The first light of dawn crept over Hastinapura, brushing the palace walls in gold. The city still slumbered, its streets empty save for the watchmen finishing their rounds. The air was cool, the hush of morning unbroken.
But in the royal stables, a storm was gathering.
Prince Chitrangada stood beside his steed, tightening the straps of his saddle, his movements swift, practiced, urgent. His breath came sharp through flared nostrils, his jaw set in stone.
Today, he would prove himself.
His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword, and he exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of it—feeling the fire in his chest.
"No more waiting. No more caution."
Bhishma had tried to stop him, had tried to shield him from this fight. But Chitrangada was done being coddled. He was not a boy to be protected. He was a king to be feared.
And today, he would make sure the world knew it.
The stallion beneath him shifted, sensing his rider's impatience. Chitrangada gripped the reins, his muscles coiled like a drawn bow.
Then—
A gust of wind.
A shadow loomed at the stable entrance.
"You will not ride alone."
Chitrangada turned.
Bhishma stood there, clad in his battle robes, his long hair unbound, the wind curling around him like a living thing. His expression was unreadable, but his presence alone was a command.
For a moment, neither man spoke.
Then Chitrangada scoffed. "I was wondering how long it would take for you to come running."
Bhishma's lips pressed into a thin line. "This is folly." His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, a quiet storm brewing beneath. "You are not ready for this battle."
Chitrangada's eyes flashed. "That is not your decision."
The wind picked up, stirring dust across the courtyard.
Bhishma took a slow step forward. "Listen to me. This is not a battle of men. The Gandharvas do not fight as we do." His tone darkened. "They are not bound by our laws, our honor. They strike from the unseen, vanish like mist, return like ghosts."
Chitrangada snorted, one foot in the stirrup. "They bleed just like men."
"You underestimate them."
"And you underestimate me."
Chitrangada swung into the saddle, gripping the reins tight. His stallion stomped, sensing the battle-drunk fire in its rider.
Bhishma stepped forward sharply. "If you do this, you go against my command."
Chitrangada grinned, reckless and wild. "Then strike me down, Bhishma."
The words hung in the air, thick with challenge.
Bhishma did not move.
The wind howled around them, the morning sun burning in the sky.
For a brief moment, Bhishma saw another face in the young prince's eyes—Kshema, his old friend, his brother in arms. That same fire, that same defiance.
Kshema, who had been taken too soon.
Kshema, who had been warned, who had been reckless, who had not listened.
Bhishma clenched his fists. Not again.
He took another step forward—
Chitrangada yanked the reins.
"Enough talk."
The stallion reared, then surged forward, hooves striking sparks against the stone.
Bhishma reached out—
But he was too late.
The prince was already galloping out of the gates, dust rising in his wake.
Riding toward his fate.
A Mother's Plea
Satyavati had not slept.
The night had passed in restless pacing, silent prayers, hands clenched in worry. She had watched her son burn with pride, had seen his hunger for battle, his thirst to carve his name into the world.
And now—
Now he was gone.
She had heard the hooves, the shouted words, the final defiance. By the time she reached the courtyard, the gates were still swinging open, the dust settling where her son had once stood.
Her breath hitched.
She turned—
And there was Bhishma, standing like a statue, his face unreadable.
Her heart clenched.
"You let him go?"
The words were barely a whisper.
Bhishma did not look at her. His gaze was locked on the horizon, on the fading trail of dust where Chitrangada had vanished.
Satyavati stepped closer. "You let him go?"
Bhishma finally turned to face her.
"He would not be stopped."
Satyavati's breath trembled. "Then bring him back."
Bhishma hesitated.
For the first time in his life, he hesitated.
Satyavati grabbed his arm, her grip tight, desperate. "Swear it."
The wind stilled.
Bhishma looked into her eyes, saw the raw fear beneath her fury.
He thought of the child Chitrangada had once been.
A boy who had once clung to his mother's robes.
A boy who had once looked up at Bhishma with awe, who had once followed him through the palace halls, mimicking his every step, his every stance, his every movement.
That boy was gone now.
In his place was a young man who thought himself invincible.
A boy who had never tasted real war.
A boy who had never known the price of battle.
Bhishma exhaled.
Then, finally—
"I will bring him back."
The Pursuit
Bhishma's stallion thundered across the plains, wind whipping through his hair. His fingers clenched the reins tight, his eyes locked on the road ahead.
He was fast—faster than most—
But was he fast enough?
The Ganga's pulse pounded in his chest, an echo of urgency, a whisper of warning.
He did not pray often, but now—
Now, he did.
Let me reach him.
He could see the trail Chitrangada had left behind, the churned earth, the scattered footprints. The prince had not slowed.
Foolish, reckless boy.
Bhishma urged his steed faster, the wind roaring in his ears.
Ahead, the forest loomed, dark and endless, the borderlands where men rarely ventured—where the unseen ruled.
And beyond that—
The riverbank where the duel was set to take place.
Bhishma's heart tightened.
Let me reach him before it is too late.
He rode harder.
But the horizon stretched long—
And fate did not wait.