The night over Hastinapura hung thick and black, the sky a heavy blanket stitched with stars, their light faint against the sprawl of gray walls and sloping roofs. The air smelled of damp stone and pine smoke, sharp and cool, drifting from the braziers that glowed along the outer yard. The Ganga murmured beyond the palace, a low hum threading through the stillness, its waters glinting silver under a sliver of moon. The gates loomed tall at the city's edge, their iron-banded wood scarred from old sieges, bolts rusted but firm, a silent promise of strength. Guards paced the battlements, their spears glinting, their tunics flapping in a breeze that stirred restless, tugging at the banners overhead—red and gold, the Kuru sigil bold but frayed.
Inside, the palace slept uneasy, its halls dim, the court's whispers hushed since Vichitravirya's pyre had burned to ash. Ambika and Ambalika lingered in their chambers, their white saris ghostly in the candlelight, their voices soft murmurs through the walls—grief a weight they carried silent, widows bound to a throne with no king. Satyavati sat alone in her room, her gray sari crumpled, her hands twisting a cloth, her mind churning with plans and fears, the dynasty's void a shadow she couldn't shake. The peace was fragile, a thread stretched thin, and beyond the walls, Kashi's shame simmered, a storm waiting to break.
It broke fast. A shout cracked the night, sharp and sudden, from the western gate—a guard's voice, high with alarm. "Torches!" he yelled, his spear jabbing the dark, his boots skidding on the stone. "Riders—Kashi's colors!" More cries followed, a clamor rising quick, metal clanging as guards scrambled, their shadows leaping wild in the brazier light. Flames flared beyond the walls, a jagged line of torches snaking closer, their glow painting the fields red and gold—Kashi raiders, bold and furious, come to strike while Hastinapura mourned.
Bhishma burst from the stable, his dark tunic patched and loose, his cloak flung over one shoulder, his bow already in hand, its scarred wood gleaming under the moon. His arrows bristled at his hip, a quiver slung tight, and his boots hit the yard hard, gravel crunching as he strode for the gate. The breeze surged around him, sharp and wild, a roar building in its wake, tugging his hair, flaring his cloak like a banner of war. He'd heard the shouts, felt the tremor in the air—a raid, not a siege, but enough to test the walls he'd sworn to hold. His eyes narrowed, cold and steady, his jaw set, a warrior's fire kindling deep as he climbed the battlement stairs, two at a time.
The raiders hit like a wave, fifty strong, their horses pounding the earth, hooves tearing clumps of grass, their torches blazing trails of light through the dark. Swords flashed in their hands, steel catching the fireglow, their red tunics stark against the night—Kashi's mark, bold and vengeful. They roared as they came, a howl of rage and shame, their leader a broad figure in crimson, his beard wild, his spear raised high, glinting wicked as he spurred his mare straight for the gate. "For Virochana!" he bellowed, his voice a thunderclap, his torch flung spinning toward the wood, flames licking the air.
Bhishma reached the top, his boots planting firm on the stone, his bow rising smooth and swift, an arrow notched before the guards could blink. The wind howled louder, a wall of fury swirling around him, ripping at the banners, scattering sparks from the braziers into wild spirals. He drew the string taut, his arm steady, his eyes locked on the crimson rider, cold as ice, sharp as steel. "Let's dance," he muttered, his voice low, rough with a grin that didn't reach his lips, and loosed the shot.
The arrow flew like a hawk, a streak of death cutting the night, its fletching whistling as the wind carried it true. It punched through the rider's chest, dead center, a wet crack splitting the air as blood sprayed, dark and glistening, his torch tumbling to the dirt, his body toppling back, horse rearing wild. The beast screamed, hooves slashing the air, and crashed sideways, pinning a second raider beneath, his leg snapping loud, his cry drowned by the wind's roar. The line faltered, horses shying, men shouting, but the raiders pressed on, swords slashing, torches arcing toward the gate, flames licking the wood, blackening its edges.
