The throne room gleamed under torchlight, its marble floor cold, the empty throne a stark silhouette against the dais. Courtiers lined the walls, robes crisp, murmurs low—tension thick in the air. Bhishma stood center, armor polished, his cloak swept back, the Gandharva's spear propped beside the throne—a silent testament. The wind stirred, faint but sharp, brushing the banners overhead as he faced the court, his presence a wall of iron.
"Chitrangada is ash," he said, voice clear, unyielding, cutting through the whispers. "The Kuru line holds."
A courtier stepped forward, wiry, eyes darting. "Holds how, Lord Bhishma?" he asked, cautious. "No king sits there."
Bhishma's gaze pinned him, steady, cold. "A prince lives," he replied, firm. "Vichitravirya, son of Shantanu, blood of Hastinapura. I declare regency until he claims his right."
The court stilled, breaths held, the wind rising—a gust rattling the torches. Another courtier, broad-shouldered, frowned. "Regency?" he pressed, voice gruff. "The boy's unseen—weak, they say."
"They say much," Bhishma countered, calm, sharp. "I say he endures. That is enough."
The wiry one shifted, hesitant. "And if he falls, like his brother?"
Bhishma's hand rested on his bow, fingers steady. "He will not," he said, iron in his tone. "I stand as his shield. The Kuru name prevails."
Satyavati emerged from the shadows, her sari gray, her step deliberate, eyes fixed on Bhishma. "You've sworn it," she said, voice soft but sure. "Prove it now."
He met her gaze, nodding once. "I will, Queen Mother," he replied, resolute. "The court bends to this."
The courtiers bowed, heads low, the wind settling—a whisper of assent through the hall. Bhishma turned, the weight of regency settling on his shoulders, a mantle he bore without flinch.
The training yard stretched open under a pale sun, dust swirling, the Ganga's murmur faint beyond the walls. Bhishma stood, bow unslung, a wooden staff in hand—simple, light. Vichitravirya faced him, tunic loose on his thin frame, ten years old, pale skin flushed from effort, a cough rattling his chest. His dark eyes flicked up, uncertain, hands gripping a smaller staff, trembling slightly.
"Hold it firm," Bhishma said, voice even, patient. "Not tight—firm."
Vichitravirya nodded, adjusting, his grip shaky. "Like this?" he asked, small, earnest.
Bhishma stepped closer, the wind nudging the boy's arms—gentle, guiding. "Better," he said, calm. "Now lift. Slow."
The boy raised the staff, arms wobbling, a cough breaking his breath. "It's heavy," he mumbled, frowning.
"It's wood," Bhishma replied, steady. "You're stronger than it."
Vichitravirya's lips quirked, doubtful. "I'm not strong," he said, plain. "Not like… him."
Bhishma's gaze softened, just a flicker. "Your brother had his strength," he said, measured. "You have yours. Lift again."
The boy tried, staff rising an inch, then dropping, his cough sharper. "I can't," he wheezed, eyes watering. "I'm sorry."
Bhishma knelt, level with him, voice firm but kind. "You can," he said. "Rest, then lift. Strength grows slow."
Vichitravirya wiped his eyes, nodding. "You won't be mad?" he asked, small, searching.
"Never," Bhishma answered, resolute. "You're my charge. We build together."
The wind brushed them, soft, steadying Vichitravirya's stance as he gripped the staff again, lifting it higher—a tremble, then success. "See?" he said, a faint smile breaking through.
Bhishma's lips curved, subtle, approving. "I see," he replied, standing. "Again tomorrow."
Satyavati watched from the yard's edge, her hands clasped, relief in her eyes shadowed by worry. "He's trying," she said, voice low, stepping closer. "But he's not Chitrangada."
Bhishma turned, staff resting at his side. "He need not be," he said, calm. "He lives—that's his task."
She frowned, uncertain. "And yours?" she asked, soft, pressing. "Can you mold this clay?"
"I molded his brother for battle," Bhishma replied, even. "I'll mold this one for life. He'll stand."
Satyavati's gaze lingered on Vichitravirya, the boy panting, staff clutched tight. "He's fragile," she murmured, raw. "One gust could break him."
"The wind bends with him," Bhishma said, firm, the breeze stirring as if in proof. "I'll not let it snap him."
She met his eyes, searching, then nodded, slow. "I trust you," she said, quiet, a weight lifting. "Don't prove me wrong."
Bhishma inclined his head, unyielding. "I will not," he replied, a vow carved in stone. "He is Hastinapura's blood—I am its steel."
Vichitravirya coughed, dropping the staff, his voice small. "Can I stop now?" he asked, breathless, looking up.
Bhishma stepped to him, lifting the staff, handing it back. "Rest," he said, gentle. "You've done enough."
The boy smiled, faint, relieved, and shuffled to sit, dust clinging to his tunic. Satyavati watched, her breath steadying, trust settling beside her fear.
The Ganga's banks glowed under dusk, the water silver, the air cool and still. Bhishma stood by the river, armor shed, his tunic plain, bow propped against a rock. The pyre's ashes were gone, carried downstream, Chitrangada's echo a memory in the current. The wind brushed his face, soft, a whisper of the storm he'd wielded.
He stared at the water, voice low, to himself. "One son lost," he said, steady, reflective. "Another rises."
Footsteps approached—Satyavati, her sari trailing, her presence quiet but firm. "You're brooding," she said, stopping beside him, tone light but edged.
"I reflect," Bhishma corrected, calm, turning to her. "The burden shifts. I'll bear it."
She frowned, eyes on the river. "Bear it how?" she asked, soft, probing. "He's not the son you trained."
"He's the son I guard," Bhishma replied, even. "Strength differs—mine holds them both."
Satyavati's lips pressed thin, her voice dropping. "Chitrangada burned bright," she said, raw. "Vichitravirya flickers. Can you keep that flame?"
Bhishma's gaze returned to the Ganga, steady. "A flicker lives longer than a blaze," he said, measured. "I'll tend it."
She stepped closer, voice fierce, quiet, "Don't let him fade."
"He will not," Bhishma answered, resolute, the wind stirring as if in oath. "I swore it. The Kuru line endures."
Satyavati exhaled, slow, her hand brushing his arm—a rare touch, fleeting. "Then it's on you," she said, soft, trusting. "All of it."
Bhishma nodded, once, the river's pulse a rhythm in his bones. "It always was," he replied, calm, accepting. "I'll bear this."
She turned, gazing at the water, her voice a whisper. "He's so small," she said, fragile, aching. "So breakable."
"He's enough," Bhishma countered, firm. "Small grows. I'll see it through."
Satyavati's eyes glistened, but she nodded, stepping back. "You always do," she murmured, retreating, leaving him to the river's quiet.
Bhishma stood alone, the Ganga flowing steady, its surface unbroken. He lifted his bow, resting it in hand, a silent partner to his duty. "A dynasty hangs thin," he thought, the words a weight, a truth, a vow—his resolve hardening, unshakeable, for Hastinapura's sake.