The festival's final night arrived with the promise of laughter, music, and the lingering warmth of a kingdom united.
Across the great city of Hastinapura, golden torches flickered like scattered stars, their light dancing over silk-clad nobles and common folk alike. The streets pulsed with life, a river of color and sound as dancers twirled and minstrels filled the air with songs of valor and love. The scent of roasted meats, sweet rice, and spiced wine drifted through the palace gardens, where the royal court had gathered for the grand closing feast.
Satyavati, resplendent in deep blue silks, sat beside the frail but ever-watchful Shantanu, her fingers resting lightly on the arm of his throne. Though the king's body had weakened, his eyes still carried the weight of a ruler who had seen the world shift beneath his feet.
And standing at his usual place, behind and to the side, was Bhishma.
His expression was unreadable, but his sharp eyes scanned the crowd, never still, never resting. It was habit now—a soldier's instinct that had long replaced a prince's ease.
The boy Chitrangada sat near his mother, his wide, curious eyes flickering between the feast and the warriors who surrounded him. He was young, too young to bear the weight of the future that awaited him, but Satyavati knew better than to let him appear weak.
"This is your kingdom," she had whispered to him before the feast. "Watch it well."
The festival had been Satyavati's idea—a final moment of unity before the court turned its attention to darker matters. Though Shantanu still lived, the nobles had begun to whisper about succession, about the cracks that unity could not mend.
Not everyone wished to see Chitrangada rise.
Kritavarma, a distant Kuru noble with strong ties to the western clans, had not made his ambitions secret. He was a man who moved in silence, a viper among the peacocks of the court, his smiles never quite reaching his eyes. And tonight, though he had attended the festival with the pretense of loyalty, Bhishma had not seen him in hours.
The thought settled like a stone in his chest.
Something was wrong.
Bhishma's fingers brushed the hilt of his sword. He could hear the wind shifting beyond the palace walls, moving in uneasy currents.
His eyes flicked to Satyavati. She was speaking to one of the elders, her expression composed, but something in the stiffness of her posture told him she felt it too—a presence in the dark, waiting.
Then the music faltered.
It was small, barely noticeable. A single flute missing a note, a drumbeat slightly out of rhythm.
Bhishma's grip on his sword tightened.
And then, the first scream tore through the night.
The palace gardens erupted into chaos.
A dozen men, faces hidden beneath dark veils, surged from the crowd. The torches cast flickering shadows across their blades, steel flashing as they drove toward the dais—toward Chitrangada.
Assassins. No. More than that. This was a kidnapping.
Bhishma moved before thought, before breath.
His sword was in his hands in an instant, the air itself seeming to recoil at the force of his movement. He leapt from the dais, the wind surging with him, a force that sent the nearest attacker stumbling back.
"Protect the prince!" someone shouted.
But Bhishma had already taken the fight into his own hands.
His sword struck the first man, cutting through cloth and flesh with the ease of a river carving stone. Blood sprayed across the marble steps as the man fell, but Bhishma was already moving forward, already reaching for the next.
The assassins were fast—but he was faster.
The second came at him with a curved dagger, but Bhishma caught his wrist, twisting until bone snapped beneath his grip. The man barely had time to scream before Bhishma drove his blade into his chest, twisting cruelly.
Another rushed from his left.
Bhishma sidestepped, catching the attacker's sword against his own in a deafening clash. The force sent a shudder through his arms, but he pushed forward, knocking the man off balance before kicking him hard in the chest. The assassin crashed into a table, shattering plates and goblets in his fall.
And still, more came.
Chitrangada.
Bhishma's heart pounded as he turned toward the dais, where two assassins had broken through the guards and were reaching for the boy.
No.
Bhishma moved with a fury that sent the wind howling through the courtyard.
He leapt onto the dais, an arrow already nocked and loosed before his feet even touched the ground. The first assassin fell, Bhishma's arrow buried deep in his throat.
The second hesitated—but only for a moment. He lunged toward Chitrangada, blade glinting under the torchlight.
The boy's eyes went wide with terror.
Bhishma did not think. He acted.
In a blur of motion, he drew another arrow—notched, pulled, released.
The shot was clean. Deadly.
The assassin crumpled mere inches from the prince, the tip of Bhishma's arrow protruding from his back.
