The forest stretched thick and wild beyond Hastinapura's gates, its trees tall and gnarled, their branches clawing at a sky gone gray with dawn. The air hung damp and cool, thick with the scent of moss and rotting leaves, a faint rustle threading through as wind brushed the canopy overhead. Amba rode slow along a narrow path, her red sari torn at the edges, streaked with mud, her horse's hooves sinking into the soft earth, its breath puffing white in the chill. Her hands gripped the reins tight, knuckles pale, her hair loose and tangled, whipping across her face as she leaned forward, eyes sharp and burning, fury a fire that hadn't dimmed since Bhishma's refusal.
She'd left the yard behind, his words—I've left you free—a bitter echo in her ears, his calm a wall she'd sworn to crack. The mare snorted, tossing its mane, and Amba spurred it on, her boots muddy, her sari flapping, the path winding deeper into the green. She didn't know where she was going, not yet—just away, out, to anyone who'd listen, anyone who'd give her the steel to bury Bhishma. Her breath came quick, her jaw set, vengeance her guide, a vow she'd whispered to the dusk now hardening in the morning light.
The trees thinned after an hour, opening to a clearing where a village huddled, its huts squat and thatched, smoke curling faint from clay chimneys. Chickens scratched in the dirt, their clucks sharp as Amba slid from the saddle, her boots hitting the ground hard, dust puffing around her. Villagers paused, hoes in hand, their tunics patched and faded, staring as she strode forward, her sari a splash of red against the brown. "I need a warrior," she said, her voice fierce, loud in the quiet, her eyes darting from face to face. "Someone to slay Bhishma—who'll stand with me?"
A man stepped up, broad and grizzled, his beard streaked gray, his axe resting on his shoulder, glinting dull in the light. "Bhishma?" he said, his voice gruff, his brow creasing as he squinted at her. "The one who smashed Kashi? You're mad, woman—he's a storm, not a man." He shifted his axe, his hands rough and scarred, his eyes flicking over her torn sari, her wild hair, doubt hardening his face as he shook his head slow.
Amba's hands clenched, her voice rising, sharp and desperate, cutting through the clucks and murmurs. "Mad?" she said, stepping closer, her boots scuffing the dirt, her breath hot. "He stole my life—took me from my love, left me shamed! I'll find someone, with or without you!" She glared at him, her eyes blazing, her chest heaving, waiting for a spark, a nod, anything to shift him. The villagers rustled, a woman in blue whispering "Poor thing," soft and pitying, her hands twisting a rag, but no one moved, no one spoke up.
The man snorted, turning away, his axe swinging down, his voice low, final, a door slamming shut. "Find your fool elsewhere," he said, his back broad and unyielding, his boots kicking dust as he walked off. "Bhishma's not for village blades—he'd cut us down before we swung." The others nodded, slow and silent, hoes scraping earth again, eyes dropping, leaving Amba alone, her sari quivering, her breath shuddering out, fury twisting tighter in her gut.
She climbed back on the mare, her hands shaking, her voice a mutter to the wind, low and bitter. "Cowards," she said, spurring the horse hard, hooves thudding as she rode out, the huts shrinking behind her, the forest swallowing her again. The path twisted, roots snagging at the mare's legs, branches clawing her sari, tearing it more, but she didn't stop, didn't slow, her eyes fixed ahead, searching, a fire burning deeper with every refusal, every turned back.
Hours bled into days, the forest giving way to hills, their slopes rocky and steep, the air sharper, biting at her skin. She stopped at a trader's camp, its tents flapping in the wind, fires crackling low under a sky heavy with dusk. Men in leather sat around, their swords glinting, their laughter rough as she approached, her sari dragging, her boots crunching gravel. "I need a blade," she said, her voice fierce, steady now, her hands unclenched, reaching out. "Someone to kill Bhishma—he's wronged me, and I'll pay."
A trader stood, tall and lean, his beard braided, his sword scarred and heavy at his hip, his eyes narrowing as he looked her over. "Bhishma of Hastinapura?" he said, his voice smooth, edged with a laugh, his hand resting on the hilt. "He's a legend, girl—felled armies, broke kings. You've got no coin to match that fight." He grinned, crooked and cold, his mates chuckling low, cups clinking as they watched, amusement glinting in the firelight.
