The riverlands stretched before them, silver mist curling over the earth like a restless spirit. The sun had not yet risen, and the world sat on the edge of silence, the only sound the rhythmic clatter of hooves on damp earth.
Chitrangada gripped the reins of his horse, eyes burning with anticipation. This was his moment.
Behind him, his warriors rode in disciplined lines—young nobles eager for glory, hardened soldiers who had seen blood and fire.
And to his left, astride a warhorse dark as night, rode Bhishma.
The wind tugged at Bhishma's cloak, his presence silent, watchful. He had not argued when Chitrangada insisted on leading the charge. He had merely mounted his horse and followed.
A guardian. A shadow.
Chitrangada ignored him.
His heart pounded, alive with the thrill of the hunt. He would lead this battle. He would drive the Gandharvas from their lands.
And Bhishma would see that he was ready.
They found the Gandharvas at dawn.
A small warband—no more than thirty riders—moving through the shallows of the river, their forms shimmering in the early light. They looked half-real, like specters drifting between worlds.
Chitrangada did not hesitate.
"Now!"
His horse surged forward, the warriors following, hooves churning the riverbank into mud.
The Gandharvas turned at the last moment.
Then, chaos.
Chitrangada struck the first man before he could fully draw his sword. His blade split flesh, blood spraying against the dawn. The Gandharva crumpled, eyes wide in shock.
A battle cry rose from the Hastinapura warriors, steel flashing in the light.
The Gandharvas moved like water, slipping between blows, their swords singing through the air. They did not fight like mortal men—they twisted, spun, struck from angles impossible to predict.
But Chitrangada was relentless.
His sword danced through the mist, his breath ragged with exhilaration. This was where he belonged—in the storm, in the fire.
A Gandharva lunged, a curved blade slicing toward his throat.
Chitrangada ducked, twisted—metal scraped against his shoulder guard—and he drove his sword up through the raider's ribs.
Another fell.
And another.
The Gandharvas faltered. They had not expected an attack. They had not expected him.
Chitrangada let out a sharp, breathless laugh.
They're nothing.
Then, the wind shifted.
Arrows rained from the sky, swift as lightning, precise as a surgeon's blade.
Bhishma.
His bow sang, his expression unreadable as he loosed arrow after arrow, each shot finding its mark. Where Chitrangada was fire, Bhishma was ice.
The Gandharvas began to retreat, slipping back toward the river, their forms dissolving into mist.
Chitrangada's pulse thundered in his ears. Victory.
He reined in his horse, breathing hard, blood on his blade, triumph swelling in his chest.
Behind him, his warriors cheered. Their first battle—won.
Bhishma rode up beside him, his face calm.
"Enough," he said.
Chitrangada turned to him, eyes blazing.
"We've beaten them! You saw—"
Bhishma did not move. "This was a spark, Chitrangada. Do not chase the flame."
Chitrangada scoffed.
"They fled like cowards." He gestured at the fallen warriors. "You saw how they fought. They're undisciplined, weak."
Bhishma's gaze did not waver.
"They are testing us."
Chitrangada frowned.
Bhishma's voice was low, the wind stirring around him. "They wanted to see how we fight. How strong we are. They will return."
Chitrangada rolled his shoulders, still high from battle. "Then let them."
Bhishma exhaled, but said nothing.
The scent of blood lingered in the air as the victorious warriors rode back toward Hastinapura. Chitrangada led them, his chin high, his armor streaked with dirt and crimson. Behind him, the young nobles laughed, recounting their kills, the thrill of battle still burning in their eyes.
Bhishma rode at the rear, silent, watchful.
The boy was pleased with himself. Too pleased.
Chitrangada had fought well—there was no denying that. He had struck hard and fast, his courage unquestionable. But courage was not enough.
The Gandharvas were not broken.
They were waiting.
And Chitrangada, drunk on victory, did not see it.
The city gates loomed in the distance, torches flickering in the dusk. Servants and messengers rushed forward as the warband entered, their eyes widening at the bloodstains, the shattered shields.
Satyavati was already waiting in the palace courtyard.
She did not wear her usual silks, only a simple white robe, her hair unbound. The moment she saw her son, her breath caught.
He looked like a king.
Blood on his hands, fire in his eyes.
My son. My warrior.
She rushed forward, cupping his face, searching for wounds.
"You're hurt."
Chitrangada laughed, brushing her hands away. "Barely a scratch."
Satyavati turned to Bhishma, expecting some rebuke, some measured words of caution. But Bhishma only dismounted, his expression unreadable.
Satyavati frowned. "You disapprove."
Bhishma removed his gloves, shaking his head. "I caution."
Satyavati exhaled. "What happened?"
Chitrangada answered before Bhishma could. "We routed them, Mother. We struck first, and they crumbled. If we ride out again, we can push them back for good."
