The swayamvara grounds of Kashi buzzed like a hive under a noon sun, a sprawling field baked dry and ringed by wooden stands draped in silk. The air hummed with voices—shouts, laughs, the clink of armor—and carried the sharp scent of sweat, jasmine garlands, and charred wood from cooking fires. Crimson and gold banners fluttered high, Kashi's pride stitched into every thread, swaying over a broad platform at the field's heart. Three thrones sat there, cushioned in bright silk, gleaming like jewels against the dust. The crowd swelled, a restless tide of suitors in polished steel and flowing robes, their swords glinting as they jostled for space, eyes locked on the prize.
Bhishma stood at the edge, his gray mare tethered to a gnarled tree, her tail flicking flies away. His armor hung heavy, scratched and dulled by years of war, but it fit him like a second skin, every dent a story of victory. His cloak, stiff with road dust, draped over one shoulder, and his bow rested in his grip—scarred wood, taut string, a weapon that sang of battles won. Arrows bristled at his hip, fletchings ruffled by a breeze that curled around him, sharp and eager, bending the grass low. He'd ridden through the night, Vichitravirya's whispered dream—riding somewhere big—burning in his chest, Satyavati's call for noise a drumbeat in his ears. Kashi thought to mock Hastinapura? He'd show them strength they couldn't laugh off.
The platform shone ahead, the princesses seated like queens awaiting tribute. Amba, tall and fierce, sat straight in red silk, her eyes sharp as daggers, scanning the crowd. Ambika, softer, perched in green, her hands twisting in her lap, her gaze darting nervous. Ambalika, smallest, fidgeted in gold, her fingers tugging at a garland, her face pale under the sun. King Virochana loomed beside them, his silver beard glinting, his crown tilted rakish, his voice a bellow that rolled over the din. "Step forth, warriors! Prove your worth—my daughters go to the strongest!"
The suitors roared, a wave of steel and bravado crashing toward the platform, swords raised, bows notched, boasts flying thick as flies. Bhishma's lips twitched, a flicker of a smirk, his grip tightening on the bow. He strode forward, boots crunching dust, the breeze surging behind him, whipping his cloak like a banner of war. The crowd parted, some staring, some sneering, as he pushed through, his shadow long and dark across the field.
"Who's this?" a broad suitor in bronze snorted, his axe gleaming as he blocked Bhishma's path. "Some dusty relic thinks he's a match?"
Bhishma stopped, his eyes locking on the man, steady, cold as winter stone. "Step aside," he said, his voice low, rough, a growl that cut the air. "Or fall."
The suitor laughed, loud and brash, hefting his axe. "Fall? You'll taste dirt first, old man!" He swung, the blade arcing fast, a blur of bronze aimed for Bhishma's chest.
Bhishma moved—swift, fluid, a shadow in the sun. His bow snapped up, the string singing as an arrow flew, striking the axe haft mid-swing, splintering it clean. The suitor stumbled, gaping, and Bhishma stepped in, his fist crashing into the man's jaw, dropping him flat in a puff of dust. The crowd gasped, then cheered, a wild ripple of noise as the breeze bent the banners low.
Bhishma turned, his bow resting easy, his cloak snapping in the gust. "Bhishma," he said, loud, clear, his voice a thunderclap over the field. "Son of Shantanu, regent of Hastinapura. I claim your daughters—for Vichitravirya, my king."
The stands erupted—shouts, jeers, a few scattered claps. Amba's eyes narrowed, fierce and unyielding, while Ambika shrank back, her hands trembling. Ambalika blinked, her garland slipping to her lap. Virochana's face darkened, his fist slamming the throne's arm. "A king?" he barked, scorn dripping thick. "That sickly boy? You jest, Bhishma—Kashi's blood runs stronger!"
Bhishma's smirk widened, a glint of steel in his gaze. "Jest?" he said, his voice low, dangerous. "Test me, Virochana. See who stands when the dust settles."
The king's jaw tightened, his eyes flicking to the suitors, then back. "Prove it," he snarled, waving a hand. "Face them all—win, and they're yours. Lose, and Kashi buries you."
The crowd roared, suitors surging forward, a wall of steel and fury—twenty, thirty, more—kings and princes, warriors thick with muscle and pride. Bhishma rolled his shoulders, the breeze howling now, a wild song that shook the stands. He notched an arrow, his bow rising, and loosed it fast—straight into a banner pole, snapping it clean, the crimson cloth flapping to the dirt. "Come on, then," he growled, his voice a challenge, rough and alive. "Let's dance."