Bhishma notched another arrow, his hands a blur, his bow singing as he fired again, then again, each shot a thunderbolt of precision. A raider with a torch raised high took one through the throat, blood fountaining red as he choked, his flame dropping to sputter in the mud. Another, sword swinging for a guard's spear, caught an arrow in the eye, the shaft bursting through, brain and blood splattering back, his body slumping limp over his horse's neck. The wind roared louder, a tempest shredding their lines, snatching torches from hands, flinging them wild to hiss and die in the grass, a storm Bhishma wielded like a blade.
The guards rallied, spears thrusting from the battlements, their shouts rising fierce over the chaos. "Hold the gate!" one yelled, his voice cracking, his spear jabbing down, catching a raider's shoulder, blood blooming dark as the man screamed, tumbling back. Bhishma fired again, his arrow slicing through a horse's flank, the beast shrieking as it bucked, throwing its rider hard to the earth, his skull cracking wet on a rock, red pooling fast. The wind slammed into the raiders, a wall of fury bending their banners, snapping reins, tearing cloaks to rags, a howl that drowned their cries.
Below, the gate shuddered, a battering ram—crude, lashed logs—swung by six men, their grunts loud as they heaved, wood splintering under the blow. Bhishma leapt from the battlement, landing light on the yard's stone, his cloak flaring, his bow slung across his back as he drew a sword from his hip, its blade broad and scarred, glinting wicked in the torchlight. He charged, the wind roaring with him, a tempest at his heels, his boots pounding gravel, his voice a growl lost in the storm.
The ram swung again, a dull thud cracking the gate, splinters flying, and Bhishma hit them like a thunderbolt. His sword slashed low, a brutal arc slicing through the first man's thigh, blood jetting red as muscle parted, bone gleaming white, the raider collapsing with a scream, hands clawing the dirt. He spun, blade rising, catching the second under the ribs, steel ripping through leather and flesh, a wet gurgle as blood flooded lungs, the man's eyes wide, then blank, crumpling to his knees. The wind howled, shoving the others back, their ram faltering, and Bhishma struck again, his sword smashing a third man's skull, a sickening crunch as bone shattered, blood and gray spraying wide, the body dropping limp.
The ram fell, abandoned, the last three scattering, swords raised, their shouts desperate now, fear breaking their fury. Bhishma advanced, his blade dripping red, the wind a wall at his back, his eyes cold, unyielding, a predator in the storm. One lunged, sword thrusting wild, and Bhishma parried, steel clashing loud, sparks flying as he twisted, his blade slashing back, opening the man's chest in a spray of crimson, ribs cracking, heart spilling dark as he fell, twitching. Another swung high, a yell on his lips, and Bhishma ducked, wind whipping his hair, his sword driving up, piercing gut to spine, blood gushing hot over his hand as he yanked free, the raider collapsing in a heap, gasping, gone.
The last turned to flee, boots slipping in mud and blood, and Bhishma flung his sword, end over end, a spinning blur that sank deep between the man's shoulders, steel biting bone, a choked scream as he pitched forward, face-first into the dirt, still. The wind eased, a low growl now, curling around Bhishma as he stood, chest heaving, his tunic splattered red, his bow back in hand, an arrow notched, his gaze sweeping the field.
The raid collapsed, survivors fleeing, their horses bolting wild, torches abandoned to flicker and die in the grass, blood soaking the earth dark and slick. A dozen bodies sprawled twisted—gutted, pierced, broken—steam rising from wounds in the cold, their red tunics torn, Kashi's pride shredded once more. The guards cheered, ragged and fierce, spears raised, their voices echoing off the walls, but Bhishma stayed silent, his bow steady, his eyes cold, unblinking, fixed on the dark where the raiders had vanished.
He turned, slow, his boots crunching gravel, blood dripping from his blade as he sheathed it, his voice low, rough with finality. "None breach this wall," he said, his gaze lifting to the battlement, steady and sure, a vow carved in the night.
The wind settled, brushing the grass soft now, a whisper over the carnage, the gates scarred but standing, smoke curling faint from charred wood. Inside, the palace stirred, windows flickering as candles lit, Ambika and Ambalika peering out, their white saris pale against the glass, their breaths fogging, sorrow a distant ache untouched by the clash. Satyavati rose, her door creaking open, her eyes sharp with the shouts, her hands still as she listened, the fragile peace held firm by Bhishma's hand.