The dawn broke cool and sharp over Hastinapura, its gray stone walls glinting faintly under a sky streaked with pink and gold. The air carried a bite, crisp with the scent of dew and distant smoke, drifting from the city's hearths as the waking bustle stirred—cartwheels creaking, voices calling soft across the yards. Guards stood sleepy at the western gate, their spears leaning loose, their tunics rumpled from the night, when a shadow loomed sudden and broad on the road, dust kicking up in its wake. Parshurama strode forward, his robes dark and patched, his axe gleaming wicked in the early light, his boots thudding hard, a storm rolling in against the quiet.
He stopped short of the gates, his hair wild and streaked with gray, his eyes blazing under heavy brows, his voice a thunderclap that jolted the guards straight, spears clattering as they gripped them tight. "Bhishma!" he roared, lifting his axe high, its blade flashing red in the dawn, dust swirling around his feet. "Face me at Kurukshetra—three days from now! For her, for Amba, you'll answer—or I'll cut you down!" His words echoed off the walls, loud and fierce, a challenge that froze the air, the guards staring wide-eyed, their breaths puffing white as they stumbled back, one tripping over his spear.
The city stirred fast, gates creaking wide, servants spilling out, their baskets dropping, apples rolling across the gravel as they gaped. "Parshurama," a guard muttered, soft and quick, his voice trembling, his eyes darting to the axe, then up the wall where more heads popped over, nobles in robes peering down, their murmurs rising sharp. Amba stepped from the shadows behind him, her red sari torn and dusty, her hair loose, her eyes burning with a fire that matched his, her boots scuffing the dirt as she stood silent, watching, her vengeance a vow carved in her stance.
Bhishma emerged from the inner yard, his dark tunic patched and loose, his cloak folded over one arm, his bow slung across his back, its scarred wood catching the light. The wind stirred soft, tugging his hair as he strode forward, his boots steady on the gravel, his eyes gray and calm, meeting Parshurama's glare without a flinch. "Guru," he said, his voice low, rough from the morning, steady as the stone behind him. "You call me out—for her?" He glanced at Amba, her sari quivering, then back, his stance solid, waiting, unshaken by the storm at his gates.
Parshurama's jaw tightened, his hands gripping the axe tighter, his voice rising, deep and fierce, cutting through the dawn. "For her," he said, stepping closer, his boots crunching gravel, his eyes blazing. "You stole her life, Bhishma—shamed her, broke her! Three days, Kurukshetra—I'll see you wed her or bleed for it!" He swung the axe down, its blade biting the earth, dust exploding around it, a crack splitting the ground, the guards gasping loud, their spears trembling as they backed further, the city buzzing behind them.
Bhishma's mouth twitched, just a flicker, his hands clasping behind him, his voice low, calm, a rock against the thunder. "Kurukshetra, then," he said, his eyes steady, gray and deep, holding Parshurama's firm. "You taught me well—I'm ready. Three days." The wind picked up, brushing his cloak, a soft hum in the silence, his words heavy, unyielding, a vow of his own as he nodded once, slow and sure, the challenge accepted, the air thick with its weight.
Amba's breath caught, her hands unclenching, her voice soft, fierce with hope, a whisper to the wind. "Three days," she said, stepping forward, her sari flaring, her eyes darting between them, glinting bright. "You'll end him—or fix me, Parshurama?" She held his gaze, her chest heaving, her boots firm in the dust, a spark flaring as she waited, daring him to falter, to turn from her pain. He nodded, sharp and quick, his axe glinting as he pulled it free, his voice a growl. "I'll do it—wed or dead, he's mine."
The gates buzzed louder, nobles spilling out now, their robes flapping—blues, greens, grays—as they crowded the walls, their voices tumbling over each other, shrill and fast. "Parshurama against Bhishma?" a lord in blue cried, his hands waving, his cup forgotten, wine splashing the stone. "She's brought a storm!" A woman in green clutched her shawl, her voice trembling, soft but clear. "He'll kill him—or us all!" They turned to Bhishma, eyes wide, but he stood still, his back to them, his gaze on Parshurama, calm, unshaken, the city's fear a tide he ignored.
Satyavati watched from a high window, her gray sari catching the dawn, her hands gripping the sill, her eyes sharp and tense, the challenge ringing in her ears. "Kurukshetra," she muttered, her voice low, a whisper to the glass, her breath fogging faint. "Three days—her rage, his axe, our thread." She glanced at Bhishma, steady below, then to Amba, her sari a red flame in the dust, her fingers tightening, her jaw set, the dynasty trembling as Parshurama's roar echoed, a shadow she couldn't shake.
