The throne room of Hastinapura shimmered with golden light, the midday sun streaming through high arches and catching on garlands of marigold and jasmine looped across the ceiling. Their sweet, heavy scent filled the air, mingling with the faint crackle of torches along the walls, their flames dancing soft against the polished marble floor. Nobles crowded the space, their robes a swirl of deep blues and greens, silver clasps glinting as they pressed close, their chatter rising like a tide. Red and gold banners swayed overhead, the Kuru sigil stitched bold, rippling faintly in a breeze that slipped through the room, cool and gentle after days of dust and heat.
A low dais stood at the center, three chairs draped in silk catching the light—two for the brides, one for the groom. Vichitravirya sat there, small and frail, his gold robe hanging loose on his thin frame, its weight pulling at his shoulders. His dark hair stuck damp to his forehead, a sheen of sweat on his pale skin, and every few moments, a weak cough broke through the noise, soft but sharp, like a pebble dropped in a still pond. Beside him, Ambika and Ambalika perched stiffly, their silks—green for Ambika, gold for Ambalika—creased and dusty from the road. Ambika's hands twisted together in her lap, her lips a tight line, while Ambalika clutched a garland, her fingers trembling, her eyes fixed on the floor as if she could vanish into it.
Bhishma stood at the dais's edge, his usual armor traded for a dark tunic, patched and worn but freshly scrubbed, a cloak folded neatly over one arm. His bow leaned against a nearby pillar, its scarred wood a quiet testament to Kashi's defeat, a bundle of arrows tucked at his side. A soft breeze brushed his hair, steady and calm, a familiar presence in the room's warmth. He'd fought for this—won the princesses through sheer might—and now the court buzzed with celebration, their triumph resting on his shoulders, though his face stayed hard, his gaze sharp and watchful.
Satyavati stepped forward, her gray sari edged in silver catching the light, her hair pinned tight, her voice clear and strong above the hum. "Today the Kuru line binds anew," she said, her words ringing out, warm with pride. "Ambika and Ambalika join Vichitravirya, our king, our hope."
The nobles erupted into cheers, a roar that shook the banners, hands clapping, feet stomping the marble. Vichitravirya gave a small smile, his breath catching as he coughed again, a frail, wet sound that made Ambika wince, her green silk quivering. A priest in white shuffled up, his hands full of rice and saffron, his voice low and chanting as he circled the dais, scattering grains over their heads. Ambika glanced at Vichitravirya, then away quick, her jaw clenching, while Ambalika stared at the rice dusting her lap, her garland slipping to the floor with a soft thud.
Amba stood apart, near a pillar, her red sari a bold streak against the festive glow, her arms crossed tight, her glare cutting through the crowd like a knife. She'd refused the silk they'd offered her, refused to sit, her hair loose and tangled from the journey, her silence heavy—until now. As the priest lifted a garland to loop around Ambika's neck, Amba stepped forward, her sandals sharp on the marble, her voice loud and fierce, slicing through the cheers.
"I won't do it," she said, her eyes flashing as she looked from Bhishma to Satyavati. "Not him, not this. Send me to Salva. I chose him."
The room went quiet, the cheers stumbling to a halt, heads turning, a ripple of whispers spreading fast. Vichitravirya coughed harder, his thin hand gripping the chair, his smile fading to a grimace. Satyavati's face tightened, her hands falling to her sides, but her voice stayed steady, sharp with authority. "You're here now," she said, taking a step toward Amba, her sari rustling softly. "Kashi's swayamvara decided for you. Bhishma won. That's how it stands."
Amba laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that echoed off the walls, her hands unclenching to point at Bhishma, who stood tall and still beside the dais. "Won?" she said, her voice shaking with anger. "He stole us! Broke every rule with that bow of his! Salva's my choice, my heart belongs to him. You've cursed me, Bhishma, dragging me here to this frail boy's cage!"
Bhishma met her stare, his eyes cold and unwavering, a soft breeze stirring his tunic, barely a whisper in the stillness. "Duty doesn't care about hearts," he said, his voice low and rough, each word solid as stone. "Vichitravirya's king. You're his or no one's. Salva had his chance and lost it when I walked out."
Amba's chest heaved, her eyes blazing, her sari flaring as she stepped closer, close enough to see the lines etched deep in his face. "Lost it?" she snapped, her voice raw with fury. "He didn't even fight! You smashed through with your fists and took what wasn't yours! I'm no bride for a ghost. I'll go to Salva, free or bound!"
Satyavati raised a hand, cutting through the growing murmurs, her gaze flicking to Bhishma, then back to Amba. "Enough of this," she said, her tone firm and cold, leaving no room for argument. "You reject him? Then go. Salva can have you. Hastinapura keeps two. But don't think this washes away clean."
Amba's glare shifted to her, fierce and unyielding, then softened for a heartbeat as she looked at her sisters—Ambika's tense frown, Ambalika's trembling hands. "Keep them," she said, her voice low and bitter, cracking at the edges. "They're yours to chain. I'm not."
The priest faltered, rice spilling from his fingers, but Satyavati waved him on, her eyes hard. "Finish it," she said, her voice sharp, turning back to the dais. The chants started again, thin and halting, as garlands circled Ambika and Vichitravirya, then Ambalika, their vows mumbled over his frail coughs. The nobles clapped once more, quieter now, their eyes darting to Amba as she stood alone, a storm amid the celebration.
Bhishma stepped toward her, his boots slow and deliberate on the marble, his bow still resting by the pillar, his voice steady and practical. "A horse is waiting," he said, rough but calm. "Ride to Salva. Tell him what you want. This is finished."
Amba's lips pressed into a thin line, her hands trembling, then steadying as she straightened, her sari a defiant splash of red. "Finished?" she said, her voice soft and venomous, her eyes locking on his, burning bright. "One bride scorned, Bhishma. I'll come back. This curse you've planted, it'll grow."
She turned on her heel, her sandals ringing out as she strode for the doors, the crowd parting like water, their whispers buzzing soft and quick. Bhishma watched her go, his face a mask, the breeze brushing his hair, gentle and steady, a quiet echo of her words. The doors thudded shut behind her, a heavy sound that hung in the air, her red figure swallowed by the courtyard beyond.
Vichitravirya coughed again, softer now, his hand shaking as he held Ambika's, her green silk stiff against his gold. Ambalika stared at the garland in her lap, her gold fabric creased, her breath shallow and quick. Satyavati stepped closer to the dais, her sari glinting silver, her voice low and meant for Bhishma as the court's chatter picked up again.
"She's gone," she said, her tone tight but tinged with relief, her eyes on him. "Two's enough. He's wed now. You've held us together."
Bhishma nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on the doors, then shifting back to her, his voice rough and steady. "Held us together," he said, quiet but firm. "She's a spark, though. Kashi's already burning. This won't stay quiet."
Satyavati's mouth tightened, her hands smoothing her sari, her eyes flicking to Vichitravirya, then away. "Let it burn later," she said, her voice soft and resolute. "He's got brides now. Sons will come. That's what counts today."