The Ganga flowed slow and silver under a sky fading to dusk, its waters lapping soft against the muddy banks.
Reeds swayed in a gentle breeze, their whispers mingling with the distant croak of frogs, the air cool and thick with the scent of wet earth.
Amba stood by the shore, her sari torn and streaked with ash, her hair loose, wild strands catching the wind like threads of shadow.
Her hands trembled, not with fear, but with a fire that burned deep—her eyes glinted, fierce and unyielding, fixed on the river's gleam.
She'd left Kurukshetra behind, Shiva's words ringing—"A foe reborn"—a vow etched in her soul, her path clear at last.
The plain's scars faded in her wake, but Bhishma's face lingered—his blood-streaked calm, his unbowed steel, her curse's target.
She knelt, her boots sinking into the mud, her voice low—"Shiva gave me this… I'll take it."
Her hands moved swift, gathering driftwood—twisted branches, dry and gray, piled high by the water's edge.
The pyre grew, a jagged mound against the Ganga's flow, its shadow stretching long as the sun dipped below the hills.
She dragged a log, its bark rough, her fingers bleeding faintly—each piece a step, each breath a promise, her resolve hardening.
The wind stirred, soft and cool, brushing her sari—red fabric fluttered, a flame yet unlit, her heart pounding fierce.
She paused, staring at the pile, her voice rising—"Bhishma… you'll see me again."
Her hands struck flint, sparks flaring—tiny stars danced, catching the wood, smoke curling thin and gray into the dusk.
The fire snapped, a crackle breaking the silence—flames licked the branches, slow at first, then hungry, climbing high.
Amba stepped back, her boots firm, the heat kissing her skin—her eyes blazed, reflecting the pyre, a mirror of her wrath.
She raised her arms, her voice fierce—"Shiva, hear me!"
The flames roared, leaping taller, their glow painting the Ganga gold, smoke rising thick, a shroud against the darkening sky.
"I burn for this!" she shouted, her words sharp, cutting the air—"His end is mine—I'll return, a blade for his heart!"
The fire surged, a pillar of light and heat—sparks spiraled, the pyre crackling loud, its roar echoing over the river.
She stepped closer, the flames licking her sari—fabric singed, her skin stinging, but her gaze never faltered, fierce and sure.
"Grant me strength," she prayed, voice steady—"Through ash, through death, I'll rise—Bhishma's blood will stain my hands!"
The wind howled, sudden and wild—flames bent, smoke swirling, the Ganga's surface rippling as if the river listened.
Her sari caught, fire climbing fast—red turned black, embers dancing, her hair igniting, a crown of flame for her vow.
She laughed, jagged and fierce—"You'll feel this, Bhishma!"
The pyre blazed, a storm of fire—wood snapped, sparks rained, the heat warping the air, a furnace born of her rage.
She stepped in, flames swallowing her boots—pain seared, but her voice rose, loud and raw—"Shiva, I'm yours!"
The fire roared higher, a tower of light piercing the dusk—smoke billowed, thick and black, curling toward the heavens.
Her figure blurred, flames wrapping tight—her sari burned away, her skin charring, but her eyes stayed fierce, unbowed.
"I'll return!" she cried, voice echoing—"His end, my hands, my vengeance—sworn!"
The pyre collapsed, logs crashing—flames surged, a final blast of heat and light, ash raining soft over the Ganga.
The river hushed, its waters still—smoke drifted, a dark veil, the fire dying to embers, her form gone, consumed.
A spark lingered, faint and gold—hovering above the ash, pulsing once, then fading, a vow sealed in divine silence.
Bhishma stood on the far bank, his tunic patched, blood long dried—his gray eyes watched, steady, the smoke rising thick before him.
The wind brushed soft, tugging his hair—he'd felt it, a pull in his chest, her curse taking root, heavy and sure.
"She's coming," he said, voice low, rough with a weight he couldn't shake—"I'll face it."
He turned his sword, its blade catching the last light—her fire glowed across the river, a shadow he'd meet again.
The Ganga flowed on, silver and calm—reeds whispered, the air cooling, her pyre's embers fading into dusk's embrace.
He stood still, his boots firm in the mud—her voice lingered, fierce and sharp, a vow he couldn't unhear.
"She burned for this," he muttered, eyes narrowing—"And I'll wait."
The smoke curled high, a dark thread against the stars—his fate tightened, her curse a chain forged in flame and will.
In Hastinapura, the court buzzed, its marble halls glowing faint under torchlight, nobles clustered near the throne.
Whispers raced, swift and sharp—"Amba's pyre," a lord in blue said, his cup trembling, wine sloshing over the rim.
"She burned by the Ganga," a woman in green gasped, her shawl slipping—"Cursed him, they say—swore his end!"
The air thickened, voices tumbling—servants paused, baskets forgotten, their eyes darting to the high windows.
Satyavati sat above, her gray sari still, her hands gripping the throne's arms—her eyes darkened, sharp and tense.
"She's gone," she said, voice low, a whisper to the stone—"But not gone."
The whispers grew, a tide of fear—"Shiva's boon," a noble muttered, his robe rustling—"She'll return, a storm for Bhishma!"
Satyavati's jaw tightened, her gaze distant—the smoke's echo reached her, a shadow cast over the dynasty's thread.
"She burned herself," she murmured, hands clenching—"And we'll feel it."
The court hushed, torches flickering—the air grew heavy, her unease a weight, Amba's vow a specter in the hall.
Outside, the Ganga gleamed, its waters catching starlight—reeds swayed, the pyre's ash settling soft, a quiet end to her fire.
But the silence trembled, a promise unspoken—her curse took root, fierce and alive, tightening Bhishma's fate.
In the divine realm, the gods watched, their golden hall still—Indra's bolt dimmed, Agni's flames steadied, awe in their eyes.
"She's vowed it," Varuna said, voice soft—"Through death, she rises."
Shiva's trident gleamed faint in the mist, its hum low—his gaze lingered below, a nod to the spark now gone.
The Ganga flowed on, silver and deep—Amba's pyre faded, but her will burned bright, a foe reborn in flame and ash.