The palace courtyard was a quiet patch of stone and dust that morning, tucked behind Hastinapura's towering walls. The sun hung low, spilling pale gold over the cracked tiles, and a few scraggly trees rustled their leaves in a breeze that seemed to come from nowhere. Bhishma sat on a low bench near the armory, his bow across his lap, a whetstone in hand. The blade of an arrow gleamed as he ran the stone along its edge, a soft, steady scrape cutting through the stillness. His cloak lay folded beside him, dark and worn, and his armor glinted faintly, stacked neatly by his boots. The wind played around him, tugging at his hair, coiling like a restless friend.
He'd been there since dawn, sharpening, thinking, the Ganga's hum a faint echo beyond the walls. Vichitravirya was inside, coughing through another fever, his small voice lost in the palace's depths. Satyavati's words from the riverbank still rang in Bhishma's ears—Bring him wives, Bhishma—now—and he'd promised her he would. Kashi's scorn had lit the spark; her demand had fanned it into a flame. He just needed the chance.
Footsteps hurried across the courtyard, light and uneven, breaking his focus. A messenger stumbled into view, a wiry boy in a dusty tunic, his face flushed from running. He clutched a scroll, its wax seal cracked and red, and stopped a few feet from Bhishma, panting hard.
"Lord Bhishma," he said, his voice high, breathless, "word from Kashi—urgent!"
Bhishma set the whetstone down, his hand steady on the bow, his eyes flicking up. "Speak," he said, calm, firm, the wind brushing past the boy's tunic.
The messenger fumbled with the scroll, unrolling it with shaky fingers. "King Virochana's called a swayamvara," he said, tripping over the words. "For his daughters—Amba, Ambika, and Ambalika. A grand one, he says—open to all worthy suitors. It's set for the next moon!"
Bhishma's face didn't change, but his grip tightened on the bow, just a fraction. "A swayamvara," he repeated, low, steady, the wind coiling tighter around him, rustling the trees. "All worthy suitors?"
The boy nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "That's what it says, my lord—kings, princes, warriors from every corner. They're boasting about it—Kashi's finest, offered to the best!"
Bhishma stood, slow and deliberate, the bow gleaming in his hand, the wind rising with him, sending dust swirling across the tiles. "Boasting," he said, his voice quiet, sharp-edged. "After laughing us off. Virochana's bold."
The messenger shrank back a step, clutching the scroll. "That's all it says, my lord," he mumbled, nervous now. "They sent it wide—word's spreading fast."
Bhishma nodded, once, his eyes narrowing as he looked past the boy, toward the palace gates. "Good," he said, calm, final. "You've done well. Go eat—rest."
The boy bobbed his head, scurrying off, the scroll flapping as he ran. Bhishma stayed where he was, the wind settling into a soft hum, his mind turning over the news like a stone in his hand. A swayamvara—Kashi's princesses, dangled before the world, a prize for anyone strong enough to claim them. Anyone but Vichitravirya, frail and coughing, mocked by their king. Satyavati's voice echoed again—Take what they deny—and a plan clicked into place, cold and clear.
He picked up another arrow, running the whetstone along its edge, the scrape steady, rhythmic. The wind coiled tighter, brushing his cloak, tugging at the trees like it knew what he was thinking. He'd go to Kashi—not to beg, not to offer, but to take. Amba, Ambika, Ambalika—they'd be Vichitravirya's, willing or not. Honor was a fine thing, but survival was sharper, and the Kuru line hung too thin to bend for pride.
The armory door creaked behind him, and Satyavati stepped out, her gray sari catching the morning light, her face tight with worry. She'd been hovering near Vichitravirya's room, her sandals still dusted with the palace's inner halls. She stopped a few paces away, her hands twisting in the fabric at her waist, her eyes flicking to the bow in his lap.
"What's that boy running about for?" she asked, her voice sharp, though it trembled a little. "More bad news?"
Bhishma didn't look up, the whetstone scraping steady against the arrow. "Kashi's news," he said, calm, even. "A swayamvara—for the princesses. Next moon."
