The throne room of Hastinapura buzzed like a hive kicked over, its high ceiling bouncing the clamor of voices off the stone walls under a sky thick with storm clouds. Torches flared along the edges, their light harsh and flickering, throwing twisted shadows across the marble floor, still patched with white cloth from the mourning days. The air carried a bite of smoke and sweat, sharp and restless, the wilted garlands from Vichitravirya's wedding swept into dusty piles by a breeze that sliced through the open arches, quick and cold. Red and gold banners drooped overhead, the Kuru sigil dulled, flapping faintly as if uncertain of their weight.
The throne stood empty at the room's heart, its carved arms bare, a hollow reminder of the king now ashes. Nobles filled the space, their robes—blues, greens, grays—clashing as they jostled close, silver clasps flashing in the torchlight, their faces taut with fear. They shouted and shoved, hands slicing the air, boots scuffing the marble, their panic a wildfire after Vichitravirya's death—childless, gone, leaving no heir to steady the storm. Satyavati stayed away, her grief a silent weight locked in the bedchamber, and without her, the court spun loose, a tangle of voices and dread.
Bhishma stood on the dais, his dark tunic patched and faded, his cloak folded over one arm, his bow gripped firm in his right hand, its scarred wood glinting in the firelight. His arrows bristled at his hip, a steady companion from Kashi's fall, and the breeze whipped around him, sharp and alive, tugging at his hair, a restless edge to the chaos. He watched the nobles, his jaw tight, his eyes hard, an iron resolve cutting through their shrill cries, his presence a wall against the tide.
A wiry lord in blue pushed forward, his beard quivering, his voice shrill and loud over the din. "No heir, no king!" he yelled, his hands flailing, his robe flapping wild. "Hastinapura crumbles, Bhishma! Who holds us now?"
A stocky man in green elbowed past, his face flushed, his voice sharp and desperate. "He died empty!" he shouted, jabbing a finger at the throne, his hand shaking. "No sons, no blood—enemies will pick us clean!"
A woman in gray slipped through, her silver clasp catching the light, her voice high and breaking. "Kashi's watching!" she cried, her eyes darting to the arches, wide with terror. "They'll storm us, take everything! We're finished!"
The crowd swelled, their shouts merging into a roar, hands clutching at robes, feet stomping, fear feeding fear like wind on a blaze. Bhishma raised his bow, swift and sure, and brought its butt down hard on the marble, a crack ringing out, sharp as lightning, silencing the room. Heads snapped up, breaths caught, the breeze surging, bending the banners low, a wild hum in the hush.
"Quiet," he said, his voice low and rough, cutting clear through the stillness, his eyes sweeping the crowd, cold and commanding. "The Kuru name bends, not breaks. You'll listen or leave."
The lord in blue stepped back, his hands falling, his voice softer, edged with doubt. "Listen?" he said, his beard twitching, his eyes flickering. "To what, Bhishma? He's dead, no heirs born. What's left to say?"
Bhishma's gaze pinned him, steady and fierce, the breeze stirring his tunic, a sharp whisper in the quiet. "Left?" he said, his tone gruff, solid as stone. "I'm left. Hastinapura's walls, its steel—I've held them before, I'll hold them now."
The man in green crossed his arms, his flush deepening, his voice sharp but faltering. "You'll hold them?" he said, glancing at the empty throne, then back. "A regent's not a king, Bhishma. No blood sits there—we're a husk!"
Bhishma stepped down, his boots deliberate on the marble, his bow resting easy, though his grip stayed firm, his voice steady, a rock against their panic. "A husk with a spine," he said, his eyes flashing, calm and sure. "I've beaten Kashi, broken their pride. You think I can't keep this court?"
The woman in gray shook her head, her hands twisting her robe, her voice thin, trembling still. "Keep it how?" she said, her eyes darting again to the arches, then to him. "Kashi's waiting out there, Bhishma. No heir—they'll see weakness, strike fast!"
He turned to her, slow and steady, his shadow stretching across the floor, the breeze easing slightly, brushing her gray silk, a soft counter to her fear. "Let them see," he said, his voice low, rough with authority. "They struck once, lost their princesses. I'll meet them again if they dare."
The lord in blue frowned, his hands clenching, his voice quieter, uncertain now. "Meet them?" he said, looking around, then back at Bhishma. "You'll fight alone? For a throne with no ruler?"
Bhishma's mouth tightened, a flicker of steel in his gaze, his hand shifting on the bow, his voice steady, unyielding. "Alone if I must," he said, his eyes sweeping them, fierce and sure. "This throne's ruled through me before. I'll guard it till it's filled."
The man in green snorted, his arms dropping, his voice sharp but fading, doubt creeping through. "Guard it?" he said, his eyes on the throne, cold and bare. "With what, Bhishma? Your bow won't birth a king."
Bhishma straightened, his bow lifting slightly, his stance solid, a lone figure against the chaos, his voice low, resonant, a vow carved in the air. "My bow's held this hall," he said, his eyes steady, burning with resolve. "I swore to Shantanu, to this name. I'll forge a path—watch me."
The woman in gray stared, her hands stilling, her voice soft, a flicker of awe breaking through. "Forge a path?" she said, her eyes wide, searching his face. "How, Bhishma? He's gone, no sons left."
He nodded once, slow and firm, his bow resting against his shoulder now, the breeze picking up, sharp and alive, tugging at his hair. "A path," he said, his tone gruff, certain, a quiet power in the word. "I've faced worse odds. Stand steady, or step out."
The lord in blue swallowed, his hands unclenching, his voice low, hesitant. "Steady," he said, glancing at the crowd, then back at Bhishma. "You've held us before, Bhishma. Can you bend fate itself?"
Bhishma's gaze held his, steady, unbowed, the breeze swirling around him, a wild edge to his calm. "I've bent armies," he said, his voice rough, solid as the walls. "Fate's just another fight. Follow me, or fall behind."
The room stayed hushed, the nobles still, their panic checked, their eyes on him—some wide with fear, some narrowed with doubt, a few glinting with reluctant trust. The breeze softened, brushing the banners gentle now, a quiet hum in the stillness, the torches steadying, their light warm against the marble. Bhishma stood alone, his bow in hand, his resolve a mountain against the storm, the court's chaos tamed by his will, his command.
The throne loomed empty behind him, cold and silent, a dynasty hanging by a thread—Satyavati's grief a distant ache, the nobles' fear a tide he'd turned for now. He turned, slow, his boots firm on the marble, his eyes scanning the arches, the dark sky beyond, Kashi's threat a whisper on the wind. The Kuru name rested heavy, a vow he'd never break, a line he'd safeguard against the odds, his strength the anchor in the storm.