The sun hung high over Hastinapura, its golden light spilling across the courtyard, painting the gray stone walls in a warm, shimmering glow.
Dust swirled in lazy spirals, kicked up by a soft breeze that rustled the leaves of a lone peepal tree standing sentinel near the gate.
Wooden dummies lined the open space, their splintered arms jutting out like silent soldiers, weathered from years of practice swings.
The air carried the faint tang of sweat and leather, mingling with the distant clang of metal from the armory beyond the walls.
Bhishma stood at the courtyard's edge, his dark tunic patched but crisp, his silver-streaked hair catching the light as he watched.
His boots scuffed the packed earth, steady and sure, his gray eyes sharp, tracing the three small figures before him.
Pandu toddled forward, barely three summers old, his pale hands clutching a wooden sword almost as tall as he was.
The blade wobbled, its blunt edge dragging a crooked line in the dust, but his steps were bold, his tiny brow furrowed with focus.
Dhritarashtra shuffled nearby, his fingers wrapped tight around a short staff, its tip tapping the ground in uneven beats.
His sightless eyes stared ahead, unseeing, his lips pressed thin, frustration creasing his young face as the world blurred beyond him.
Vidura sat cross-legged by the tree, a little older, his dark curls tumbling over his forehead as he traced a stick in the dirt, humming a tale.
The courtyard buzzed with the chatter of servants sweeping the edges, their brooms whispering against stone, and a stray dog barked beyond the wall.
Bhishma stepped forward, his shadow stretching long, and knelt beside Pandu, the dust puffing around his knees.
"Here, little one," he said, his voice gentle, a rare softness threading through its usual steel. "Let me show you."
He reached out, his calloused hands guiding Pandu's tiny fingers, wrapping them around a small bow he'd carved from a sapling.
The wood was smooth, unpolished, its string taut and humming faintly as Bhishma pulled it back, showing the boy the motion.
"Hold it steady, Pandu," he murmured, his breath stirring the dust. "Feel the string—it's alive, like you."
Pandu's eyes widened, bright and fierce, his pale cheeks flushing as he gripped the bow, his small chest puffing with effort.
The string twanged, a sharp, uneven note, and a crooked arrow—little more than a whittled stick—flew, wobbling through the air.
It sailed a few feet, then thudded into the dirt, far from the nearest dummy, but Bhishma's eyes gleamed, a flicker of pride lighting them.
"Well done," he said, clapping Pandu's shoulder, his voice warm. "A start—a king's start."
Pandu beamed, his wooden sword forgotten, and swung the bow again, the string snapping another wild note into the courtyard.
Dhritarashtra's head jerked at the sound, his staff tapping faster, a sharp rhythm cutting through the dust.
He stumbled forward, his bare feet scuffing the earth, and stopped near Bhishma, his voice rising, sharp and thin.
"Why can't I see it, Bhishma?" he asked, his small hands tightening on the staff, his knuckles whitening. "Why can't I shoot?"
Bhishma turned, his smile fading, and rested a hand on Dhritarashtra's shoulder, steadying the boy's trembling frame.
"You'll have your own strength," he said, his tone calm but firm, "not in arrows, but in mind—patience, boy."
Dhritarashtra's lips twisted, a scowl creasing his brow, and he yanked away, the staff striking the ground with a dull thud.
"I don't want patience," he muttered, his voice barely audible, swallowed by the breeze. "I want to see."
The words hung, heavy and raw, and Bhishma's jaw tightened, his gaze softening with a flicker of pity he quickly masked.
Vidura looked up from his dirt-drawn lines, his stick pausing, and tilted his head, his dark eyes catching the scene.
He rose, brushing dust from his simple tunic, and padded over, his bare feet silent on the warm earth.
"Peace, brother," he said, his voice soft, a melody threading through the tension. "Listen, not look—it's enough."
Dhritarashtra's staff stilled, his head turning toward Vidura's voice, though his eyes remained blank, searching nothing.
"Enough?" he echoed, sharp and bitter, but the tapping slowed, his shoulders slumping slightly under Vidura's calm.
Vidura smiled, small and steady, and knelt beside him, picking up a pebble to roll between his fingers.
"Listen," he said again, tossing the stone—it clinked against a dummy, a faint ping ringing out. "You hear where it lands."
Dhritarashtra frowned, his head tilting, and the courtyard hushed, the servants pausing to watch, brooms stilled.
Pandu giggled, swinging his bow again, and another crooked arrow flew, skittering across the dust to bump Vidura's knee.
Bhishma chuckled, a low rumble, and straightened, brushing dirt from his hands as he watched the trio.
"Three paths," he murmured to himself, his voice lost to the breeze, his eyes tracing each boy with quiet weight.
The sun climbed higher, its heat pressing down, and the courtyard shimmered, dust motes dancing in the golden light.
Pandu darted to a dummy, his wooden sword raised, and whacked it with a gleeful shout, the thud echoing off the walls.
Bhishma stepped closer, his boots crunching, and adjusted Pandu's grip, guiding the boy's swing with a steady hand.
"Strong already," he said, his voice warm again, "but aim, Pandu—strength needs direction."
Pandu nodded, his pale face flushed, and swung again, the sword striking cleaner, a sharp crack splitting the air.
Dhritarashtra turned away, his staff tapping a slow retreat, and shuffled toward the peepal tree, his shadow small and jagged.
"Why him?" he whispered, too low for Bhishma to hear, his fingers digging into the staff's worn wood.
Vidura followed, his steps light, and sat beside him, picking up his stick to trace a new line in the dirt.
"Tell me a tale," Dhritarashtra said, his voice flat, "something loud—I want to hear it."
Vidura nodded, his curls bouncing, and began, "Once a king rode with the wind, his voice a storm…"
His words flowed, soft but clear, weaving a story of battles and thunder, and Dhritarashtra's frown eased, just a little.
Bhishma watched from the center, his arms crossed, the breeze tugging at his tunic as Pandu swung and swung.
The arrow's twang lingered in his ears, a promise stitched into the sound, and his eyes gleamed again, bright and sure.
A servant approached, her sari rustling, and bowed, her voice low, "The noon meal, lord—Satyavati calls them in."
Bhishma nodded, his gaze lingering on Pandu, then shifting to Dhritarashtra and Vidura under the tree.
"Let them play a bit longer," he said, his tone firm but soft, "they're finding their feet."
The servant hesitated, then retreated, her broom resuming its whisper, and the courtyard hummed with life once more.
Pandu ran to Bhishma, his bow dragging, and tugged his hand, his voice high, "Show me again—please!"
Bhishma knelt once more, his knees creaking faintly, and guided Pandu's hands, the bowstring humming under their touch.
"Feel it," he said, his voice a steady pulse, "it's yours, Pandu—a king's tool."
The string snapped, another arrow flew—crooked still, but farther, thudding near a dummy's base, dust puffing high.
Bhishma's pride flared, a quiet fire in his chest, and he ruffled Pandu's hair, the boy's laughter ringing out.
Dhritarashtra's head tilted, catching the sound, and his staff tapped once, hard, a crack against the earth.
Vidura's tale paused, his eyes flicking to his brother, and he murmured, "He'll find his way too, Dhrita."
Dhritarashtra snorted, a small, sharp sound, but leaned closer, his voice low, "Keep talking—make it louder."
Vidura grinned, his stick scratching faster, and raised his voice, "The king's storm shook the mountains…"
The sun blazed overhead, the courtyard alive—Pandu's bow twanging, Dhritarashtra's staff tapping, Vidura's words weaving peace.
Bhishma stood tall, his shadow a shield over them, and watched, his heart steady, his hope a quiet flame.