Satyavati turned to Bhishma.
"Is this true?"
Bhishma held her gaze. "It was too easy."
Chitrangada's mouth tightened. "You always doubt me."
Bhishma turned to him, his voice calm but firm. "I have seen more war than you can imagine. No battle ends so quickly. The Gandharvas were testing us."
Chitrangada scoffed. "Or they were simply weak."
Bhishma's jaw tightened. "They will return."
A silence stretched between them.
Satyavati's fingers curled. She wanted to believe Bhishma, to trust his wisdom. But her son was right, wasn't he?
Hadn't he just proved it?
Victory was victory.
She placed a hand on Chitrangada's shoulder. "We should celebrate tonight."
Bhishma said nothing.
The boy did not need celebration.
He needed caution.
And he would learn it soon.
The first arrow struck at midnight.
The city was asleep, the feast still smoldering in the palace halls. Chitrangada lay in his chambers, dreams thick with battle.
Then—
Screams.
The scent of smoke.
He bolted upright, heart pounding.
An attack.
He grabbed his sword, shoving open the doors. The palace courtyard was ablaze.
Guards ran, weapons drawn, shadows flitting between the flames. Then he saw them.
The Gandharvas.
But they were not like before.
No scattered warband. No frightened skirmishers.
This was an army.
Hundreds of them, moving like ghosts through the firelight.
Chitrangada's stomach clenched.
He had been wrong.
Then—
A war horn.
The wind howled, and Bhishma rode through the gates, his chariot swift as a storm. His banner rippled, his bow already drawn.
"Defend the city!"
His voice shattered the night.
The battle began.
Arrows rained from the ramparts, striking the advancing Gandharvas. Steel clashed, warriors colliding in the streets, shadows twisting in the firelight.
Chitrangada charged into the fray, his sword cutting through the enemy ranks.
But it was not like before.
They did not break.
They did not run.
The Gandharvas fought with eerie grace, slipping between attacks, their weapons flashing like silver lightning.
Chitrangada's strikes landed, but not as easily.
A Gandharva whirled around him, blade slicing his arm.
Another knocked his sword aside, forcing him back.
Chitrangada gritted his teeth.
No. I will not lose.
Then, like a force of nature, Bhishma descended upon them.
His chariot tore through the ranks, arrows flying from his bow, each one striking true. Warriors fell around him, their forms vanishing into mist.
He was untouchable.
A Gandharva captain leapt at him, twin swords flashing—
Bhishma caught the man mid-air, driving an arrow straight through his chest.
He landed lifeless, his body dissolving before it hit the ground.
Chitrangada barely had time to register the kill before Bhishma turned to him.
His voice was steel.
"Do you see now?"
Chitrangada's breath heaved.
The battle still raged, the city burning around them.
And for the first time, he felt something deeper than pride.
Something cold.
Something like fear.
The Gandharvas had come for war.
And they were far from finished.
The city burned.
Flames clawed at the sky, the acrid scent of smoke thick in the air. Shadows flickered along the walls, the dying torches casting distorted shapes of warriors locked in the chaos of battle.
But the tide was turning.
Bhishma moved like a storm given form. His chariot cut through the battlefield, the horses barely touching the bloodied earth, his arrows striking with divine precision. Every shot found its mark. Every movement was calculated.
The Gandharvas who had seemed so untouchable, so ethereal, now fell like wheat before a scythe.
Chitrangada, still catching his breath, watched as his regent fought—no, as he destroyed.
A dozen warriors rushed at Bhishma.
A dozen fell before they could raise their swords.
He was untouchable.
Unbreakable.
But in the chaos, Chitrangada's own sword was still wet with blood.
He had fought too.
He had struck down warriors, had led men into battle, had stood firm when others faltered.
Was that not the mark of a king?
Was that not what warriors were meant to do?
His heart thundered as he turned, cutting down another enemy. The thrill of battle still coursed through his veins, the taste of blood and victory hot on his tongue.
Yes, Bhishma had fought.
But so had he.
And he had won.
The last Gandharva captain stood defiant in the center of the courtyard. His silver armor was cracked, his dark eyes burning with fury as he raised his blade, refusing to flee like the others.
Bhishma halted his chariot, stepping down, bow still in hand. The wind whispered at his back.
"You came to challenge Hastinapura," Bhishma said, his voice as steady as the river's current. "And now you will answer for it."
The captain lunged.
Bhishma's arrow flew before the man could take his second step.
It struck his throat.
The Gandharva's blade clattered to the ground, his body shuddering, dissolving into mist as the wind howled one last time.
Then—
Silence.
The battle was over.
Chitrangada stood among the bodies, his breath ragged, his sword trembling in his hand.
He had done it.
He had fought.
And he had won.
The city was his to protect.
The throne was his to claim.
A slow smile spread across his face.
He was ready for anything.