The mist writhed through the forest, threading between jagged roots and coiling around vines, a shroud that swallowed sound. The morning sun clawed at the haze, its rays dim and fleeting. The trees stood sentinel, their silence pierced only by the faint rustle of unseen beasts lurking in the shadows. The air hung heavy, damp with a tension that silenced the birds.
Chitrangada spurred his horse forward, hooves sinking into the soft earth. His jaw tightened, his eyes burned, his hand gripped the reins like a lifeline. Fury pulsed in his veins, steady and searing, a fire he'd nursed since the Gandharva's taunt reached Hastinapura.
This was his proving ground.
The challenge had landed like a blade in his chest—his strength mocked, his right questioned, his name scorned.
And he would answer with steel.
His fingers grazed the sword at his hip, Hastinapura's heirloom, its edge honed by battles past. Today, it would etch his triumph—or his end. He'd ride back victorious, his name a banner none could tear down, proving to Bhishma he was no boy to be molded.
A king forged in blood.
The path twisted into a clearing, abrupt and unnatural. The mist halted at its edges, framing a circle where trees bent inward, their branches knotted like whispering conspirators. The ground lay bare, smooth as a grave.
And there stood the foe.
The Gandharva King.
He gleamed in golden armor, silver hair spilling down his back, untouched by the damp. A curved spear rested in his grip, its tip glowing with a light that defied the gloom. He was no man—he was the wind shaped into flesh, a river's wrath given form, a being from beyond mortal reach.
Yet he smirked.
A slow, cutting smirk that ignited Chitrangada's rage.
The prince dismounted, boots striking the earth with purpose. His stance was iron, his gaze unflinching.
He would show no weakness.
The Gandharva tilted his head. "The boy dares to come."
Chitrangada's voice was stone. "I came to claim what's mine."
"Yours?" The spear lifted, its light slicing the air. "What do you claim, child of dust?"
Chitrangada drew his sword, steel hissing free. "My name—and your head."
The Gandharva's laugh rippled through the mist, sharp as breaking glass. "A name won with a blade? I've borne mine through eons; you're a spark daring to steal a storm."
Chitrangada stepped forward, blade steady. "Then I'll cut the storm down."
A shadow flickered in the Gandharva's eyes—old, cold, unyielding.
"So be it."
Far beyond the trees, Bhishma rode.
His stallion thundered through the haze, hooves a relentless drumbeat. Wind tore at his cloak, but his focus was steel. He'd felt it—the moment Chitrangada's defiance rippled through the Ganga, a tide he'd failed to stem.
The river wailed in his blood, its song jagged with dread.
He'd raised the boy.
He wouldn't bury him.
The clearing tightened, mist pressing in like a noose. The wind stilled. The trees froze.
Chitrangada gripped his sword, its weight a tether to his resolve—and a whisper of doubt. Bhishma's voice echoed in his skull: *Prove you're more than a name.*
The Gandharva stood unmoved, spear glinting.
"This could have ended differently," he murmured, almost mournful.
Chitrangada's jaw clenched. "Not while you mock my blood."
The Gandharva exhaled. "Your blood means nothing if Hastinapura falls with it."
The air thickened.
The sky dimmed.
The duel ignited.
The first strike shattered the silence, the world trembling as if fate itself recoiled.
Chitrangada surged like a tempest, sword slashing for the Gandharva's heart. The blade gleamed in the faint light, a crescent of steel promising glory—or ruin. His feet rooted to the earth, his form a blend of fury and precision, honed by years under Bhishma's shadow.
But the Gandharva was no mortal prey.
He flowed backward, spear twirling with lethal grace, deflecting the strike as effortlessly as wind scatters dust. His movements were liquid, his poise unshaken.
Chitrangada's eyes flared. "You dodge like a coward—face me!" He lunged again, sword arcing high, aiming to split the air and the foe beyond it.
The Gandharva vanished from the blade's path, a blur of gold and silver. His spear lashed out, its tip a streak of light grazing Chitrangada's ribs. Cloth tore; blood welled, hot and sharp, staining his tunic. Pain lanced through him, but he swallowed it, letting it stoke his rage.
