhishma stepped closer.
Shantanu's gaze, weak but aware, found him.
"Bhishma…"
Bhishma knelt beside the bed. "I am here, father."
A faint smile touched the king's lips. "The festival…?"
"It was a success," Bhishma said.
Shantanu exhaled softly. His voice was barely audible. "Good… Satyavati… you were right…"
Satyavati squeezed his hand. "Rest, my king."
His eyes met Bhishma's again, clouded yet sharp with understanding. "You will protect them."
It was not a question.
Bhishma bowed his head. "Always."
Shantanu's breath slowed. His grip weakened.
And then, in the silence, he whispered something else.
A name.
Bhishma's heart clenched.
Ganga.
And then the king fell still once more.
Satyavati inhaled sharply, her grip tightening around his hand as if she could keep him from slipping away.
The chamber was silent.
Only the wind stirred, whispering through the curtains.
Satyavati did not look at Bhishma, but when she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"A king's end nears."