The great hall of Kashi sprawled wide and dim under a sky bruised purple, its stone walls streaked with moss, its high ceiling lost in shadows pierced by slanting torchlight. The air hung heavy with the scent of charred wood and sour wine, a low fire crackling in a pit at the room's heart, spitting embers onto the cracked floor. Crimson banners sagged along the walls, their gold threads frayed, Kashi's sigil dulled by years of dust and shame. A broad throne loomed at the far end, its arms chipped, its cushion worn thin, and there sat King Virochana, his silver beard glinting faint, his crown tilted rakish on his brow, his hands gripping the arms tight.
Around him clustered a ragged circle of lords, their robes—reds, browns, blues— patched and faded, their faces hard, etched with old grudges. They leaned close, voices low and sharp, their swords clinking as they shifted, the firelight catching on steel hilts. Beyond the hall, the city hummed faint, its spires jagged against the dusk, a restless edge to the quiet after Bhishma's storming of the swayamvara—his theft of the princesses a wound that festered still, a scar on Kashi's pride.
Virochana leaned forward, his eyes narrow, his voice venomous, rough with years of swallowed rage. "Bhishma's theft scars us still," he said, his hands clenching, his crown glinting as he turned to the lords. "He rode in, broke our honor, took my girls—Amba, Ambika, Ambalika—like spoils from a hunt!"
A burly lord in red grunted, his fist slamming the arm of his chair, his voice thick and bitter. "Smashed us," he said, his beard bristling, his eyes flashing. "Left us bleeding in the dust, suitors down, banners torn. Kashi's a jest now!"
A lean man in brown nodded quick, his hands twisting a wine cup, his voice low, sharp with spite. "Hastinapura laughs," he said, glancing at Virochana, then the fire. "Bhishma struts, their throne fat with our shame. We can't sit quiet."
A woman in blue stepped closer, her braid tight, her voice cutting, fierce with memory. "I saw it," she said, her eyes darting to the lords, then back to the king. "His bow flashed, wind roared—my brother fell, spear snapped. He's a devil, Virochana!"
Virochana's lips curled, a snarl breaking free, his voice rising, raw and fierce, a king's pride wounded deep. "A devil I'll chain!" he said, standing swift, his robe flapping, his hand slamming the throne. "He's got no king now—Vichitravirya's dead, childless. Hastinapura's weak, ripe to crack!"
The lords murmured, heads nodding, hands gripping swords, their voices blending into a growl, a tide of bitter resolve. Virochana paced, his boots thudding on the stone, his voice steady now, venom honed to a plan. "Gather allies," he said, his eyes sweeping them, burning bright. "Call the eastern clans, the river tribes—anyone who hates the Kurus. We'll march, take back our pride."
The lord in red grinned, his fist unclenching, his voice rough with eagerness. "They'll come," he said, leaning forward, his chair creaking. "Plenty itch to stick Bhishma. I'll ride east myself—bring steel."
The man in brown set his cup down, slow and deliberate, his voice low, calculating. "Spies first," he said, his eyes glinting, sharp in the firelight. "We'll watch them, find the gaps. Then we hit."
Virochana nodded, his crown tilting further, his voice fierce, a vow carved in the smoky air. "Watch and strike," he said, his gaze distant, fixed on a memory of Bhishma's mare tearing through his swayamvara. "He'll pay—Kashi rises again."
Miles away, in Hastinapura's outer yard, the night settled cold and still, the Ganga's hum a soft thread beyond the walls. Torches flickered along the stables, their light warm against the gray stone, the air crisp with the scent of hay and damp earth. Bhishma stood alone, his dark tunic patched and worn, his cloak folded over a bench, his bow resting across his knees as he sat, a whetstone in hand, its rasp steady against the arrowheads lined at his feet. His arrows bristled in a quiver nearby, a familiar weight, and a faint breeze carried whispers from the gate—soft, urgent, slipping through the dark.
A wiry figure darted from the shadows, his cloak mud-streaked, his breath quick as he knelt, his voice low, tense with news. "They're stirring," he said, his eyes darting to Bhishma, then down. "Kashi's king—Virochana—he's calling men, allies. Talk of war, fresh assault."
Bhishma's hand stilled, the whetstone pausing mid-stroke, his eyes cold, steady, lifting to the spy. "Stirring?" he said, his voice rough, calm, a quiet edge beneath it. "What's he saying, boy?"
The spy swallowed, his hands twisting his cloak, his voice softer, hurried. "Bhishma's theft," he said, glancing up, then away quick. "Says it scars them, shames them still. Wants your head, Hastinapura's fall—sees us weak now, no king."
Bhishma set the whetstone down, slow and deliberate, his bow creaking as he stood, his shadow stretching long across the yard. "Weak," he said, his tone low, a flicker of steel in it, his gaze fixed on the dark beyond the walls. "Let them come. I'll bury them."
The spy nodded quick, his voice dropping, a murmur on the breeze, faint and grim. "Old foes stir," he said, his eyes wide, searching Bhishma's face. "Kashi wakes."
Bhishma turned, his boots scuffing the stone, his bow gripped firm, his hand sliding an arrow from the quiver, testing its edge with a thumb. "Wakes," he said, his voice rough, steady, a vow to the night. "I'll put it back to sleep."
Inside the palace, the court buzzed faint, a hum of unease seeping through the walls—nobles whispering, servants pausing, the spy's words spreading slow, a ripple of fear after days of chaos. Bhishma stepped to the stable's edge, his tunic catching the torchlight, his eyes scanning the horizon, cold and sharp, the breeze picking up, whispering through the grass, carrying Kashi's threat closer. He notched the arrow, slow and sure, the bowstring taut, his stance solid, a warrior ready for the storm he'd crushed once before.