The road from Kashi stretched narrow and rugged, a winding scar of dirt and stone cutting through low hills and scruffy thickets. The sun dipped toward dusk, painting the sky a bruised purple, its last light glinting off the mare's gray coat as she plodded on, hooves crunching gravel. Bhishma rode steady, his armor creaking with each sway, patched and dulled from the swayamvara's fray. His cloak hung loose, streaked with dust and sweat, flapping faintly in a breeze that trailed him like a shadow. His bow rested across his lap, scarred and warm from use, arrows rattling soft at his hip—a quiet echo of the victory he'd carved in Kashi's dust.
Behind him, the princesses clung tight—Amba stiff and silent across the saddle's front, her red sari bunched where she gripped the mare's mane; Ambika and Ambalika huddled together at his back, their green and gold silks tangled, their breaths uneven. The air smelled of dry grass and cooling earth, the distant hum of Kashi's fury fading with every mile. Bhishma's jaw was set, his eyes fixed ahead, Vichitravirya's whispered dream—riding somewhere big—a weight he carried, Satyavati's call for noise a fire still burning low. He'd won them—Amba, Ambika, Ambalika—through steel and will, and Hastinapura waited, its frail king needing what he'd claimed.
The mare's stride faltered, a sudden lurch as Amba twisted sharp, her hands shoving against the saddle. She slid free, dropping to the ground with a thud, her sari flaring red as she stumbled, then caught herself, standing tall. Bhishma reined the mare hard, the beast snorting as she stopped, gravel skittering under hooves. Ambika gasped, clutching Ambalika tighter, their eyes wide, but Amba faced him, her chest heaving, her voice slicing through the dusk like a blade.
"I chose Salva," she said, sharp, fierce, her hands balled into fists at her sides. "Release me—now!"
Bhishma turned slow, his boots firm in the stirrups, his shadow stretching long across the path. The breeze stilled, a sudden hush, leaving the air heavy, the grass frozen mid-sway. He looked down at her, his gaze cold, unblinking, a wall of ice against her fire. "You're Vichitravirya's now," he said, his voice low, rough-edged, each word a stone dropped into the silence. "The swayamvara's done—I won."
Amba's eyes blazed, dark and furious, her chin lifting as she stepped closer, dust clinging to her hem. "Won?" she snapped, her tone cutting, bitter. "You broke it—smashed through like a beast! That wasn't my choice—it was your fist!"
Bhishma swung down, boots hitting the ground with a dull thud, the mare snuffling as he stepped away. His bow stayed in hand, a steady weight, his cloak settling around him like a storm paused. He faced her, tall and unyielding, his face a mask of duty, though his eyes flickered—sharp, searching. "Choice?" he said, his voice steady, gruff. "Hastinapura's need outweighs it. You're his bride—Salva lost."
She laughed, a harsh, jagged sound that echoed off the hills, her hands trembling with rage. "Lost?" she said, stepping closer still, close enough he could see the fire in her glare. "Salva didn't lose—he wasn't there! I'd pledged him my heart before your bow ever sang. You can't claim that, Bhishma—not with all your strength!"
Bhishma's grip tightened on the bow, just a fraction, the wood creaking under his fingers. The breeze stirred faint, brushing her sari, tugging at his cloak, but he didn't flinch. "Your heart's not my concern," he said, cold, final, his tone a blade of its own. "Vichitravirya's king—his line needs you. That's the vow I keep."
Amba's lips curled, a sneer that bared her teeth, her voice dropping low, fierce. "A king?" she said, scorn dripping thick. "That boy who coughs more than he speaks? You'd chain me to a ghost for your precious line? I'm no pawn, Bhishma—my heart's not yours to claim!"
Bhishma's eyes narrowed, his stance solid, the breeze humming soft around him, a quiet ally in the tension. "Pawn or not," he said, his voice rough, unyielding, "you're bound. The Kuru name stands on this—on you. Salva's a shadow now—let him fade."
She stepped back, her sari trailing, her hands unclenching only to point at him, sharp and accusing. "Fade?" she said, her voice rising, raw. "He's no shadow—he's my choice, my future! You think you can rip that away with a bow and a horse? I'll fight you—every step, every breath!"
Bhishma tilted his head, his gaze steady, cold as the dusk settling around them. "Fight all you want," he said, calm, iron-hard. "You're here—riding to Hastinapura. That's the end of it."
Amba's face twisted, fury and defiance warring there, and she planted her feet, the dust swirling faint around her sandals. "End?" she said, her voice a whipcrack, loud enough to startle the mare. "This isn't an end—it's a theft! I'll scream it to Salva, to Kashi, to every hill we pass—release me, or face what comes!"
Ambika whimpered, her green sari trembling as she clung to Ambalika, who stared blank, her gold silk limp, her hands frozen on the saddle. Bhishma glanced at them, a flicker of his gaze, then back to Amba, his bow resting easy, though his knuckles whitened around it. "Scream," he said, gruff, steady, "but you ride. Vichitravirya's fate doesn't bend—not for Salva, not for you."
She stared at him, her breath ragged, her eyes burning like coals in the fading light. Then she straightened, taller somehow, her voice dropping to a low, fierce vow, each word carved in the air. "A heart denied—I'll reclaim it," she said, her glare locked on his, unbowed, unbreakable. "You've won a body, Bhishma—not me."
The breeze fell silent again, the hills swallowing her words, leaving a hush that pressed heavy. Bhishma stood there, a mountain against her storm, his face unreadable, though his eyes held hers—a clash of wills in the stillness. "Reclaim what you can," he said at last, his voice low, rough, a quiet thunder. "But you're his—Hastinapura's. Mount up."
Amba didn't move, her feet rooted, her sari a slash of red against the gray dusk. "Force me," she said, soft, daring, her chin high. "Show them—your silent sisters—what a hero you are."
Bhishma's jaw tightened, a muscle ticking there, his bow shifting in his grip. He stepped closer, looming over her, his shadow swallowing hers, the breeze stirring faint, brushing her hair. "I don't need force," he said, his voice steady, cold. "You'll walk—or I'll carry you. Choose quick."
She glared, her hands trembling, then turned sharp, stalking to the mare, her sari snapping with each step. She climbed up, stiff, furious, settling across the saddle's front, her back rigid, her eyes ahead—burning, defiant, but silent for now. Ambika and Ambalika shrank smaller, their breaths hitching, their hands clasped tight, a quiet contrast to Amba's fire.
Bhishma mounted behind them, the mare snorting as he took the reins, his cloak settling heavy. He spurred her on, hooves crunching gravel, the road stretching dark ahead, the hills looming like witnesses to the clash. The breeze picked up, soft, brushing the grass, a hum that trailed them as Kashi faded further, its spires lost to the night.
Amba sat still, her silence a weapon, her vow hanging heavy—A heart denied—I'll reclaim it. Bhishma rode on, his bow warm in his grip, his duty a chain he'd forged himself, unbroken, unyielding. The sisters' quiet pressed against him, Amba's defiance a spark he couldn't douse—not yet. Hastinapura waited, Vichitravirya's frail hope riding with them, complicated now by a will that wouldn't bend.