The morning was cold.
Mist curled between the trees, the first rays of the sun barely piercing through the dense canopy. A quiet stillness hung in the air, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of steel against steel.
Bhishma and Chitrangada moved in the clearing, their blades flashing.
Bhishma's grip was steady, his movements precise—every strike measured, every defense fluid. His opponent, however, fought with reckless speed. Chitrangada's sword came hard and fast, eager to land a blow, to prove his strength.
But strength alone was not enough.
With a single twist, Bhishma sidestepped the prince's lunge, bringing the blunt edge of his practice sword against Chitrangada's ribs. The force sent the boy stumbling back, gasping.
"Again," Bhishma commanded.
Chitrangada's breath was heavy, sweat trickling down his brow. But he did not hesitate. Gritting his teeth, he charged once more.
Their blades clashed in the air, the sound ringing through the forest like the chime of temple bells.
The boy was strong—there was no denying that. His body had grown lean and hardened with training, his stance more grounded than before. But his wild strikes left openings, his eagerness exposing him.
Bhishma parried his blows effortlessly, shifting his weight, letting the wind guide his movements.
"You fight as if war is nothing but fire," Bhishma said, knocking Chitrangada's blade aside. "Fire consumes, but it does not last."
Chitrangada snarled, frustration flashing in his eyes. He lunged again, swinging recklessly.
Bhishma struck faster.
A sharp crack echoed as Bhishma's wooden sword smacked against the prince's wrist, forcing him to drop his blade. The boy stumbled back, clutching his hand, anger darkening his face.
"That is enough," Bhishma said, his voice calm.
But Chitrangada did not agree.
"I had you," he snapped, eyes burning with defiance. "I almost had you!"
Bhishma met his gaze without blinking. "Almost is not enough."
The wind stirred, rustling the leaves around them. Chitrangada's chest heaved, his frustration clear.
"A warrior does not hesitate," the prince spat. "A warrior does not wait for permission to strike."
Bhishma sighed, lowering his sword. "A warrior who does not think is not a warrior at all. Strength without sense is a blade turned inward."
The boy stiffened.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then, Chitrangada turned sharply, marching away from the clearing, his shoulders rigid with resentment.
Bhishma exhaled slowly, watching him go.
A gust of wind passed through the trees, whispering in his ears. Kshema's voice echoed in his mind.
"He reminds me of you once."
Bhishma closed his eyes. Kshema was gone. But his words lingered.
The prince would learn, one way or another.
Or he would break.
Satyavati's Plea
Satyavati sat by the palace balcony, watching the golden light of dawn touch the city below. From her seat, she could see the training fields beyond the walls, where Bhishma and Chitrangada sparred each morning.
She had watched them for years now—Bhishma guiding, Chitrangada defying.
But today, there was something different.
Chitrangada stormed away from practice, his back straight with indignation, his pace heavy.
Satyavati sighed.
She had known this moment would come.
Bhishma entered soon after, his expression unreadable. But she had known him too long not to see the shadow in his eyes.
"You push him too hard," she said.
Bhishma did not respond immediately. He walked to the window, gazing out at the training grounds where the boy had been just moments before.
Finally, he spoke. "He is not ready."
Satyavati stood, her silk robes rustling as she moved closer. "He will never be ready if you break his spirit before he can rise."
Bhishma's jaw tensed. "War will not wait for him to rise."
She sighed, shaking her head. "He is young, Bhishma."
"So was I."
The words hung between them.
Bhishma turned, his expression calm but unyielding. "You want him to be strong. So do I. But strength without control is a danger to himself and to Hastinapura."
Satyavati studied him for a long moment. "I trust you," she said finally, her voice softer. "But do not forget—he is not you."
Bhishma did not answer.
Because deep down, he knew.
That was the problem.
A Lesson in Patience
That evening, Bhishma found Chitrangada in the palace gardens, alone. The boy sat under an ancient banyan tree, his hands resting on his knees, his gaze locked on the dirt before him.
Bhishma approached quietly.
"Your anger will not serve you."
Chitrangada did not look up.
"You hold me back," the boy muttered. "You fear that I will surpass you."
Bhishma sighed. "If you could, I would rejoice."
At that, Chitrangada finally met his gaze, searching his face for any sign of falsehood. But Bhishma did not lie.
The boy's expression wavered.
Bhishma sat beside him, resting his hands on his knees. "There was a time I thought the same way you did."
Chitrangada frowned. "You?"
Bhishma nodded. "I once believed that if I fought hard enough, if I trained enough, nothing could stop me. I was wrong."
The wind stirred, rustling the leaves.
Bhishma's voice was softer now. "Strength alone does not make a warrior. Wisdom does. Patience does."
Chitrangada scoffed. "And what will patience give me? A chance to watch my enemies strike first?"
Bhishma shook his head. "No. It will give you the power to know when to strike. And when to wait."
Chitrangada was silent.
The boy's pride was still raw, his frustration unspent. But there was a flicker of something else in his eyes now.
Doubt.
Thought.
Perhaps, Bhishma hoped, the first seed of understanding.
The Road Ahead
The night air was cool as Bhishma made his way back to his chambers. The stars burned bright above, the river whispering in the distance.
For the first time in a long while, he felt weary.
Satyavati's words echoed in his mind.
"He is not you."
She was right.
And that frightened him.
Because the road ahead would be long, and war would come again.
And if Chitrangada did not learn before that day—
Then he would fall before he could ever rise.