Satyavati's breath hitched, and she stepped closer, her shadow falling over him. "A swayamvara?" she said, her voice rising, urgent. "Virochana's girls—Amba and the others? Open to all?"
He nodded, setting the arrow down, his hand resting on the bow. "All worthy suitors," he said, his tone dry, a flicker of something hard beneath it. "They're flaunting it—after spurning us."
Her hands clenched, her sari bunching tight, and she leaned forward, her eyes blazing. "Flaunting?" she snapped, fierce now. "They mock us again—dangle what we need right out of reach! You're going, aren't you?"
Bhishma met her gaze, steady, unblinking, the wind stirring around them, brushing her hair. "I'm going," he said, firm, simple. "Not to ask—to take."
Satyavati stilled, her eyes widening for a heartbeat, then narrowing, sharp and grim. "Take them?" she said, her voice dropping, cold. "You mean it—force?"
He stood, towering over her, the bow in one hand, the wind coiling like a snake at his feet. "Force," he said, calm, resolute. "Virochana won't give them—not to Vichitravirya. I'll bring them back—wives for him, heirs for us."
She stared at him, her breath shallow, her hands trembling at her sides. "That's war, Bhishma," she said, quiet, raw. "Kashi won't sit quiet—they'll fight."
Bhishma's face didn't shift, his voice steady as stone. "Let them," he said. "I've fought worse. The Kuru line needs this—I'll pay the cost."
Satyavati's lips pressed thin, her eyes searching his, a mix of fear and steel flickering there. "No honor in it," she murmured, almost to herself, her hands twisting again. "Stealing brides—it's not what Shantanu would've done."
The wind gusted, sharp and sudden, rustling the trees, tugging at her sari. Bhishma's gaze softened, just a flicker, but his voice stayed firm. "Honor bends for survival," he said, low, steady. "You taught me that—by the river. This is survival."
She flinched, her face tightening, then nodded, slow, grim. "I did," she said, her voice cold, resolute. "And I meant it. Vichitravirya's fading—he needs this, Bhishma. We need this."
He inclined his head, the wind settling, brushing her gently now, a quiet agreement. "Then it's settled," he said, practical, sure. "I ride before the moon. They'll be here."
Satyavati stepped closer, her hand reaching out, hovering near his arm, then falling back. "You're sure?" she asked, her voice softer, searching. "You can do this—take them, bring them back?"
Bhishma's eyes met hers, unyielding, a mountain against her storm. "I'm sure," he said, calm, final. "I've sworn it—to you, to the Kurus. They'll come."
She exhaled, shaky, her shoulders slumping a little, though her eyes stayed sharp. "Good," she whispered, her voice trembling with relief, fear, resolve. "Good. He's so small, Bhishma—so frail. This has to work."
Bhishma set the bow down, picking up his cloak, folding it over his arm. "It will," he said, gentle but firm. "He'll have wives—sons. The line holds."
Satyavati nodded, quick, her hands smoothing her sari, steadying herself. "I'll pray for it," she said, soft, then turned, glancing back at the palace. "He coughed blood again this morning—red on the cloth. Hurry, Bhishma."
He watched her, the wind brushing his hair, a quiet promise in its sigh. "I will," he said, steady, warm. "Dawn tomorrow—I ride."
She gave him a small, tight smile, her eyes glistening in the pale light, then walked back toward the palace, her steps slow, her shadow long across the tiles. Bhishma stayed where he was, the wind coiling around him, his hand resting on the bow again. He lifted an arrow, running his thumb along its edge, sharp and ready.
"Honor or force," he murmured, low, to the wind, his voice steady, resolute. "The choice is made."
The breeze carried his words away, swirling through the courtyard, rustling the trees as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the stone. He'd go to Kashi, break their swayamvara, claim what Hastinapura needed. For Vichitravirya, for Satyavati, for the Kurus. The wind hummed, a soft echo of his resolve, as the palace loomed behind him, waiting for the storm to come.