The throne room of Hastinapura was a restless place that morning, its high ceilings catching the hum of voices like a net snagging flies. Torchlight flickered along the walls, painting the marble floor with shifting gold, and the banners overhead—red and gold, stitched with the Kuru sigil—swayed lazily, as if they'd grown tired of hanging still. The nobles filled the space, a sea of robes in deep blues and greens, their silver clasps glinting as they shifted and whispered. They stood in little knots, heads bent close, their words buzzing through the air like bees around a hive.
The throne sat empty at the far end, its carved arms cold and bare, a silent giant waiting for someone to claim it. Vichitravirya wasn't there—he hadn't been for days, tucked away in his chambers with a cough that wouldn't quit. The nobles knew it, and their whispers had grown bolder, sharper, cutting through the stillness like a knife through cloth.
"A boy-king falters," muttered a wiry man near the front, his beard pointed and gray, his voice carrying just far enough. "Hastinapura wanes under him—mark my words."
A broader man beside him, with a face like weathered wood, nodded grimly. "He's no king," he said, low but firm. "A shadow on the throne, that's all. We need strength, not sickbeds."
The murmurs rippled outward, heads turning, eyes glinting with agreement. A younger noble, all sharp cheekbones and nervous hands, piped up from the back. "What's Bhishma doing about it?" he asked, loud enough to draw stares. "Regent or not, he can't rule through a ghost."
The room tensed, the air thickening as the words hung there, daring someone to answer. The banners twitched, a faint breeze brushing through, though the doors stayed shut. Then the sound came—boots on stone, steady and sure, echoing down the hall like a drumbeat. The nobles turned as one, their whispers dying fast.
Bhishma strode in, tall and unyielding, his armor catching the torchlight in dull flashes. His cloak swept behind him, dark and worn, the wind tugging at its edges as if it couldn't bear to leave him alone. His bow hung at his side, strung now, its curve gleaming faintly, and his face was set—hard, calm, a wall of resolve that made the room shrink around him. He didn't rush or falter; he simply walked, each step a quiet thunder, until he stood before the throne, the wind roaring in his wake.
The banners snapped overhead, loud as whips, and the nobles flinched, clutching their robes. Bhishma's eyes swept the room, sharp and cold, pinning them where they stood. "Doubt ends here," he said, his voice deep, ringing out like a bell. "Speak your minds—or hold your tongues."
The wiry noble—Lord Kritavarma, as some knew him—stepped forward, his beard jutting defiantly, though his hands twitched at his sides. "We're not doubting you, Lord Bhishma," he said, his tone careful but bold. "It's the boy. A king who can't stand in court—what's he worth?"
Bhishma didn't blink, his gaze locking onto Kritavarma like an arrow notched and ready. "He's worth the Kuru name," he said, calm, iron-edged. "He lives. I stand for him. That's enough."
The broad noble—Lord Dhanush—crossed his arms, his voice gruff. "Enough for you, maybe," he said, stepping up beside Kritavarma. "But Hastinapura needs more than a regent's shadow. He's frail—sickly. We've all heard the coughs, seen the empty throne."
Bhishma tilted his head, just a fraction, the wind picking up, brushing past Dhanush's robe, making him shift his weight. "You've heard," he said, steady, "but you haven't seen me falter. Vichitravirya's king—my strength holds him up."
The younger noble—Lord Ravi, barely past twenty—pushed forward, his voice sharp, nervous. "For how long?" he asked, his hands twisting together. "He's not even here, Bhishma! A king should face his court, not hide behind curtains!"
The room buzzed again, heads nodding, whispers sparking like embers. Bhishma raised a hand, and the wind roared louder, a gust that swept through the hall, snuffing two torches near the door. The banners thrashed, and the nobles froze, their breath catching as the air turned cold.
"He's king," Bhishma said, his voice cutting through the howl, calm but unyielding. "He rests now—his health demands it. I face you for him. Challenge that if you dare."
Kritavarma's lips tightened, but he didn't back down, his eyes glinting in the dimming light. "We're not challenging you," he said, firm, though his voice shook a little. "We're asking—how long can a boy rule from a sickbed? Hastinapura's enemies won't wait for him to grow."
Bhishma stepped closer, his boots slow and deliberate, the wind coiling around him like a living thing. "They won't need to," he said, his tone low, dangerous. "I'm here. They'll face me first."
Dhanush snorted, though it sounded forced, his arms still crossed tight. "You're one man, Bhishma," he said, gruff but quieter now. "Even you can't fight forever. What happens when he's gone—no heirs, no strength?"
Bhishma's bow hummed faintly, a soft, eerie sound as he lifted it, not aiming, just holding it steady. "He's not gone," he said, his voice solid as stone. "And while I breathe, no enemy breaches these walls. Doubt him—doubt the dynasty—but don't doubt my will."
The wind surged, sharp and sudden, slamming into Kritavarma's chest. He stumbled back, his robe flapping, and hit the wall with a thud, pinned there like a moth on a board. His eyes widened, his hands scrabbling at the stone, but he couldn't move. The room gasped, a collective breath, and Dhanush took a step back, his face paling.
Bhishma lowered his bow, the wind easing, letting Kritavarma slide down to his knees, gasping. "Submission suits you," Bhishma said, calm, almost gentle. "Speak again when you've something worth hearing."
Kritavarma coughed, clutching his chest, his voice hoarse. "You've made your point," he muttered, head bowing low. "We'll hold our tongues."
Dhanush nodded stiffly, his gruffness gone, and stepped back into the crowd. Ravi stayed silent, his hands still now, his eyes darting between Bhishma and the floor. The wind settled, a soft breeze now, brushing the banners into a lazy sway again, the torches flickering back to life.
Bhishma turned, facing the throne, his cloak settling around him. "Vichitravirya rules," he said, his voice steady, final, ringing through the hall. "Through me. The Kuru line stands—unbroken."
The nobles bowed, reluctant but deep, their heads dipping like reeds in a storm. The room stayed quiet, the air heavy with their fear, their doubts swallowed—for now. Bhishma stood there, a towering figure before the empty throne, his shadow stretching long across the marble, filling the space Vichitravirya couldn't.
Satyavati slipped in then, her gray sari catching the light, her steps soft as she approached from the side. She'd been listening, hidden by a pillar, her face tight with worry, though her eyes held a glint of pride. She stopped beside Bhishma, her voice low, meant just for him.
"They're scared," she said, glancing at the bowed heads. "They don't trust him."
Bhishma didn't turn, his gaze on the throne. "They trust me," he replied, calm, sure. "That's what matters."
She frowned, her fingers twisting in her sari. "For now," she said, soft, uneasy. "But they're right—he's not here. That empty seat… it's loud, Bhishma."
He nodded, just once, the wind brushing her hair gently. "I hear it too," he said, quiet, steady. "I'll fill it with my strength until he can."
Satyavati's lips pressed thin, her eyes flicking to the nobles, then back to him. "You're a wall," she murmured, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. "But even walls crack under too much weight."
Bhishma's face didn't change, but his voice softened, just a hair. "Not this one," he said, firm. "Not while I stand."
She sighed, her hand brushing his arm, then falling away. "I hope you're right," she whispered, stepping back, her shadow blending with the crowd.
The nobles stayed bowed, silent now, their defiance snuffed out like the torches had been. Kritavarma rose slowly, his head still low, and muttered to Dhanush, his voice barely a breath. "Whispers turn bold—how long can he hold?"
Bhishma didn't hear it—or didn't care. He stood there, unyielding, the wind a soft hum around him, guarding an empty throne and a frail king they couldn't see, his will the only thing keeping Hastinapura from tipping over the edge.