The road to Hastinapura wound broad and dusty under a sky streaked with dawn, its edges softening into fields of swaying grass and squat, twisted trees. The Ganga glimmered faint on the horizon, a silver thread catching the first light, its hum a low welcome after days of hard riding. Bhishma rode at a steady clip, his gray mare's hooves thudding soft on the packed earth, her coat flecked with sweat and dust. His armor rattled, patched and dulled from Kashi's swayamvara, a testament to the victory carved in broken swords and fallen suitors. His cloak hung loose, stiff with grime, flapping faintly as the breeze that had trailed him settled into a gentle sigh, brushing the mare's mane.
The princesses rode with him, a weary tangle of silk and silence—Amba perched stiff across the saddle's front, her red sari creased and dusty, her glare fixed ahead, sharp as a blade's edge; Ambika and Ambalika slumped behind, their green and gold fabrics tangled, their hands clasped tight, faces pale under the strain. The air smelled of dew and horse, the quiet heavy after Amba's defiance on the road—her vow, A heart denied—I'll reclaim it, still ringing in Bhishma's ears. He'd won them through might, claimed them for Vichitravirya, but Amba's fire burned unquenched, a spark he couldn't smother.
The city's walls rose ahead, gray and solid, their battlements catching the dawn in dull flashes. The gates stood open, guards in faded tunics straightening as they spotted him, their spears tilting up in weary salute. Bhishma nudged the mare on, her stride slowing as they passed through, hooves clacking on the stone of the outer yard. The breeze faded fully, a soft hush settling over them, the grass beyond the walls stilling as if bowing to his return. People trickled out—stable boys, maids, a few sleepy merchants—staring wide-eyed at the dusty warrior and the three silken figures he bore.
Satyavati waited in the courtyard, her sari a pale gray smudge against the stable's wooden wall, her arms crossed tight. She'd been up since the stars faded, Vichitravirya's fever spiking again in the night, and her face was lined, her eyes red but fierce. She stepped forward as Bhishma reined the mare to a stop, gravel crunching under hooves, her gaze flicking from him to the princesses, sharp and searching.
"You've done it," she said, her voice firm, cutting through the morning quiet, a thread of relief woven into it. "They're here."
Bhishma swung down, boots hitting the stone with a thud, the mare snuffling as he steadied her. His bow rested in hand, scarred and warm, his cloak settling around him like a tired shadow. "They're here," he said, gruff, steady, his eyes meeting hers. "Amba, Ambika, Ambalika—Vichitravirya's brides."
Satyavati's lips twitched, a faint smile breaking through, though her hands stayed clenched at her sides. "The line strengthens," she said, her tone solid, a vow of its own, her gaze sweeping over the sisters. "You've brought us a future, Bhishma—more than I'd hoped."
Amba slid off the mare, her movements sharp, deliberate, landing light despite the dust clinging to her sari. She stood tall, her glare shifting from Bhishma to Satyavati, her voice low, simmering. "A future?" she said, sharp, bitter, her hands balling into fists. "Yours, maybe—not mine. I'm no gift to be handed over."
Satyavati's eyes narrowed, her smile fading, but her voice stayed firm, calm. "You're here," she said, stepping closer, her sari brushing the stone. "That's what matters. Vichitravirya needs you—Hastinapura needs you. Your heart can rage all it likes."
Amba's jaw tightened, her glare blazing, but she didn't reply, her silence a weapon as fierce as her words. Ambika and Ambalika dismounted slow, clinging to each other, their faces pale, their eyes darting—Ambika's wet with unshed tears, Ambalika's blank, lost. Bhishma watched them, his bow shifting in his grip, then turned to Satyavati, his voice low, rough-edged.
"Kashi's beaten," he said, steady, a note of triumph beneath the grit. "Every suitor fell—I took them clean. They're ours now."
Satyavati nodded, quick, her hands unclenching, smoothing her sari as she stepped back. "Clean or not, it's done," she said, her tone warm, though her eyes stayed sharp. "He's been asking for you—fever's high, but he's holding. These three—they'll keep him holding."
Bhishma's gaze softened, just a flicker, his boots scuffing the stone. "He dreamed of me riding," he said, quiet, almost to himself. "Said it was big. He'll see this—laugh, maybe."
Satyavati's breath caught, her eyes glistening briefly, then steadying. "He will," she said, soft, firm. "Go clean up—bring them in when you're ready. I'll tell him you're back."
She turned, her sari swishing as she headed for the palace, her steps quick, purposeful, a mother's hope carrying her forward. Bhishma watched her go, then glanced at the princesses—Amba's simmering rage, the sisters' weary silence—a victory shadowed by defiance he couldn't ignore. He led the mare toward the stable, the guards trailing behind, their whispers buzzing faint as the crowd grew, staring at the warrior who'd returned with Kashi's pride in tow.
Beyond the walls, hidden in a thicket of scrub and thorn, a Kashi scout crouched low, his red tunic mud-streaked, his spear gripped tight. He'd tracked them since the swayamvara, a shadow on their heels, his breath shallow as he watched Bhishma dismount, the princesses a splash of color against Hastinapura's gray. His eyes narrowed, dark with fury, his fingers tracing the spear's haft as the breeze brushed past, carrying the city's hum.
"This theft births war," he muttered, his voice a growl, rough and low, meant for the wind alone. "Virochana won't sit—Kashi won't bend."
He shifted, peering through the branches, his gaze locked on Amba—her rigid stance, her blazing glare—a spark he recognized, a hope for his king. The scout's lips curled, a grim promise forming as he watched Bhishma lead the mare away, the sisters trailing like ghosts. "War looms near," he growled, his voice a hiss, fierce and certain. "Kashi rises."
He slipped back, silent as a snake, the thicket swallowing him whole, his red tunic a flicker lost to the dawn. The road stretched empty behind, but the air hung heavy, Kashi's wrath a shadow trailing Bhishma's triumph, a storm brewing beyond the hills. Hastinapura stood quiet for now, its gates shut, its people buzzing—unaware of the eyes watching, the vow whispered, the retribution coiling tight.