Chitrangada gasped, stumbling backward. Blood pooled beneath his feet, warm and slick. He had never seen death this close before.
And then Satyavati was there, her arms wrapping around him, shielding him from the horror.
Bhishma turned, breathing hard. His grip on his bow was firm, but his eyes were sharper still, scanning the battlefield for the true threat.
Kritavarma.
The noble stood at the edge of the chaos, his hand resting on his sword's hilt. He was not a warrior—he had not joined the fight—but the men who had attacked bore his colors, his insignia.
And though he tried to hide it, his left arm hung strangely. A wound. A sign that he had not been merely a bystander.
Their eyes met.
And for the first time, Kritavarma hesitated.
Bhishma did not.
He moved, closing the distance between them with the certainty of death itself.
Kritavarma's face paled. He turned, fleeing into the night.
Bhishma did not chase him—not yet.
Instead, he turned back to the courtyard, where the last of the assassins lay dead or dying, the guards finishing what he had started.
The air was thick with the scent of blood, the echoes of battle still ringing through the palace walls. The festival's joy had been shattered.
Bhishma exhaled, his gaze flicking toward the crumpled form of the last assassin at his feet. He stepped forward, pressing a boot against the man's chest, forcing him to look up.
"Who sent you?" Bhishma demanded.
The assassin coughed, blood trickling from his lips. But his smile—his smile did not fade.
"The king's blood will spill," he whispered. "One way or another."
Bhishma's expression darkened. Without a word, he drove his sword through the man's heart.
The battle was over.
But the war had just begun.
......
The festival's embers still smoldered, but its joy had been extinguished.
The once-vibrant palace gardens were now a battlefield. Pools of blood soaked the marble steps, staining the silk carpets that had been laid for the feast. The golden lanterns still swayed in the evening breeze, casting flickering light over the bodies of the fallen.
In the midst of it all, Bhishma stood, unshaken.
His sword dripped crimson, the metallic scent of death mingling with the last traces of spiced wine in the air. He exhaled slowly, scanning the scene with a soldier's cold precision. The assassins lay dead, their twisted forms sprawled across the garden. Those who still breathed were being dragged away by Hastinapura's guards, their struggles weak, their defeat absolute.
But one had escaped.
Kritavarma.
Bhishma's gaze lifted toward the palace walls. Somewhere beyond them, in the vast, dark streets of Hastinapura, the traitor was running.
Not for long.
Near the royal dais, Satyavati held Chitrangada tightly against her chest, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The boy trembled, his small hands gripping the fabric of her silken robe as though it was the only thing keeping him anchored to the world.
Satyavati's grip did not loosen.
For all her strength, for all her cunning, she had nearly lost her son tonight.
She looked up as Bhishma approached, his steps silent but his presence undeniable. His face, carved in unyielding stone, was as unreadable as ever, but his eyes burned with something deeper—something raw.
He had come too close to failure.
"They came for my son," Satyavati whispered, her voice hoarse. She pulled Chitrangada closer, as though trying to shield him from the world itself. "They dared."
Bhishma knelt before her, resting a bloodied hand over his heart in silent deference.
"It will not happen again," he said, and it was not a promise—it was a command to the universe itself.
Satyavati's lips parted, but she said nothing for a long moment. The weight of the night, of the years to come, settled upon her.
She had always trusted Bhishma.
But now?
Now, she knew he was the only one who could truly protect her son.
She finally nodded, the fire returning to her voice. "Find Kritavarma. End this."
Bhishma rose, his fingers tightening around his sword's hilt. The hunt had begun.
Through the Streets of Hastinapura
The city had not yet returned to silence.
Word of the attack had spread like wildfire. Though no bells had tolled, and no criers had called out, the streets were alive with murmurs and hurried steps. The people of Hastinapura were no strangers to bloodshed—but never within their king's walls.
Bhishma moved through the city like a shadow, his footsteps soundless against the stone. He did not run; he did not need to.
He knew where Kritavarma would go.
Cowards always fled toward the illusion of safety.
And in Hastinapura, there were few places safer than the western quarter.
The western quarter was a maze of twisting alleys and sloping rooftops, its heart beating with trade and quiet ambitions. Here, among the merchant guilds and lesser nobles, wealth and loyalty were measured in coin—not blood.
Kritavarma had allies here.