A wiry prince in silver charged first, his spear thrusting low, aiming for Bhishma's legs. Bhishma sidestepped, the bow spinning in his hands, cracking the spear in two, then slammed the butt into the prince's chest, sending him sprawling. Another came—a giant in black iron, his mace swinging high. Bhishma ducked, an arrow flying from his hip, piercing the man's thigh, dropping him with a howl. The breeze surged, bending the grass flat, shoving dust into eyes, and Bhishma moved—a blur of might, relentless, unstoppable.
Five suitors rushed together, swords flashing, a coordinated strike from all sides. Bhishma's bow sang, arrows loosed in a heartbeat—three hit shoulders, one a wrist, the last a knee. The men fell, groaning, and he spun, his cloak whipping, catching a sixth—a lanky youth with a dagger—in the face, knocking him flat. The crowd cheered wilder, some leaping from the stands, others clutching their seats, mouths agape.
Amba stood now, her red sari blazing, her voice sharp over the chaos. "You think this wins us?" she shouted, fists clenched, stepping to the platform's edge. "We're not trophies!"
Bhishma turned mid-fight, an arrow notched, his eyes locking on hers as a suitor lunged from behind. He loosed without looking, the arrow striking the man's sword arm, sending him reeling. "You're Vichitravirya's," he said, gruff, steady, his breath even despite the fray. "Trophies or not—Hastinapura calls."
Ambika grabbed Ambalika's hand, pulling her close, her voice a whisper lost in the wind. "He's a monster," she breathed, trembling, while Ambalika stared, wide-eyed, her gold sari catching the sun.
Virochana roared again, leaping down, his sword drawn, his crown glinting fierce. "Enough!" he bellowed, charging Bhishma, blade arcing for his neck. "Kashi ends this!"
Bhishma met him head-on, the bow dropping, his hands bare as he caught Virochana's wrist mid-swing, twisting hard. The king grunted, his sword clattering free, and Bhishma shoved, sending him stumbling back into the platform's edge. The breeze howled, a wall of air that held the guards at bay, their spears wobbling as they tried to close in.
The field was a graveyard of suitors now—some groaning, some crawling, others flat in the dust, their weapons scattered like broken toys. Bhishma stood alone, his bow back in hand, his chest heaving just enough to show he'd fought. The breeze settled, a soft hum, brushing his cloak as he turned to the platform, his eyes hard, victorious.
"Yours are beaten," he said, his voice rough, ringing over the silence. "The princesses come with me."
Virochana staggered up, clutching his wrist, his face a storm of rage and awe. "You're a demon," he spat, his voice shaking the stands. "Kashi yields—but we'll hunt you for this!"
Bhishma smirked, stepping onto the platform, the wood creaking under his boots. "Hunt all you like," he said, low, iron-edged. "I've faced worse." He grabbed Amba's arm, firm but not cruel, pulling her down despite her thrashing. "Walk or be carried," he growled, his eyes meeting hers, unyielding.
She glared, fierce, but stepped down, her sari trailing like blood in the dust. Ambika followed, trembling, tugging Ambalika along, who stumbled, her gold silk tangling around her feet. Bhishma hauled them toward the mare, the crowd parting, awestruck, some whispering his name like a curse, others a prayer.
He mounted swift, pulling the sisters up—Amba stiff across the saddle, Ambika and Ambalika clinging behind, their gasps sharp in the quiet. The mare snorted, rearing once, hooves flashing, and Bhishma spurred her on, the breeze kicking up dust as they rode for the gates. Virochana's voice chased them, a roar of fury—"Kashi remembers, Bhishma!"—but the field lay conquered, suitors broken, banners torn, a testament to his might.
The road stretched ahead, rocky and narrow, the mare's breath heaving as she galloped, the princesses a tangle of silk and defiance behind him. Amba twisted, her voice cutting sharp, "Salva will kill you for this—I'm his!"
Bhishma's grip tightened on the reins, his face a mask of stone, the breeze bending the bushes along the path. "Salva can try," he said, gruff, calm, his eyes on the horizon. "You're Vichitravirya's now—deal with it."
Ambika sobbed softly, clutching Ambalika, who stared blank, her gold sari fluttering like a broken wing. The breeze softened, brushing their hair as Kashi's spires shrank, its roar fading to a distant hum. Bhishma rode on, the bow warm against his back, the weight of three lives—and a dynasty—carried in his victory, Kashi's fury a shadow he'd outpace for now.