The city churned through the day, carts stilled, markets hushed, whispers racing through the streets—Parshurama's challenge a fire that wouldn't die. Servants gathered in clumps, their baskets forgotten, their voices low, stealing glances at the gates where he'd stood, his axe's scar still cracked in the earth. "Three days," a boy in brown said, soft and quick, his eyes wide as he clutched a broom. "Bhishma's never lost—but him?" A woman nodded, her hands twisting a rag, her voice trembling. "That axe—it's death walking."
Bhishma walked back through the yard, his boots scuffing gravel, his bow slung tight, his cloak fluttering as the wind brushed soft. "Kurukshetra," he muttered, soft to the air, his eyes flicking to the stables, then east, a flicker of something—memory, maybe—crossing his face, gone quick. He stopped by the mare, brushing its flank, his hands steady, the city's buzz a hum he ignored, his resolve a shield, Parshurama's call a weight he'd meet head-on, guru or not.
Three days crept slow, the sky bruising purple each dusk, Hastinapura's walls looming dark as the hour neared. Amba rode out with Parshurama at dawn on the third, her sari flapping, her horse's hooves thudding dull on the road to Kurukshetra, dust kicking up behind them. The plain stretched wide and empty ahead, its grass dry and yellow, its earth cracked under a sun climbing high, the air thick with heat and silence, no birds, no wind, just the weight of what was coming. She slid from the saddle, her boots hitting the ground hard, her eyes sharp, fixed on the horizon, waiting, her vengeance a fire burning steady.
Parshurama strode beside her, his axe slung over his shoulder, its blade glinting wicked in the sun, his robes dark and patched, his boots crunching the dry grass, his voice low, rough with resolve. "Here," he said, stopping at the plain's heart, his eyes darting east, then back to her, glinting fierce. "He'll come—Bhishma's no coward. Wed or dead, Amba—this ends today." He gripped the axe tight, his stance solid, the sun beating down, dust swirling faint around his feet, a storm brewing in his calm.
Bhishma appeared at noon, a lone figure on the horizon, his chariot rolling slow, its wheels creaking, dust trailing behind as the horses snorted, their manes tossing in the still air. His dark tunic gleamed with sweat, his bow drawn tight, its string humming faint, his cloak gone, his eyes gray and steady, locking on Parshurama across the plain. He stepped down, his boots hitting the earth, his voice low, rough with a weight that carried far. "Guru," he said, raising his bow, wind stirring sudden and sharp, brushing his hair. "You called—I'm here."
Amba stood back, her sari quivering, her hands clenched, her breath hitching as she watched, her eyes darting between them, glinting bright with hope, with hate, with fear. "End him," she whispered, soft and fierce, her voice lost to the wind, her boots firm in the dust, the plain stretching empty around them, no crowd, no court, just her, the only witness to the storm about to break. She held her ground, her chest heaving, her sari a red flame in the sun, vengeance her anchor as the air thickened, heavy with their clash.
Parshurama lifted his axe, its blade flashing red, his voice a roar that split the silence, loud and fierce, shaking the earth. "Bhishma!" he shouted, stepping forward, dust exploding around his boots, his eyes blazing. "For her—you'll wed or bleed! Draw your bow—now!" He swung the axe high, its edge whistling, a thunderclap in the still, the sun glinting off its steel, his wrath a fire lighting the plain, daring Bhishma to stand, to fight, to fall.
Bhishma's bow rose swift, his hands steady, his voice low, calm, cutting through the roar, a vow of his own. "You taught me well," he said, his eyes locked on Parshurama's, gray and sure, wind howling sudden and wild around him. "I'm ready—let's see it through." He loosed an arrow, its tip blazing gold, streaking fast, a whistle piercing the air, dust swirling in its wake as it flew, straight and true, a spark igniting the plain.
Parshurama swung his axe, quick and fierce, its blade meeting the arrow mid-flight, a clash of steel and fire, sparks exploding red, the arrow shattering, its shards raining down, the earth trembling faint under the blow. "Come on!" he roared, his voice a thunderclap, his boots firm, dust swirling thick, the first strike a storm breaking loose, Amba's breath catching as she watched, her eyes wide, the plain shuddering, titans colliding at last.