Amba's jaw tightened, her hands balling into fists, her voice rising, raw and fierce, a whip in the dusk. "Coin?" she said, stepping closer, her eyes blazing, her sari quivering. "I've got hate—enough to drown him! He stole me, shamed me—left me nothing! Who'll take that and cut him down?" She stared at him, her breath hitching, her chest heaving, daring him to move, to laugh again, to give her something besides scorn.
He shook his head, slow, his grin fading, his voice flat, cutting deep as he sat back down. "Hate's not steel," he said, his eyes flicking to his sword, then away. "Bhishma's a wall—none here can climb it. Try your luck elsewhere, princess." The others nodded, their chuckles dying, their faces turning hard, dismissive, fires crackling as they looked past her, through her, leaving her standing, her sari dusty, her fury boiling hotter, unanswered still.
She turned, swift and sharp, her boots crunching gravel, her voice a hiss to the wind, low and fierce. "Walls fall," she said, climbing the mare, her hands gripping the reins tight, spurring it on, the camp fading behind her, tents blurring into the dusk. The hills loomed, their shadows long, the path winding higher, her sari tearing on thorns, her breath steadying into resolve, a vow she'd carry to the ends of the earth, Bhishma's name a weight she'd shed with blood.
Days stretched into a week, the hills flattening to plains, then rising again into mountains, their peaks jagged against a sky gone purple with twilight. She stopped by a river, its waters rushing cold and clear, a hermit's cave carved into the bank, its mouth dark and still. Amba slid from the mare, her sari ragged now, her boots sinking into the mud, her voice hoarse but fierce as she knelt at the entrance, hands pressed to the earth. "Holy one," she said, loud and raw, her eyes fixed on the shadows. "I seek a killer—someone to slay Bhishma. Tell me who!"
A sage emerged, old and thin, his robes white and frayed, his beard long and tangled, his eyes sharp as he squinted at her, leaning on a stick. "Bhishma?" he said, his voice creaky, soft but clear, his brow creasing as he stepped closer. "The son of Ganga? He's no mortal prey, girl—his bow's a storm, his will iron. Why chase that death?" He tilted his head, his stick tapping the mud, his gaze flicking over her torn sari, her wild eyes, curiosity glinting faint.
Amba's hands clenched, her voice breaking, fierce and desperate, spilling out fast. "Death?" she said, rising swift, her sari quivering, her breath hot. "He's my death—stole me from Salva, shamed me, left me cast off! Villages, traders—no one dares face him. I will—I need a blade to do it!" She stepped closer, her eyes blazing, her chest heaving, pleading, daring him to turn her away, to join the rest who'd failed her.
The sage watched her, slow and silent, his stick still, his eyes narrowing, then softening, a flicker of awe crossing his face. "A blade," he said, his voice low, steady now, his hand lifting slow. "There's one—Parshurama, axe-wielder, king-slayer. He trained Bhishma, long ago—his guru, his match. If any can fell him, it's him." He pointed east, his finger trembling, his tone hushed, reverent, the name a spark in the twilight.
Amba's breath caught, her hands unclenching, her voice dropping, fierce with hope, a vow reborn. "Parshurama," she said, soft and sharp, her eyes flicking east, then back to him, glinting bright. "Where?" She stepped closer, her boots squelching mud, her sari dragging, her heart thudding fast, a name to chase, a chance at last. The sage nodded, slow, his stick tapping, his voice a whisper to the wind. "By the eastern stream—follow the water."
She turned, swift and sure, her sari flaring, her boots sinking as she climbed the mare, her hands gripping the reins tight, spurring it east. "Parshurama," she muttered, her voice low, a fire to the dusk, her eyes sharp and burning, fixed on the path ahead. The river rushed beside her, its waters glinting silver, the mountains looming dark, her sari tearing on rocks, her resolve hardening with every mile, Bhishma's end a shadow she'd summon.
The stream glittered ahead, narrow and swift, its banks green with reeds, its waters gurgling soft under a sky deepening to night. Amba slowed the mare, her breath steady, her sari quivering as she slid down, her boots hitting the grass, her eyes darting quick. A figure stood by the water, tall and broad, his robes dark, his axe gleaming in the starlight, its blade sharp and wicked, resting against a rock. She stepped forward, her heart thudding, her voice fierce, a whisper to the wind. "Parshurama," she said, soft and sure, her eyes burning, vengeance taking root as she stopped, facing him, the stream's hum a quiet song behind her.