The air in the great hall of Hastinapura was thick with tension. Torches flickered along the carved pillars, their glow casting long shadows on the polished stone floor. Courtiers whispered among themselves, nervous murmurs filling the space.
At the center of the gathering, standing tall with a smirk playing on his lips, was the Gandharva envoy.
His form was strange—more spirit than man. His golden armor shimmered as if woven from starlight, his long hair trailing behind him like smoke. His eyes gleamed, sharp and knowing, as he surveyed the court of Hastinapura with the air of an amused predator.
He had come with a message.
And his words had already set fire to the hall.
"King Chitrangada," the Gandharva said, his voice like the hum of a distant storm, "challenges the boy who shares his name."
Silence.
Then—
Laughter.
Prince Chitrangada leaped to his feet, his young face alight with fury. "He challenges me? A spirit dares to speak my name and call me out?" His voice rang across the hall, sharp as steel. "Then I'll carve my name in his blood."
The nobles stirred, some exchanging uneasy glances. Others nodded approvingly, pride swelling at their young prince's boldness.
The envoy only smiled. "We Gandharvas do not spill blood as easily as men do." He tilted his head, amusement dancing in his gaze. "But if you are so certain, come and prove it."
Chitrangada's hand clenched around the hilt of his sword.
That was when Bhishma stepped forward.
The great warrior's presence was like an iron wall between the prince and his challenger. The wind in the hall seemed to hush, as if holding its breath.
"This is a trap." Bhishma's voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, a quiet force that sent a ripple of unease through the crowd. "I will fight in his place."
The envoy turned his gaze to Bhishma, and for the first time, his smirk wavered. There was no amusement in his eyes now—only calculation.
"You are not the one he seeks," the Gandharva murmured.
Bhishma took a step forward, his very presence commanding. "I do not care what he seeks. This duel will not happen."
Chitrangada shoved past him.
The young prince's face was red with fury, his breath heavy. "You would deny me this?" He glared up at Bhishma, defiance burning in his gaze. "This is my fight."
Bhishma's jaw tightened.
"It is a fight you cannot win."
Chitrangada scoffed. "You think me weak?"
Bhishma did not flinch. "I think you foolish."
The words struck hard. The court fell silent again, the nobles watching with wide eyes.
Chitrangada's face twisted with fury. His fingers dug into the hilt of his sword, knuckles white.
"You may think yourself my protector, Bhishma." His voice was quieter now, but it was laced with venom. "But I am not a child. I do not need saving."
Before Bhishma could reply, another voice broke the tension.
"Stop him."
Satyavati.
She had remained still until now, her fingers gripping the arms of her throne so tightly that her knuckles were bloodless. But as the argument unfolded before her, she finally moved.
Her hand shot out, catching Bhishma's arm, her grip desperate.
He turned to her, and for the first time in years, he saw fear in her eyes. Real, raw fear.
"Stop him," she whispered again, her voice barely audible. "If he rides into this, he won't come back."
Bhishma did not move.
The prince was already walking toward the envoy, shoulders stiff, head high.
The Gandharva's smirk returned.
"Then it is settled."
And just like that—
Fate was sealed.
A Name Contested
That night, Bhishma stood on the palace walls, watching the sky.
The moon hung high, silver and cold, its light spilling over the sleeping city below. But Bhishma could not rest.
The envoy's words haunted him.
"King Chitrangada challenges the boy who shares his name."
A strange thing, to battle over a name.
But Bhishma knew better. This was no simple challenge.
The Gandharvas did not fight like men. They did not seek land, nor gold, nor kingdom. Their battles were fought for honor, for legend, for the amusement of the spirits who walked unseen.
And their duels—
Their duels were never fair.
Bhishma exhaled, the wind curling around him. His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword. He could still stop this. He could challenge the Gandharva king himself, force his way into the duel, demand the prince be spared.
But would Chitrangada allow it?
No.
The boy would see it as another insult. Another slight against his strength.
And that was what frightened Bhishma the most.
Chitrangada did not fear the battle. He did not fear the enemy.
He did not fear death.
And a man who did not fear death was the easiest to kill.
The Queen's Anguish
Bhishma found Satyavati in the temple chamber, kneeling before the idol of Vishnu, her hands pressed together, her head bowed.
The room was dimly lit, the flickering flames of the oil lamps casting dancing shadows against the walls. The scent of sandalwood filled the air.
Bhishma did not speak. He stood at the entrance, watching as she whispered prayers under her breath.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she opened her eyes.
"You should have stopped him."
Her voice was quiet, but it cut deeper than any blade.
Bhishma stepped forward. "I tried."
Satyavati turned, and he saw the glint of unshed tears in her eyes. "Not hard enough."
A bitter silence stretched between them.
Bhishma sighed. "He will not listen to me."
"Then make him listen."
Bhishma clenched his fists. "He is a prince. A warrior. You raised him to be strong."
"I raised him to be a king."
She rose to her feet, the folds of her silk saree falling around her. She stepped closer, her gaze locking onto his.
"If he dies, what was all this for?"
The words hit him harder than he expected.
Satyavati's hands trembled, her voice breaking. "You swore to protect this kingdom, Bhishma. You swore to protect my son."
He swallowed. "And I will."
She shook her head. "Then save him. Because if you don't, I will never forgive you."
The weight of her words settled on his chest like a stone.
And for the first time in years—
Bhishma felt helpless.