Amba froze, her sari quivering in the gentle breeze, her hands unclenching slow, Bhishma's calm slicing through her like a blade. The yard stretched wide around them, its gray stone walls dim in the dusk, the air thick with hay and dust, servants pausing mid-step, their baskets trembling as they stared. Her breath hitched, her eyes blazing red and fierce, tears drying to salt on her cheeks, fury rising hot where hope had shattered. "Free?" she said, her voice low, trembling, a growl breaking free as she stepped toward him, her boots kicking dust, her sari flaring wild.
Bhishma stood steady, his dark tunic patched and loose, his cloak folded over the rail, his bow resting against the stable post, its scarred wood glinting faint in the fading light. The wind stirred soft, tugging his hair, his hands clasped behind him, his gaze gray and unyielding, watching her storm build. "You heard me," he said, his voice low, rough but even, cutting through the hush. "I've no chains on you, Amba—your path's your own."
Her laugh cracked the air, short and bitter, her hands slamming together, dust puffing around her as her voice rose, sharp and loud, a lash across the yard. "My path?" she shouted, stepping closer, her breath hot, her eyes burning into his. "You stole my path, Bhishma—ripped me from Salva, left me shamed! And now you stand there, all calm and oaths, while I'm nothing?" She pointed at him, her hand trembling, her sari quivering, her rage spilling out, wild and raw.
A servant gasped, dropping a basket, apples rolling across the dirt, his sandals scuffing as he backed away, eyes wide. "She's mad," another muttered, soft and quick, clutching a broom, her voice shaking as she glanced at Bhishma, then Amba, fear spiking in the growing crowd. Amba spun, her sari swirling, her voice snapping back, fierce and cutting. "Mad?" she said, her glare sweeping them, making them flinch. "You'd be mad too—cast off, ruined! But I'm not finished—not yet!"
She turned back to Bhishma, her boots loud on the packed earth, her hands unclenching, her voice dropping, cold and sharp, a vow taking shape. "Your blood's mine, Bhishma," she said, stepping close, her breath brushing his tunic, her eyes locked on his, blazing with hate. "You think your oath saves you? It won't—I'll see you bleed, see you fall, see this house weep for it!" Her words rang out, echoing off the stable walls, the servants recoiling, some clutching each other, whispers tumbling fast.
Bhishma's mouth twitched, just a flicker, his hands steady, his voice low, calm, slicing through her storm. "Do what you will," he said, his gaze unflinching, gray and deep, holding hers firm. "I took you for a king, not a cage. I've faced worse—I'll face you." The wind picked up, brushing straw across the yard, a soft rustle over his words, his calm masking a resolve she couldn't shake, a wall she'd sworn to break.
Amba's chest heaved, her hands trembling, her voice rising again, loud and fierce, a curse for all to hear. "Worse?" she said, her eyes blazing, her sari quivering as she stepped back, dust swirling around her boots. "You'll see worse, Bhishma—I'll make it so! Your name, your blood, your pride—gone!" She laughed again, jagged and wild, her hands slashing the air, her rage a fire lighting the dusk, the servants shrinking further, their fear a tide rippling through the yard.
He didn't move, his boots firm, his cloak fluttering soft, his voice steady, rough with a weight that held. "Find it then," he said, his eyes locked on hers, calm and sure, unbowed by her storm. "My path's set—you choose yours." The mare snorted again, tossing its mane, the wind easing once more, brushing her sari, a quiet hum as the yard hushed, her curse hanging heavy, a vow carved in the air.
Amba spun, her boots grinding the dirt, her sari a red flame as she strode to her horse, tied near the stable's edge, its coat gleaming faintly in the dusk. "Gone," she muttered, her voice low, a hiss to the wind, her hands gripping the reins tight, her eyes sharp and dry, fixed on the gate ahead. She climbed up, swift and fierce, her sari flaring red, her breath steadying into something hard, something alive. "You'll pay," she said, soft and bitter, the words a promise to the night, her rage a spark she'd fan to flame.
The servants watched, frozen, their whispers swallowed by the wind, a stableboy clutching a pitchfork, his eyes wide as Amba spurred the mare hard, hooves pounding the gravel, dust kicking up behind her. She galloped through the gate, a red streak against the darkening sky, the walls of Hastinapura shrinking behind her, her curse ringing in the air—Your blood's mine!—a vow that echoed over the fields, vengeance her path now, a fire burning bright in her chest.
Bhishma stood still, his hands clasped, his cloak shifting as the wind brushed soft, his eyes flicking to the gate, then down, a flicker of something—weight, maybe—crossing his face, gone quick. "Do what you will," he muttered, soft, to the straw, his breath steady, the servants' fear a buzz he ignored, his resolve a shield, her threat a shadow he'd meet when it came. He turned, slow, picking up the brush, his boots scuffing the dirt, the mare nickering as he resumed, steady and calm, her curse a weight he carried quiet.
High above, Satyavati leaned from a window, her gray sari catching the last light, her hands gripping the sill, her eyes sharp and tense, watching Amba's horse vanish into the dusk. "Trouble," she said, her voice low, a whisper to the glass, her breath fogging faint. She glanced at Bhishma, brushing the mare, his back straight, then back to the gate, her fingers tightening, her jaw set, the dynasty's thread trembling as Amba's rage cut through the night.