"A nick?" he spat, voice rough. "You'll need more."
His sword swung again, fierce and swift, driven by a fire that drowned the ache in his side. The Gandharva parried, spear flashing brighter than the shrouded sun. His laugh rang out, cold and piercing, echoing through the trees.
"Such spirit, prince. But spirit without skill is a ember snuffed by rain."
The spear struck like a viper, aimed for Chitrangada's chest. Instinct took over—he raised his sword, steel meeting steel in a clash that roared like thunder. His arms shuddered, legs bracing as the force rattled his bones.
No room for hesitation.
He pushed back, muscles burning, driving his blade forward. The Gandharva twisted, spear redirecting the strike with effortless poise.
"Strength aplenty," the Gandharva said, voice laced with scorn. "But it's wasted on a boy who swings blind."
With a flick, the spear spun, forcing Chitrangada to stumble back. His boots skidded on the earth, and before he could recover, the spear's tip hovered at his throat, cold and unyielding.
"It ends here," the Gandharva said, eyes glinting with triumph.
But Chitrangada's fire roared hotter. He twisted aside, the spear grazing his neck, and lashed out—a wild, desperate swing aimed at the shaft.
Steel met spear with a crack, sparks flaring as the wood splintered. For a heartbeat, victory pulsed in his chest.
The Gandharva's grin widened, chilling and ancient. "Reckless. That's your grave."
He leaped, a blur of motion soaring above Chitrangada. The spear spun around him, a radiant arc, then plunged downward like a hawk's talon.
Chitrangada's sword rose, barely blocking the strike. The impact drove him to one knee, arms trembling, grip faltering under the weight.
"You think brute force breaks me?" The Gandharva's voice cut deeper than the spear. "A name isn't won—it's earned through centuries you'll never see."
The words stung, bitter as the sweat in his eyes. Chitrangada snarled, shoving himself upright. He wouldn't kneel—not to this. Not with Bhishma's lessons haunting him, not with Hastinapura's fate teetering.
The Gandharva stepped back, spear twirling, his gaze a mix of pity and challenge.
"Prove you're more than ash waiting to scatter."
Chitrangada charged, sword a streak of defiance aimed for the throat. The Gandharva met it, spear clashing with a shriek of metal, and with a twist, sent the blade spinning from Chitrangada's hand.
The prince staggered, breath ragged, as the spear flashed toward his heart.
His hands shot up.
A flicker of light sparked—then his fingers clamped around the spear's shaft, halting its thrust. Blood trickled from his palms, the wood biting into flesh, but he held firm, chest heaving with a storm of will.
Silence fell, heavy and absolute.
Man and Gandharva stood locked, a tableau of strength and destiny.
"I will not break," Chitrangada growled, voice raw.
The Gandharva's whisper cut through the stillness. "Then rise."
The mist tightened its grip around the clearing, a shroud that swallowed the echoes of steel. The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of blood and earth, the forest's silence a weight pressing down on the duel. Chitrangada's breath rasped, jagged and fierce, his hands slick with sweat and crimson as he clutched the Gandharva's spear. The shaft trembled in his grasp, its ethereal light dimming against the fire in his chest.
He would not yield.
Not to this creature of scorn, this wind-made mockery who dared to strip his name.
The Gandharva's eyes gleamed, cold and ancient, his silver hair a cascade untouched by the chaos. His fingers tightened on the spear, twisting it with a grace that belied its lethal intent. "You cling like a child to a broken toy," he murmured, voice soft as a breeze over a grave. "Let go, little prince."
Chitrangada's jaw clenched, teeth grinding as he shoved the spear back, his arms burning with the effort. "I'll bury you first," he snarled, wrenching free and lunging forward. His sword lay lost in the dirt, but his fists were steel, his will a blade sharper than any forged in Hastinapura.
