The palace halls stood dim, torchlight casting faint gleams on the stone, the air heavy with the scent of ash and silence. Bhishma walked the corridor, his stride even, the Gandharva's spear left in the throne room—its golden haft dulled, its purpose served. His cloak hung neat despite the bloodstains, his bow slung across his back, a tool of duty, not burden. The Ganga's pulse flowed steady in his veins, a constant guide after days of battle and mourning.
A door opened ahead, Satyavati's chamber, her form outlined against a single lamp's glow. She stood, sari gray and worn, her face composed yet shadowed by grief, her eyes sharp with intent. "Bhishma," she said, voice clear, unwavering. "Enter."
He paused, gaze steady. "What calls me now, Queen Mother?" he asked, formal, calm. "The foe is slain."
Satyavati nodded, stepping aside. "A duty remains," she replied, her tone firm, though a tremor lingered beneath. She gestured within, hand steady despite the stakes.
Bhishma crossed the threshold, the room sparse, air thick with incense and stillness. Satyavati closed the door, her voice dropping but resolute. "I bore another," she said, measured. "Vichitravirya—hidden until this hour."
His eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of surprise, quickly quelled. "A second son," he said, voice even. "When was he born?"
"Ten years past," she answered, facing him, her gaze unflinching. "After Chitrangada's birth, when the court hailed his vigor. I kept this one secret—his health frail, unfit for scrutiny or strife."
Bhishma's hands remained at his sides, unmoving. "You concealed a prince," he said, tone flat, probing. "Why not entrust him to me then?"
Satyavati's lips tightened, her voice rising a fraction. "To spare him, Bhishma. Chitrangada was strength incarnate—Vichitravirya is not. I shielded him from a world that devours the weak."
"I am that world's shield," he replied, calm, unyielding. "You should have spoken. I would have protected both."
"Protected?" Satyavati's voice sharpened, a crack in her composure. "You trained Chitrangada for glory, honed his blade. He rode to his death under your watch."
Bhishma's expression didn't shift, his voice low, steady. "He rode as a Kuru prince, as his blood demanded. I guided him in duty, not to ruin. His fall was fate, not my will."
"Fate?" she echoed, bitter. "I don't trust fate with this one, Bhishma. He's all we have left." She turned, swift, to a curtained nook, pulling the fabric back. "See for yourself."
A boy stepped out—small, ten summers old, skin pale, eyes large and dark. Vichitravirya, dressed in a plain tunic, his frame thin, a cough rattling his chest as he gazed at Bhishma. His hands clasped tight, uncertain, a child untouched by war.
Bhishma's gaze softened, just a breath, studying the boy—Chitrangada's kin, yet so unlike him. "He is delicate," he said, matter-of-fact, no judgment.
"He lives," Satyavati countered, kneeling beside Vichitravirya, her hand firm on his shoulder. "That is his worth." She looked up, eyes pleading, fear bare. "He's all we have, Bhishma. Hastinapura rests on him now."
The boy coughed again, a harsh sound, peering up. "Mother?" he asked, voice faint. "Who's this?"
Satyavati's grip steadied, her tone gentle but sure. "This is Bhishma," she said. "He guards our blood."
"Guards?" Vichitravirya repeated, hesitant, staring at Bhishma's towering form. "He's big."
Bhishma's lips curved slightly, a rare hint of warmth. "Big enough to stand between you and harm," he said, voice calm, assured.
Satyavati rose, facing him, her tone urgent but controlled. "He's not his brother," she said. "No warrior's heart, no steel in his bones—just a boy. Can you keep him safe?"
Bhishma regarded Vichitravirya, the frailty a challenge, not a flaw. "I upheld Chitrangada's path," he said, even. "I failed to preserve him. You would still entrust me with this charge?"
"I must," Satyavati replied, firm, then softer. "You are Hastinapura's strength, Bhishma. He has none but what you lend him."
He nodded, deliberate, duty settling in his bones. "What does he require?" he asked, precise. "Healing? Shelter?"
"Both," she said, quick. "His fevers come often, his breath falters. He'll not lift a blade like Chitrangada did."
"Then what purpose serves the throne?" Bhishma asked, voice level, pragmatic. "A king must endure."
"He will endure," Satyavati insisted, fierce. "Through you. His life is his reign—you ensure it lasts."
Bhishma's gaze shifted to the boy, Vichitravirya watching, quiet, a spark of trust in his eyes. "You understand this?" Bhishma asked him, direct. "To be king, to carry Hastinapura?"
The boy coughed, then nodded, slow. "Mother says it's mine," he said, simple, honest. "I don't know how."
Satyavati's hand rested on his head, her voice resolute. "You will learn," she told him, then met Bhishma's eyes. "With him."
Bhishma knelt, armor creaking, his height bowing to meet the boy's gaze. "I will guard you," he said, voice steady, a vow renewed. "As I did your brother—better than I did him. Hastinapura's blood will not falter."
Vichitravirya tilted his head, curious. "Did my brother fight?" he asked, plain, childlike.
Bhishma's tone remained even, a teacher's patience. "He fought as a prince should. His path was his own."
The boy nodded, accepting, then coughed again, frame trembling. Satyavati's hand shot to Bhishma's arm, gripping hard, her voice low, fierce. "Don't let him fall," she said, hope fragile but unyielding. "Not this one. Swear it."
Bhishma met her stare, the wind outside soft, brushing the walls like a whisper of the Ganga. "I swear," he said, firm, unshakeable. "He will live, by my strength, by my will."
Satyavati searched his face, then released him, a breath escaping her. "Then it's done," she said, quiet, resolute. "He's yours to shield."
Bhishma rose, standing tall, the boy's smallness a duty etched in his marrow. "What follows?" he asked, calm, practical. "How do we proceed?"
"Keep him from the court," Satyavati said, swift. "They're restless—an empty throne stirs vipers. They'll tear him down if they see him now."
"They will see him in time," Bhishma replied, measured. "A prince cannot remain unseen."
"Then prepare him," she urged, firm. "Not for battle—for life. Teach him to endure."
Bhishma's gaze lingered on Vichitravirya, the boy's frailty a test of his oath. "He is not forged for hardship," he said, frank. "You know this."
"He doesn't need to be," Satyavati countered, sharp. "He needs to breathe. You are the forge—he's the blood."
Bhishma looked to Vichitravirya, the boy staring back, eyes wide, trusting. "You hear her?" he asked, steady. "You're the blood. I'm the steel."
The boy nodded, slow, coughing into his hand. "I'll try," he said, faint, earnest. "Don't let me break, okay?"
Bhishma's chest tightened, Chitrangada's fall a shadow, but his voice held firm. "You will not break," he said, a promise carved in stone. "Not under my watch."
Satyavati's breath caught, a tear slipping free, but her voice rose steady. "A frail hope rises," she said, soft, fierce, holding Vichitravirya close. "Keep it alive, Bhishma. Keep him alive."