The night sky stretched vast over Hastinapura, an endless ocean of darkness punctuated by cold, distant stars. But below, the world burned.
Orange tongues of fire licked at the edges of the northern villages, casting jagged shadows upon the plains. The air reeked of scorched grain and charred wood, the screams of cattle blending with the distant, eerie laughter of unseen raiders.
Bhishma stood atop the palace's high walls, the wind tugging at his cloak, whispering secrets of bloodshed. The Gandharvas had struck again.
A scout knelt before him, his forehead slick with sweat. His voice, though steady, carried urgency.
"Three villages beyond the northern ford, my lord. They came with the mist—silent as ghosts. They took cattle, grain… and left flames behind."
Bhishma exhaled slowly, his grip firm on the parapet. This was the third raid in two months. The pattern was clear: the Gandharvas were testing them.
His eyes traced the glowing horizon, calculating. The enemy was fast, elusive, and unpredictable. Chasing them blindly would be a fool's errand.
A gust of wind stirred the banners above him, the emblem of Hastinapura rippling like a restless tide.
The scout hesitated before adding, "The villagers say they heard voices—strange voices in the wind."
Bhishma's jaw tightened. It was said that Gandharvas could speak to the air, could bend shadows and mist to their will.
He turned away from the wall. "Go. Rest. You've done well."
The scout bowed and vanished into the corridors of the palace.
Bhishma remained a moment longer, watching the distant glow of destruction. The night was silent now, but he could feel the echoes of laughter in the wind.
Tomorrow, the court would demand action.
And Chitrangada would be the loudest voice among them.
The Throne Room
The doors slammed open with a force that made the guards flinch.
Chitrangada strode inside, his fists clenched, his face flushed with anger. He did not wait for permission to speak.
"We must strike back!"
Satyavati, seated on her high throne, straightened. A murmur rippled through the assembled nobles.
Bhishma, standing near a marble pillar, remained still.
Chitrangada marched toward the dais, his young frame taut with fury. He was sixteen now—tall, wiry, restless. His voice rang through the chamber, vibrating with frustration.
"They raid our lands like jackals! And what do we do?" He swept a hand toward Bhishma. "Nothing!"
Bhishma did not react. He had expected this.
Chitrangada turned to his mother, his dark eyes blazing. "Mother, you cannot allow this! How can we let them mock us?"
Satyavati's fingers curled around the carved armrests of her throne. She did not answer immediately.
Bhishma's voice broke the silence.
"Rashness invites ruin."
Chitrangada snapped his gaze toward him.
"So you would have us wait?"
Bhishma met his gaze. "Yes."
A hush fell over the court.
Chitrangada took a sharp step forward. "Cowards wait."
A flicker of something unreadable passed through Bhishma's eyes. The torches along the walls wavered, the flames bending as if stirred by an unseen hand.
His voice remained calm. "Wise men prepare."
Chitrangada let out a short, bitter laugh. "And in your wisdom, what would you have us do? Send more scouts? Count their horses?"
Bhishma's tone did not waver. "Yes."
Chitrangada's fingers twitched toward the hilt of his sword.
"You call it wisdom. I call it fear."
The chamber tensed. Nobles glanced between the two men—one young and untested, the other a legend of war.
Bhishma stepped forward, the space between them shrinking. His voice dropped, steady as stone.
"A warrior does not rush into a fight he does not understand."
Chitrangada's jaw clenched. "And a king does not hide behind caution."
Satyavati exhaled sharply.
"Enough."
Her voice cut through the air, sharp as a blade.
Chitrangada turned to her, his frustration raw. "Mother, you see the truth! The people cry for justice. The nobles murmur that we are weak. Will you let Bhishma hold us back?"
Satyavati hesitated. There was fire in her son, the same restless defiance she had once seen in Shantanu. But there was also Bhishma—unshaken, unyielding, as immovable as the mountains.
Bhishma spoke again, this time softer.
"Strength is not measured by how quickly one draws a sword."
Chitrangada's nostrils flared. "And yet, when war calls, a warrior does not wait."
Bhishma's expression did not change. "A true warrior chooses his moment."
The silence stretched long.
At last, Satyavati spoke.
"We will gather our scouts. We will learn their numbers, their intent." She met her son's gaze. "And then, we will act."
Chitrangada's lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. His body was still, but his spirit was a storm.
Bhishma watched him carefully.
The boy was fire waiting to consume everything in his path.
And when he burned—Hastinapura would feel it.
A Prince's Fury
That night, Chitrangada did not sleep.
His thoughts churned like a river in flood. Bhishma's patience, his mother's hesitation—it all felt like chains.
In his veins burned the blood of kings, and yet, he was expected to sit idle?
He stood atop the palace's outer walls, staring northward. Somewhere beyond the river, the Gandharvas laughed.
They mocked him. Mocked Hastinapura.
A voice stirred in the dark.
"Frustrating, isn't it?"
Chitrangada turned sharply.
A man leaned against the stone parapet—a noble, dressed in the colors of a minor house. His face was sharp, his smile sharper.
"To know you have the power to act… but are told to wait?"
Chitrangada narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
The man chuckled. "Someone who believes a king should be more than a shadow."
He stepped closer, his voice low. "You are not Bhishma. You are not a man bound by oaths and caution." His eyes gleamed. "You are the future."
Chitrangada's pulse quickened. His whole life, he had heard of Bhishma's wisdom. Bhishma's strength. Bhishma's sacrifice.
But he was not Bhishma.
He was Chitrangada.
And he would carve his own legend.
The noble's voice turned smooth as silk.
"Why wait for permission… when the battlefield is already yours?"
The words settled in Chitrangada's bones.
Why wait, indeed?