The Gandharva flowed aside, effortless as water, his spear slashing in a radiant arc. The tip grazed Chitrangada's shoulder, tearing cloth and flesh, blood welling hot and swift. Pain seared through him, a lightning strike that staggered his step, but he roared through it, charging with the fury of a storm unleashed.
His fist struck true.
It slammed into the Gandharva's chest, golden armor ringing like a struck bell. The impact jolted through Chitrangada's arm, a fleeting triumph as the Gandharva stumbled, his smirk faltering for a heartbeat. Blood trickled from the prince's knuckles, mingling with the damp earth, a mark of defiance etched in crimson.
"A boy playing king," the Gandharva hissed, righting himself with a dancer's poise. His spear spun, faster now, its light flaring like a star torn from the heavens. "You scratch at shadows, thinking it makes you whole."
Chitrangada's vision blurred, sweat stinging his eyes, the world tilting as exhaustion clawed at his limbs. He wiped his face with a trembling hand, blood smearing across his cheek. "I am Hastinapura's son," he spat, voice raw. "More than you'll ever be."
The Gandharva's laugh was a blade, cutting deeper than steel. "Hastinapura's son? A spark dares to claim the sun." His spear lashed out, swift and merciless, aiming for Chitrangada's throat.
The prince ducked, instinct guiding him where strength faltered, the spear's tip hissing past his ear. He stumbled, boots slipping on the slick ground, his breath a ragged gasp. The fire in his chest flickered, dimming under the weight of pain and doubt—Bhishma's voice echoing, Prove you're more.
He couldn't falter. Not now. Not with his name, his kingdom, hanging in the balance.
Far beyond the trees, Bhishma rode harder, a thunderbolt tearing through the haze. The stallion's hooves devoured the earth, wind lashing branches aside like brittle bones. The clash of steel rang in his ears, a song of ruin pulsing through the Ganga's frantic tide. His cloak streamed behind him, tattered by the storm, his hands white-knuckled on the reins.
He was close.
Too close.
The river's wail surged in his blood, a cry he couldn't silence. Chitrangada's defiance, his fire—it was a flame Bhishma had kindled, a blade he'd sharpened. And now it burned out of reach, slipping through his grasp like water through clenched fists.
Faster.
The trees blurred into shadows, the mist parting before him like a curtain torn asunder. The clearing loomed ahead, a wound in the forest's heart, and within it—
Chitrangada faltered.
His legs buckled, the Gandharva's spear a blur of light as it struck again. The prince threw himself aside, rolling through the dirt, but the spear followed, relentless. Its tip grazed his thigh, blood blooming anew, a scarlet flower against the pale earth. He growled, pushing himself up, his hands clawing for purchase, his vision swimming.
The Gandharva stepped forward, spear poised, its gleam a cold promise. "You fight like a beast cornered," he said, voice dripping with disdain. "But even beasts know when to die."
Chitrangada's chest heaved, each breath a dagger in his lungs. He staggered to his feet, fists raised, blood dripping from his wounds like tears of a broken god. "I'll die a king," he rasped, lunging one last time.
The Gandharva moved, a phantom in the mist, his spear flashing with lethal precision. It swept low, knocking Chitrangada's legs from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. The prince hit hard, air fleeing his lungs, dirt grinding into his wounds. The spear rose, its point hovering above his heart, a star about to fall.
"This is your legacy," the Gandharva whispered, almost tender. "A name lost to the wind."
Chitrangada's eyes blazed, defiant even as his strength bled away. "Hastinapura… remembers," he choked, hands scrabbling in the earth, seeking his lost sword, seeking anything.
The forest held its breath, the mist curling tighter, the trees leaning in as if to witness the end.
Bhishma burst through the haze, stallion rearing as he leaped from its back. His bow was in hand, an arrow nocked, its tip gleaming with the fury of a river scorned. The clearing stretched before him, a tableau of ruin—Chitrangada sprawled, blood-soaked, the Gandharva's spear poised to strike.
"Chitrangada!" Bhishma's shout tore through the silence, a thunderclap of desperation.
The prince's head turned, eyes meeting Bhishma's for a fleeting moment—wide, fierce, fading.