But Bhishma had something stronger.
As he turned down a narrow street, his sharp eyes caught a flash of movement atop a distant rooftop. A figure, moving fast, his wounded arm clutched close to his side.
Kritavarma.
Bhishma exhaled through his nose, his grip tightening around his bow.
A warning shot would be merciful.
Tonight, Bhishma was not feeling merciful.
He loosed an arrow.
The wind carried it forward like a whispered death sentence.
Kritavarma barely had time to turn before the arrow slammed into the stone near his foot, splintering the rooftop tiles.
He stumbled, cursing. Then, he ran.
Bhishma followed.
He moved through the winding streets with the ease of a hunter who knew his prey had already lost. Every turn Kritavarma took, every desperate attempt to lose him, was futile.
Because Bhishma was not chasing him.
He was herding him.
And finally, Kritavarma made the mistake Bhishma had been waiting for.
He turned sharply into a side alley—only to find it blocked by two Hastinapura guards.
His breath hitched. He spun, but Bhishma was already there, his sword drawn, the torchlight casting his shadow long and merciless against the walls.
There was nowhere left to run.
Kritavarma's face twisted, sweat beading along his brow. His wounded arm trembled at his side, the fabric of his robe dark with blood.
Still, he sneered. "You wouldn't kill a noble, Bhishma."
Bhishma's sword did not waver.
"You are no noble."
Kritavarma's fingers twitched toward the dagger at his belt, but he hesitated. His eyes darted toward the guards, searching for something—anything—but there was no escape.
His bravado cracked. "I had no choice," he spat. "Hastinapura is weak! The king is dying, and that fisherwoman—"
The blade was at his throat before he could finish.
Bhishma's voice was calm, but his fury was absolute.
"Speak of the queen again, and I will remove your tongue before your head."
Kritavarma swallowed. For the first time, true fear entered his eyes.
Bhishma exhaled, his grip loosening just enough to let him breathe. "You are coming with me."
Kritavarma's breath came in short, ragged gasps. "You should kill me."
Bhishma's lips curled in something that was not quite a smile. "No. You will be proof."
The weight of the words settled heavy between them. Kritavarma understood. His fate was sealed—not by a blade, but by the judgment of the court.
And that would be a death far worse than any Bhishma could grant him tonight.
The guards seized him, pulling his arms behind his back. He did not struggle. There was no point.
As Bhishma turned, leading the way back to the palace, the wind stirred through the alleyways once more.
It carried the scent of spilled blood and broken ambitions.
But the night was not over yet.
....
The halls of Hastinapura were silent, but the air was thick with tension.
Word had spread.
By the time Bhishma and his guards dragged Kritavarma through the palace gates, the court was already awake. Whispers slithered through the corridors, murmurs of treachery and bloodshed weaving into the very stone of the ancient fortress. Servants pressed themselves against the walls, their eyes wide with barely concealed fear as Bhishma strode past.
Kritavarma, still panting, his fine robes stained with his own blood, tried to walk with dignity. But it was impossible. His wounded arm hung uselessly at his side, and the iron grip of the guards at his back left no room for illusion—he was a defeated man.
As they entered the main court chamber, Satyavati was already waiting.
The Queen's Wrath
She stood at the head of the room, her dark hair falling loose over her shoulders, her garments still marked with the remnants of the festival. The gold of her jewelry gleamed in the dim torchlight, but her eyes burned brighter.
Beside her, Chitrangada sat stiffly, his small hands clenched in his lap. The boy had been bathed, changed into fresh silks, but there was a shadow behind his eyes—a shadow that had not been there before.
Satyavati's gaze locked onto Kritavarma, and for a long, terrible moment, she said nothing.
Then, she took a step forward.
Slap.
The sound echoed through the vast hall as Satyavati's palm struck Kritavarma's face.
The force of it sent him staggering, his breath hitching as he caught himself. A noble. A warrior. A man of influence. And yet, in this moment, he was nothing.
The guards made no move to stop her. Bhishma did not even blink.
Satyavati's voice was low, but it cut through the air like a blade. "You dared."
Kritavarma's jaw clenched, but he did not speak. What could he say? The evidence of his betrayal was painted in the blood on Bhishma's blade, in the bruises on the arms of the servants who had tried to shield the young prince.
