The throne room of Hastinapura gleamed under torchlight, its marble floor polished to a mirror's sheen, reflecting flames that danced wild in their sconces.
Columns loomed, their shadows stretching long, the air thick with the scent of incense and sweat, a hum of unease beneath it all.
Nobles crowded the hall, their robes—blues, greens, golds—rustling as they pressed close, voices rising shrill and sharp like a flock of startled birds.
"She's cursed us!" a lord in blue cried, his cup slamming the table, wine splashing red across the stone.
The words echoed, bouncing off the walls, heads turning fast—eyes wide, hands trembling, the court a storm of fear.
"Amba's pyre!" a woman in green gasped, her shawl slipping, her voice high—"She burned—swore Bhishma's end!"
Servants froze, trays clattering, their sandals scuffing as they backed to the edges, whispers darting among them like sparks.
"She's coming back," a noble in gray muttered, his beard quivering, his staff tapping nervously—"Shiva's boon!"
The hall buzzed, a tide of panic swelling—nobles shoved closer, their cries overlapping, a clamor shaking the air.
"Parshurama couldn't win!" a young lord shouted, his robe flapping, his face pale—"Twenty-three days, and he fell!"
The torches flickered, shadows jumping—outside, the wind howled soft, brushing the high windows, a murmur of the world beyond.
"She's a storm now," an old woman hissed, her rings glinting, her voice low—"Her curse—his blood—it's on us all!"
The crowd surged, voices shrill—"What if she returns? What then?"—their fear wild, a beast clawing at the hall's calm.
Satyavati sat atop the throne, her gray sari still, her hands gripping the arms—her eyes darkened, sharp as a blade's edge.
She watched, silent, the nobles' dread washing over her—her jaw tightened, her breath steady, a rock in their flood.
"Enough!" she snapped, her voice cutting through, loud and fierce—silence fell, heads snapping toward her, eyes wide.
The hall stilled, torches crackling—the wind outside eased, a hush settling, her gaze sweeping the crowd like a storm's eye.
"Panic won't save us," she said, voice sharp, rising slow—"Amba's gone, yes—but her shadow grows."
The nobles rustled, whispers creeping back—"She burned," a lord muttered, soft and quick—"Cursed him… us…"
Satyavati stood, her sari swaying—her boots clicked on the dais, each step a hammer, her presence filling the room.
"She's vowed his end," she said, eyes narrowing—"And Parshurama's defeat proves it—Bhishma stands, but at what cost?"
The court shifted, uneasy—eyes darted to the hall's edge, where Bhishma leaned, his dark tunic patched, his sword sheathed.
He stood quiet, arms crossed, his gray eyes steady—the wind stirred soft through a window, tugging his hair, calm amidst chaos.
"Her pyre smoked by the Ganga," a noble in gold stammered, his voice trembling—"They saw it—flames to the sky!"
"She swore it," another cried, shrill—"His blood, her hands—Shiva's will!"
The hall erupted again, voices tumbling—"She'll return! A warrior! His doom!"—their fear a wave crashing against the throne.
Satyavati's hand slashed the air, sharp and swift—"Silence!"
The nobles froze, breaths held—her eyes blazed, her voice low, fierce—"We're not ash yet—stop wailing like fools!"
She stepped down, her boots echoing—the crowd parted, robes rustling, their panic simmering under her glare.
"Bhishma," she said, voice cutting, her gaze locking on him—he straightened, his boots scuffing, meeting her eyes.
The hall watched, tense and still—torches flickered, shadows dancing, the wind whispering soft through the windows.
She strode to him, swift and sure—her hand gripped his arm, pulling him aside, her voice dropping, sharp and urgent.
"Her shadow grows," she said, eyes piercing—"Amba's curse—it's not just you, it's us, this house, all we've built."
Bhishma's jaw tightened, his voice low—"I felt it… by the Ganga, her fire."
Satyavati's grip tightened, her nails digging—"Parshurama fought twenty-three days—Shiva stopped him—her will won't fade."
The wind brushed through, cool and faint—his cloak fluttered, his eyes steady, a flicker of weight crossing his face.
"She's coming," Satyavati pressed, voice fierce—"A warrior reborn—her hate's alive, Bhishma—secure us now."
The nobles murmured, soft and quick—"She's right," a lord whispered—"What if she strikes? What then?"
Bhishma's hand rested on his sword, his voice calm—"Her curse is mine—I'll meet what comes."
Satyavati's eyes narrowed, her voice sharp—"Yours? It's ours—her fire touches this throne, this blood!"
The hall rustled, fear bubbling—torches snapped, a servant dropped a tray, cups clattering loud in the hush.
"She burned for this," Satyavati said, stepping closer—"Swore your end—Shiva's boon fuels her—we can't sit blind."
Bhishma nodded, slow and sure—wind stirred stronger, brushing his hair, his resolve a wall against her urgency.
"I'll face it," he said, voice steady—"Her pyre, her vow—I felt it root—I won't run."
Satyavati's breath hitched, her voice low—"Face it? You'll secure it—our line depends on you."
The nobles watched, eyes darting—whispers crept, "He's calm," a woman muttered—"Too calm," another hissed.
Bhishma's gaze held hers, gray and deep—"What comes, I'll meet—her shadow doesn't shake me."
Satyavati stepped back, her sari quivering—her hands clenched, her voice fierce—"Then be ready—her hate's a storm."
The wind howled soft, a distant echo—the hall trembled, torches flickering, her words hanging heavy, a warning unheeded.
The nobles surged, voices rising—"What do we do?" a lord cried—"She'll return—his blood, our ruin!"
"She cursed him!" another shouted, shrill—"Parshurama fell—Shiva's hand—her will's divine!"
The hall spiraled, panic clawing—"We're doomed!" a woman wailed, her rings glinting—"Her pyre's ash falls on us!"
Satyavati turned, her voice sharp—"Quiet!"
The nobles stilled, breaths ragged—her gaze swept them, fierce and cold, her hands steady despite the storm within.
"Fear won't stop her," she said, voice cutting—"Bhishma stands—we stand—brace yourselves, not your tongues."
The hall hushed, uneasy—torches crackled, shadows jumping, the wind easing as her words sank in, hard and sure.
A noble in blue stepped forward, voice trembling—"But… her curse—Shiva's boon—what can we do?"
Satyavati's eyes darkened, her voice low—"We endure—Bhishma meets it—we hold the line."
The crowd rustled, whispers fading—"He's unshaken," a lord muttered—"But her shadow…" another trailed off.
Bhishma turned, his boots scuffing—wind brushed through, soft and cool, his voice steady—"Let her come."
The nobles gasped, soft and quick—his calm a blade, cutting their dread, yet fanning its embers higher.
Satyavati watched him, her jaw tight—her hands unclenched, her voice fierce—"Then make us ready—her hate's alive."
The hall stilled, torches glowing—the wind whispered, a faint howl, Amba's curse a specter tightening its grip.
Outside, the night deepened, stars glinting—the Ganga flowed distant, its waters carrying ash, her vow echoing soft.
The court trembled, fear spiraling—nobles clutched robes, servants shrank, Satyavati's will a thread against the storm.
Bhishma stood firm, wind stirring—his eyes steady, his resolve unshaken, Amba's shadow a weight he'd bear alone.