The road to Salva's palace stretched dusty and wide under a sky heavy with afternoon heat, its edges crumbling into dry grass that scratched at Amba's horse's hooves. The air shimmered, thick with the scent of sun-baked earth and faint jasmine from her sari, now streaked with grime. She sat tall in the saddle, her red silk clinging damp to her skin, her hair tangled loose from its braid, whipping across her face as she urged the mare on. Her hands gripped the reins tight, knuckles pale, her breath quick and sharp—hope and dread twisting together after weeks of riding, fleeing Bhishma's grasp, chasing the man she'd chosen before the world broke apart.
The gates loomed ahead, iron and wood banded together, flanked by guards in faded blue tunics, their spears glinting dully as they squinted at her approach. She slowed the horse, its hooves kicking up little clouds of dust, and slid down, her boots hitting the ground hard. "I'm here for Salva," she said, her voice raw, scraping her throat as she straightened, brushing dirt from her sari. The guards exchanged a look, one nodding slow, and the gates creaked open, letting her through into a courtyard baked golden by the sun.
Inside, the palace sprawled low and quiet, its stone walls patched with moss, its arches casting long shadows over a tiled floor worn smooth by years of feet. Courtiers lingered in clusters, their robes—greens and golds—rustling as they turned, eyes widening at the sight of her. Amba strode past, her sari trailing, her steps loud in the hush, her heart thudding fast. She'd pictured this moment a hundred times—Salva's smile, his arms open, the wedding drums that never played. The throne room doors stood ajar, and she pushed through, dust swirling around her like a faint storm.
Salva sat on a broad throne, its wood dark and chipped, his blue robe pooling around him, a silver clasp glinting at his shoulder. His beard was thicker now, streaked with gray, his eyes sharp but shadowed as he looked up. The hall fell silent, a dozen nobles freezing mid-whisper, their hands clutching cups, their gazes darting between her and their king. Amba stopped a few paces off, her breath catching, her voice trembling but loud. "Salva," she said, stepping closer, her sari brushing the tiles. "Take me—I'm still yours."
He leaned back, slow and stiff, his hands tightening on the throne's arms, his face hardening like stone. "Yours?" he said, his voice low, cold enough to chill the air. He stood, his robe shifting, his boots scuffing the floor as he stepped down, stopping just out of reach. "You come here, dusty and bold, after he took you?" His eyes flicked over her, hard and unyielding, a flicker of something—shame, maybe—crossing them before it vanished.
Amba's chest tightened, her hands clenching at her sides, her voice rising, raw with hope she couldn't let go. "He took me, yes," she said, her eyes locked on his, pleading. "But I fought, Salva—I ran. I chose you, always you. That hasn't changed." She took a step, her sari rustling, her breath hitching as she reached out, fingers trembling. "We can still have it—us, the life we planned."
The courtiers shifted, a murmur rippling through them, soft and uneasy, cups clinking as they set them down. Salva's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists, his voice dropping lower, sharp as a blade. "Planned?" he said, his eyes narrowing, his stance rigid. "You're his trophy, Amba—not my bride. Bhishma rode off with you, broke my hall, my pride. What's left to claim?" He turned away, slow, his robe sweeping the floor, his back a wall she couldn't breach.
Her hand fell, limp at her side, her breath shuddering out, tears pricking hot behind her eyes. "His trophy?" she said, her voice cracking, loud in the stillness. "I'm no prize, Salva—I'm me! I tore free, rode days to find you!" She stepped after him, her boots loud, her sari dragging, desperation spilling out. "You loved me—don't let him take that too!"
He spun back, quick and sharp, his face flushed, his voice rising, harsh and final. "Loved you?" he said, his eyes blazing, his hand slashing the air. "I loved a princess, not his leavings! You think I'd take you now, shamed like this? Every eye here sees it—Bhishma's mark on you!" He pointed at the courtiers, their faces pale, some looking away, others staring, pity stinging worse than scorn.
Amba froze, her breath catching, her hands trembling as tears spilled, hot and fast, down her cheeks. "Shamed?" she said, her voice breaking, soft now, barely a whisper. "I fought him, Salva—fought for us. And you'd throw me out?" She wiped her face, quick and rough, her sari sleeve smearing dust and wet, her chest heaving as she stared at him, waiting, hoping for something—anything—to shift.
Salva's mouth twisted, his eyes cold, his voice flat, cutting deep. "You're not mine," he said, stepping back, his boots echoing in the hush. "Go back to him—or anywhere. I won't have you." He turned again, climbing the throne's steps, sitting heavy, his gaze fixed past her, through her, like she'd already gone. The courtiers rustled, whispers rising, a noble in green muttering "Poor thing," too soft for Salva to hear, too loud for Amba to miss.
She stood there, rooted, her sari quivering as her hands shook, tears drying sticky on her skin, fury rising hot where hope had burned. "Won't have me?" she said, her voice low, trembling with something new, something hard. "You think I'm broken, Salva? You're the one who's weak!" She spun, her sari flaring, her boots slamming the tiles as she strode out, the doors banging wide, dust swirling in her wake.
Outside, the courtyard baked under the sinking sun, guards stepping back as she climbed her horse, her hands steady now, gripping the reins tight. "Weak," she muttered, her voice a growl, tears gone, her eyes sharp and dry, fixed on the road ahead. The mare snorted, hooves pawing the dirt, and Amba spurred it on, dust kicking up behind her, a red streak against the gold. She didn't look back, didn't hear the murmurs fade, didn't feel the courtiers' pity—she felt the fire, deep and growing, a rejection that burned hotter than shame.
The road stretched long and empty, the palace shrinking small behind her, its spires blurring into dusk as the mare trudged on, slow and steady, toward Hastinapura. Amba sat straight, her sari flapping, her jaw set, her hands tight on the reins, fury drying her tears to salt. "His trophy," she said, soft and bitter, the words a hiss on the wind. "I'll show them—Salva, Bhishma—all of them." The horse plodded, hooves thudding dull, the horizon darkening, her heart turning hard, a stone where love had cracked.
Night fell, cool and quiet, the stars sharp overhead, the road winding through fields that rustled soft in the breeze. Amba rode on, her sari dusty and torn, her breath steady now, her eyes glinting with something fierce, something alive. She'd lost Salva, lost the life she'd dreamed, but she hadn't lost herself—not yet. "Bhishma," she whispered, her voice low, a promise to the dark, rejection burning deep, a spark she'd fan to flame. Hastinapura waited, its walls a shadow ahead, and Amba rode toward it, a love lost, her heart turning to stone.