The torches burned low in Hastinapura's palace, their golden light flickering against the stone walls. A hush had settled over the city, heavy and expectant, as if the very earth held its breath. The king was dying.
Shantanu lay upon his bed, his once-mighty frame diminished, his breath shallow and uneven. The fire in his eyes, the strength that had once carved a kingdom, was nearly gone. Only embers remained, flickering against the darkness that slowly closed in around him.
Satyavati sat beside him, her hands pressed together, her lips moving in silent prayers. The scent of medicinal herbs clung to the air, but she knew they were useless now. The healers had done all they could. Now, only time remained.
A shadow stirred at the entrance of the chamber. Bhishma.
He stepped inside, his boots barely making a sound against the marble floor. Even without his armor, he carried the weight of steel in his stance—the unshakable strength of a warrior, a son, a protector.
Shantanu's eyes found him, and a ghost of a smile flickered across his lips. "Come, my son."
Bhishma obeyed, kneeling beside the bed. The man who had once seemed invincible, whose laughter had once echoed through these halls, was now reduced to shallow breaths and trembling hands.
Satyavati's fingers tightened on the sheets. She had never feared anything before. But this… this was different.
This was an ending.
Shantanu's voice was barely more than a whisper. "Hastinapura… must not falter."
Bhishma bowed his head. "It will not."
The old king exhaled slowly. "Chitrangada… my son. He is too young."
Satyavati's breath caught. She had tried to deny it for so long. She had told herself that her son would grow strong, that he would learn, that he would be ready.
But he was still a child.
And Hastinapura was not kind to children.
Shantanu's gaze did not waver. "You will guide him, Bhishma."
Bhishma remained still. He had sworn an oath. A vow so heavy it had reshaped the very destiny of the Kuru line. He could not take the throne.
But he could protect it.
His jaw tightened, but he nodded. "I will be regent."
Shantanu sighed, as if some final burden had been lifted from his shoulders.
His hand trembled as he reached for Bhishma's. The same hand that had once held a sword, that had shaped kingdoms, now frail, cold.
His fingers barely curled around his son's wrist.
"My strength… is yours."
For the first time in years, Bhishma felt something stir deep within him. A boy's grief. A warrior's sorrow.
But he did not let it show.
Shantanu's gaze drifted past Bhishma, settling on Satyavati. A softness entered his eyes.
"My queen."
Satyavati's breath shuddered.
For all her strength, for all her will, she could not stop the tears.
"Shantanu…"
He smiled—weakly, faintly, but it was there.
And then, his breath hitched.
His body went still.
The embers of his spirit flickered one last time.
And then, they went out.
A long silence filled the chamber.
Satyavati let out a breathless, shuddering sob, pressing her forehead to his still hand. A queen could not weep. But a woman could.
Bhishma closed his father's eyes.
The king of Hastinapura was dead.
And the world would never be the same.
The Ganga flowed, steady and unyielding, as it had for centuries.
The river had witnessed the rise and fall of kings, the clash of armies, the sorrow of widows. And now, it would take its own son.
A grand pyre had been built upon the banks, the scent of sandalwood and oil thick in the air. The entire court had gathered, a sea of mourners draped in white. Some whispered prayers. Others stood in silence, heads bowed.
Bhishma stood at the head of the pyre, his expression carved from stone. He held the torch in his hand, the flames dancing against the wind. It was his duty. His final rite as a son.
Satyavati stood behind him, her hands clenched together so tightly that her nails bit into her palms. Her king was gone.
And now, all that remained was a throne and a child who was not ready to sit upon it.
Bhishma stepped forward. The fire met the wood.
The flames leapt high, crackling, consuming.
The Ganga's waters swirled below.
For the briefest moment, Bhishma swore he could feel her presence—his mother, the river herself, watching.
As if she, too, mourned the man she had once loved.
The fire burned through the night.
And by dawn, only ashes remained.
Hastinapura did not stop for grief.
The very morning after the funeral, the court assembled.
Bhishma stood at the head of the great hall, his gaze sweeping over the gathered nobles. He could feel their unease, their uncertainty.
A child was their king now.
And though Bhishma had been named regent, doubt festered like a wound.
A voice rose from the assembly. "Will Hastinapura be ruled by a boy?"
Another voice, sharp and wary. "Or by a man who has vowed never to be king?"
Bhishma did not flinch.
He stepped forward, his presence alone enough to still the murmurs.
"Hastinapura will be ruled by its rightful king."****"And I will see to it that no harm comes to him."
Silence.
Then, a single voice. "And if war comes?"
Bhishma's gaze did not waver. "Then I will fight."
It was not a boast. It was not a threat. It was a promise.
Satyavati, standing beside the young Chitrangada, finally spoke.
Her voice was clear. Unyielding.
"My son is the rightful heir. And Bhishma is the shield that will guard him."
The court fell silent.
One by one, the nobles knelt.
Pledging their loyalty.
Pledging their trust.
Pledging their fear.
Bhishma watched them all, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword.
He had sworn never to rule.
But tonight, he carried a throne upon his shoulders.
And he would carry it for as long as he lived.
As the court rose, as the new era of Hastinapura began, a single thought echoed through Bhishma's mind.
"A throne too young to hold."