Still, he tried. "My queen—"
"Silence."
The single word carried such weight that even Bhishma himself felt it settle in his chest.
Satyavati turned to Bhishma, her hands trembling only slightly. "What was his goal?"
Bhishma's expression remained unreadable. "To kidnap the prince."
A sharp intake of breath ran through the assembled nobles. The line of the Kuru kings had been attacked. This was not just an act of treason—it was an attempt to shake the very foundations of Hastinapura.
Satyavati's fingers curled into fists. "And what would you have done with my son?"
Kritavarma's lip curled. He was cornered, but his arrogance had not yet crumbled entirely.
"Raise him away from your corruption."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Chitrangada flinched at the words, his young mind struggling to grasp the depth of the hatred behind them.
Bhishma did not hesitate. His sword was at Kritavarma's throat before anyone could react.
The tension in the room snapped taut like a bowstring.
Kritavarma did not move. Did not breathe. He knew that Bhishma's wrath was not a thing to be tested.
Bhishma's voice was deathly calm. "Speak one more word against your queen, and I will end your line tonight."
For the first time, true terror entered Kritavarma's eyes.
He had underestimated Bhishma.
He had assumed that the warrior's famed restraint was weakness. That the vow of celibacy, of loyalty, made him soft.
Now, as he stared into the eyes of the man who had once held back the might of kingdoms with sheer will alone, he understood his mistake.
Bhishma would not hesitate to kill him.
Not for personal vengeance. Not for wounded pride.
But for Hastinapura.
Judgment
Satyavati finally exhaled. "He does not deserve your blade."
Bhishma did not lower his sword. "Then what does he deserve?"
Satyavati turned to the court, her gaze sweeping over the gathered nobles. "This is treason."
A murmur of agreement. There could be no denying it. The festival had ended in blood. A child had nearly been taken.
One of the elder nobles stepped forward. His voice was steady, but the weight of the night had aged him. "The punishment for treason is death."
Kritavarma's breath hitched. He had known this, of course. But now, hearing it spoken aloud, the reality of his fate settled upon him.
Satyavati considered the words carefully. Then, she spoke. "Death is merciful."
The hall fell silent again.
Bhishma slowly lowered his sword, though his grip did not loosen. He understood now.
Satyavati would not kill Kritavarma.
She would destroy him.
She stepped forward, her gaze locking onto the traitor's. "You will not die tonight."
A flicker of something—hope?—crossed Kritavarma's face. But it did not last.
Satyavati's voice turned cold. "You will live. But not as Kritavarma of the Yadavas. Not as a noble. Not as a man of power."
She turned to the guards. "Strip him of his titles. His land. His wealth. His very name."
A gasp rippled through the court. Exile.
A fate worse than death.
Kritavarma's breath came in ragged bursts. "No."
Satyavati did not blink. "You would have stolen my son from his birthright. Now, you will know what it means to have nothing."
Bhishma stepped back, watching as the guards seized Kritavarma, ripping the fine robes from his shoulders, stripping the jewelry from his fingers. With each piece removed, his identity was shattered further.
By morning, he would be cast out of Hastinapura's gates.
And he would never return.
The court slowly dispersed, the weight of the night pressing down on all who had witnessed it. The festival had ended in celebration. But its echoes would be stained with blood for generations to come.
Satyavati stood still for a long moment, watching as Kritavarma was dragged away.
Then, she turned to Bhishma.
For the first time that night, her shoulders sagged.
Bhishma stepped forward. "It is done."
She exhaled. "Not yet."
Bhishma frowned. "What do you mean?"
Satyavati's gaze flickered toward Chitrangada, still seated, watching everything in silence.
Bhishma followed her gaze. His stomach tightened.
The boy had been laughing only hours ago, racing along the riverbanks with other noble children.
Now, his eyes were older.
He had seen his own mortality tonight. He had felt the hands of traitors close around his arms. He would never be the same.
Satyavati's fingers curled into fists. "My son must never feel fear again."
She turned to Bhishma, her voice heavy with unspoken meaning.
"Train him."
Bhishma inhaled slowly. He had known this was coming.
And yet, something deep within him ached at the thought.
Not because he did not wish to protect the boy.
But because he knew what the price of power was.
Still, he bowed his head. "As you command."
The festival was over.
The blood had dried.