The throne room of Hastinapura glowed warm and golden under a midday sun, its high ceiling draped with garlands of marigold and jasmine, their scent thick in the air. Torches flickered along the walls, casting soft shadows over the marble floor, polished to a shine for the occasion. The court buzzed, a crowd of nobles in deep blues and greens, their silver clasps glinting as they pressed close, voices humming with excitement. Banners hung overhead—red and gold, the Kuru sigil bold—swaying faintly in a breeze that slipped through the open arches, a gentle breath after days of dust and storm.
At the room's heart, a low dais held three chairs, draped in silk—two for the brides, one for the groom. Vichitravirya sat there, small and pale, his thin frame swallowed by a robe of gold too heavy for his shoulders. His dark hair clung damp to his forehead, a sheen of sweat glistening under the torchlight, and his breath rasped soft, a frail cough breaking through the chatter now and then. Beside him stood Ambika and Ambalika, their silks—green and gold—creased from the road, their faces tight, eyes darting. Ambika's hands twisted in her lap, her lips pressed thin, while Ambalika clutched a garland, her fingers trembling, her gaze fixed on the floor.
Bhishma loomed at the dais's edge, his armor swapped for a dark tunic, scratched and patched but clean, his cloak folded over one arm. His bow rested against a pillar, its scarred curve a silent witness to Kashi's defeat, arrows tucked neatly at his side. The breeze brushed his hair, soft and steady, a quiet ally in the room's warmth. He'd brought them here—won them through might—and now the court celebrated, their triumph his doing, though his face stayed set, his eyes sharp, watching.
Satyavati stepped forward, her sari a rich gray edged in silver, her hair pinned tight, her voice ringing clear over the din. "Today, the Kuru line binds anew," she said, firm, warm, her hands clasped before her. "Ambika and Ambalika join Vichitravirya—our king, our hope."
The nobles cheered, a wave of sound that shook the banners, hands clapping, feet stamping. Vichitravirya managed a small smile, his breath hitching as he coughed, a weak, wet sound that made Ambika flinch, her green sari trembling. A priest in white shuffled up, his hands full of rice and saffron, muttering chants as he circled the dais, sprinkling grains over their heads. Ambika's eyes flicked to Vichitravirya, then away, her jaw tight, while Ambalika stared at the rice scattering across her lap, her garland slipping to the floor.
Amba stood apart, near a pillar, her red sari a slash of defiance against the celebration, her arms crossed, her glare cutting through the crowd. She'd refused to sit, refused the silk they'd offered, her hair loose and wild from the road, her voice silent—until now. As the priest raised a garland to bind Ambika to Vichitravirya, Amba stepped forward, her sandals sharp on the marble, her voice slicing through the cheers like a shard of glass.
"I won't," she said, loud, fierce, her eyes locked on Bhishma, then Satyavati. "Not him—not this. Send me to Salva—I chose him."
The room stilled, the cheers faltering, heads turning, whispers rippling like wind through grass. Vichitravirya coughed again, harder, his thin hand clutching the chair, his smile gone. Satyavati's face tightened, her hands dropping to her sides, but her voice stayed steady, sharp. "You're here," she said, stepping toward Amba, her sari swishing. "Kashi's swayamvara chose for you—Bhishma won. That's the end."
Amba's lips curled, a bitter laugh breaking free, her hands unclenching to point at Bhishma, tall and unmoved beside the dais. "Won?" she said, her voice raw, cutting. "He stole—broke every rule with his bow! Salva's my choice—my heart's with him. You've cursed me, Bhishma—dragged me to this frail boy's cage!"
Bhishma met her gaze, his eyes cold, steady, a wall against her fire. The breeze softened, brushing his tunic, a faint hum in the silence. "Duty spares no heart," he said, his voice low, rough-edged, each word a stone dropped into the tension. "Vichitravirya's king—you're his or no one's. Salva lost when I walked out."
Amba's eyes blazed, her chest heaving, her sari flaring as she stepped closer, close enough to feel the breeze off him. "Lost?" she snapped, her voice shaking with fury. "He didn't fight—your fists did! I'm no bride for a ghost—I'll go to Salva, free or bound!"
Satyavati's hand shot up, silencing the murmurs, her gaze flicking to Bhishma, then back to Amba. "Enough," she said, firm, cold, her tone a blade of its own. "You reject him? Fine—go. Salva can have you—Hastinapura keeps two. But don't think this ends here."
Amba's glare shifted to her, fierce, unyielding, then softened—just a flicker—as she glanced at her sisters, Ambika's tight face, Ambalika's trembling hands. "Keep them," she said, low, bitter, her voice cracking. "They're yours to chain—I'm not."
The priest hesitated, rice spilling from his hands, but Satyavati waved him on, her eyes hard. "Finish it," she said, sharp, turning back to the dais. The chants resumed, halting and thin, as garlands looped around Ambika and Vichitravirya, then Ambalika, their vows whispered over his frail coughs. The nobles clapped again, softer now, uneasy, their eyes darting to Amba as she stood alone, a storm in the room's glow.
Bhishma stepped toward her, his boots slow on the marble, his bow still at rest, his voice steady, calm. "A horse waits," he said, gruff, practical. "Ride to Salva—tell him what you will. This is done."
Amba's lips pressed thin, her hands trembling, then steadying as she straightened, her sari a defiant slash of red. "Done?" she said, soft, venomous, her eyes locking on his, burning. "One bride scorned—I'll return, Bhishma. This curse you've sown—it'll grow."
She turned, sharp, her sandals echoing as she strode for the doors, the crowd parting, their whispers buzzing like bees. Bhishma watched her go, his face unmoved, the breeze brushing his hair, soft and steady, a quiet echo of her vow. The doors thudded shut behind her, a hollow sound that lingered, her red silhouette lost to the courtyard beyond.
Vichitravirya coughed again, weaker, his hand trembling as he gripped Ambika's, her green sari stiff against his gold. Ambalika stared at the garland in her lap, her gold silk creased, her breath shallow. Satyavati stepped to the dais, her sari glinting silver, her voice low, meant for Bhishma alone as the court resumed its chatter.
"She's gone," she said, her tone tight, relieved yet wary. "Two's enough—he's wed. You've held us up."
Bhishma nodded, slow, his eyes on the doors, then back to her, his voice rough, steady. "Held us," he said, quiet, firm. "But she's a spark—Kashi's already lit. This isn't the end."
Satyavati's lips pressed thin, her hands smoothing her sari, her gaze flicking to Vichitravirya, then away. "Let it burn later," she murmured, soft, resolute. "For now, he's got brides—sons will come. That's what matters."