The road to Kashi stretched long and dusty under a sky streaked with gray, the kind of sky that promised rain but hadn't made up its mind. Bhishma rode alone, his horse's hooves kicking up little clouds of earth, steady and sure as a heartbeat. His armor glinted faintly in the dull light, scratched but polished, and his cloak flapped behind him, dark and heavy, caught by a wind that seemed to follow him wherever he went. His bow rested across his back, unstrung but ready, a quiet reminder of who he was. The air smelled of dry grass and distant rivers, and the Ganga's hum faded behind him as Hastinapura shrank into the horizon.
He'd left at dawn, the palace still sleepy, Vichitravirya tucked in his chambers with a cough that rattled the walls. Satyavati had seen him off, her gray sari clutched tight, her voice sharp with worry. "Bring back something solid," she'd said, her eyes fierce. "Allies, brides—something to hold us up." Bhishma had nodded, calm as ever, and promised he would. Now, with Kashi's spires rising ahead—sharp and golden against the gray—he felt the weight of that promise settle deeper.
The city gates loomed, carved with curling vines and guarded by spearmen in red tunics, their helmets glinting as they watched him approach. They didn't stop him—nobody would've dared—but their eyes followed, wary and narrow, as he rode through. The streets bustled with carts and chatter, the air thick with spices and smoke, but Bhishma kept his gaze forward, steering his horse toward the palace at the city's heart. The wind picked up, tugging at his cloak, brushing dust from the road as if clearing his path.
The Kashi throne room was a grander place than Hastinapura's—warmer, too, with walls draped in silk and floors tiled in red and gold. Torches burned bright, their flames steady, and a long table stretched down the center, piled with fruit and gleaming goblets. The court was already gathered, nobles in rich robes lounging on cushioned benches, their laughter bouncing off the high ceiling. At the far end, on a throne of carved teak, sat King Virochana, a broad man with a silver beard and a crown that tilted slightly, as if he'd put it on in a hurry. His eyes were sharp, though, glinting like a hawk's as Bhishma stepped inside.
The wind came with him, a gust that ruffled the silk hangings and made the nobles sit up, their chatter fading. Bhishma stopped a few paces from the throne, his boots firm on the tiles, his cloak settling around him. He inclined his head—just enough to be polite, not a hair more—and his voice rang out, deep and steady.
"King Virochana," he said, calm but clear, "I come from Hastinapura with a proposal. An alliance—marriage between your house and ours. Strength for both."
Virochana leaned back, his fingers drumming on the throne's arm, a slow grin spreading across his face. "An alliance?" he said, his voice loud, carrying a laugh beneath it. "With Hastinapura? That's a bold word, Bhishma—bold and dusty, like that cloak of yours."
The court tittered, a ripple of chuckles rolling through the benches. Bhishma didn't flinch, his face still as stone, though the wind stirred sharper, brushing past the goblets, making them clink faintly. "Dust washes off," he said, even, unperturbed. "Strength doesn't. Vichitravirya, king of the Kurus, seeks your daughters' hands. It binds us—Kashi and Hastinapura, unbreakable."
Virochana's grin widened, but his eyes narrowed, sharp and mocking. "Vichitravirya?" he said, leaning forward now, his voice booming. "That sickly whelp? I've heard of him—coughing his way through a crown too big for his head. You want my daughters for that?"
The laughter came louder now, sharp and jeering, the nobles slapping the table, their faces red with glee. A thin man with a hooked nose called out, "Maybe he'll sneeze them an heir!" and the room roared, goblets tipping, wine sloshing onto the tiles.
Bhishma stood there, tall and steady, the wind coiling around him, tugging at his cloak. His hands stayed clasped behind his back, but his voice cut through the noise, cold and precise. "Mockery earns no favor," he said, loud enough to hush them, the wind rattling the silk hangings like a warning. "He's king—weak or not. His blood's worth more than your laughter."
Virochana snorted, waving a hand, his crown tilting further. "Blood?" he said, his tone dripping scorn. "A puddle of it, maybe—thin and watery, like him. My daughters—Amba, Ambika, Ambalika—they're Kashi's pride, Bhishma. Strong, sharp, fit for warriors, not a boy who can't lift a spoon without wheezing."
The court laughed again, though it was thinner now, a few nobles glancing at Bhishma, uneasy. The wind gusted harder, knocking a goblet off the table, the clang sharp against the tiles. Bhishma's eyes locked on Virochana, steady, unblinking, a flicker of something dark beneath the calm.
"He's king," he repeated, his voice low, dangerous now. "And I stand for him. Kashi could rise with us—or stumble alone. Choose wisely."
Virochana leaned back, his grin fading into a smirk, his fingers still drumming. "Rise?" he said, slow, mocking. "With a corpse on the throne? I'd sooner wed my girls to the wind at your heels, Bhishma—it's got more life than your Vichitravirya."
The nobles chuckled again, but it was nervous now, their eyes darting to the wind, which howled louder, tugging at the hangings, snuffing a torch near the throne. Bhishma stepped closer, his boots deliberate, the air thickening around him. "The wind's mine," he said, his voice a quiet thunder. "And it bends to me. Your daughters could bind our houses—peace, strength. Refuse, and Kashi stands alone."
Virochana's smirk held, but his eyes flicked to the swaying banners, the flickering torch. "Alone?" he said, loud again, rallying the room. "Kashi's stood tall without your crumbling Kurus. Take your sickly king and his empty promises back to Hastinapura—I've no daughters for a whelp!"
The court erupted, cheers and jeers mixing, a noble tossing a grape that bounced off Bhishma's boot. Bhishma didn't move, his face a mask, the wind roaring now, shaking the table, spilling wine across the floor. His hand twitched toward his bow, then stilled, his voice cutting through the din like a blade.
"You've chosen," he said, calm, final, the wind howling behind him. "Kashi stands firm—so does Hastinapura. Remember this day."
Virochana laughed, a big, booming sound, leaning forward with a sneer. "Oh, I will," he said, his voice dripping venom. "Pride stings deep, Bhishma—let's see it bleed!"
The wind surged, sharp and sudden, tearing a hanging from the wall, sending it flapping to the floor. The court gasped, the laughter dying fast, and Bhishma turned, his cloak swirling as he strode out, the wind following like a loyal hound. The nobles shrank back, their goblets trembling, and Virochana's smirk faltered, just for a heartbeat, as the doors slammed shut behind him.
Outside, Bhishma mounted his horse, the dust swirling around him, the wind still sharp at his heels. The spires of Kashi loomed behind, golden and mocking, but his face stayed set, his eyes on the road back. "They'll see," he muttered, low, to the wind. "Strength isn't laughter—it's steel."
The horse snorted, and he rode off, the gray sky darkening above, the weight of Vichitravirya's shadow heavier now—a frail king scorned, a dynasty slighted, and a regent's resolve hardening like stone.