The torchlit hall of Hastinapura glowed with a warm, flickering light, its marble walls casting long shadows that danced with every sputter of flame.
Torches lined the high arches, their flames licking at the air, painting the nobles' faces in hues of gold and amber as they clustered near the throne.
The Ganga's hum drifted faintly through the open windows, a soft murmur beneath the buzz of voices, the night air cool and crisp beyond.
Silk robes rustled, goblets clinked, and the scent of spiced wine mingled with the smoky tang of burning pitch, filling the hall with a restless energy.
Bhishma stood near a broad table, his dark tunic patched but crisp, his silver-streaked hair catching the torchlight as he leaned on his sword's hilt.
Pandu, seven summers old, hovered at his side, his pale face flushed with excitement, his tunic smudged with dust from the training field.
Dhritarashtra sat on a cushioned bench along the wall, his staff propped beside him, its scarred tip resting on the stone, his fingers tracing its grooves.
His sightless eyes stared ahead, unseeing, his lips pressed thin, the chatter of the hall washing over him like a tide he couldn't stem.
Vidura lingered near the center, his simple tunic unmarked, a scroll tucked under his arm, his dark curls framing a face calm and watchful.
Nobles milled about, their voices rising and falling, some clad in blues and golds, others in greens, their laughter sharp against the hall's hum.
A lord in blue, his beard streaked with gray, raised his goblet high, his voice booming over the din, "Pandu's born for the throne—did you see that shot today?"
The hall rippled with murmurs, heads nodding, and another noble, a woman in green, chimed in, "Split the reed clean—Bhishma's got a king in the making!"
Pandu grinned, tugging at Bhishma's sleeve, his voice bright, "Tell them about the sparring, Bhishma—the one with the big stick!"
Bhishma chuckled, a low rumble, and rested a hand on Pandu's shoulder, his tone warm, "Oh, that one—he nearly knocked me flat, this little lion."
The nobles laughed, a hearty roar, and Pandu beamed, hopping on his toes, his small frame buzzing with pride as the tale unfolded.
"He swung so hard the stick snapped," Bhishma went on, his eyes glinting, "and then he just grabbed another—fearless, this one."
Pandu giggled, his laughter cutting through the hall, and a noble in gold clapped, calling out, "That's Kuru's future—mark it!"
Dhritarashtra's head jerked toward the sound, his fingers tightening on his staff, the wood creaking faintly under his grip.
The praise stung, a sharp jab beneath his ribs, and he muttered low, his voice a bitter whisper, "Blindness binds me…"
A servant passing by with a tray of cups paused, glancing at him, but Dhritarashtra's scowl sent her scurrying, her sandals slapping the stone.
The hall's chatter swelled, nobles toasting Pandu, their voices overlapping—"A warrior born!"—"Bhishma's pride!"—each word a thorn in Dhritarashtra's silence.
Vidura's gaze flicked to his brother, his brow creasing faintly, and he stepped away from a cluster of scribes, moving toward the tension.
Before he reached Dhritarashtra, a sharp voice cut through—a noble in red, his face flushed with wine, snapped at another, "You'd back that border truce? It's weakness!"
The second noble, a lean man in gray, bristled, his goblet sloshing, "Weakness? It's sense—war bleeds us dry!"
The hall hushed slightly, heads turning, and the red-clad noble slammed his cup down, his voice rising, "Coward's talk—Kuru fights, not bends!"
Vidura slipped between them, his steps light, and raised a hand, his voice steady, cutting the air like a cool breeze, "Enough, both of you."
The nobles froze, their faces taut, and Vidura met their glares, his tone calm but firm, "Strength isn't sight alone—nor noise over reason."
The red-clad noble opened his mouth, then closed it, his flush deepening, and the gray one muttered, "He's right," stepping back.
"A fist breaks," Vidura added, his voice soft, a proverb rolling off his tongue, "but a bridge bears weight—choose wisely."
The hall exhaled, the tension easing, and a few nobles nodded, their murmurs resuming as Vidura turned away, his scroll still tucked tight.
Dhritarashtra's staff tapped once, a dull thud against the stone, and he leaned forward, his voice low, sharp, "They cheer him, Vidura—always him."
Vidura settled beside him, his sandals scuffing softly, and rested a hand on the bench, his tone gentle, "They cheer what they see, Dhrita."
"See," Dhritarashtra echoed, bitter, his fingers digging deeper into the staff, the wood groaning under the pressure.
Vidura's eyes softened, and he leaned closer, his voice steady, "Strength isn't sight alone—you'll show them, in time."
Dhritarashtra's lips twisted, a spark of rage flaring in his chest, and the staff cracked—a sharp snap as a splinter broke free, tumbling to the floor.
The sound cut through the hall's hum, a few nobles glancing over, but Vidura's voice rose, calm and clear, "Time builds what haste burns—trust it."
Dhritarashtra's breath hitched, his grip loosening, and he slumped back, the staff stilling as Vidura's words settled over him like a balm.
Bhishma glanced their way, his tale pausing, and Pandu tugged his sleeve again, his voice eager, "Go on, Bhishma—the part with the shield!"
Bhishma's smile returned, faint but warm, and he nodded, resuming, "So he grabs my shield—tiny hands, but he held it high…"
The nobles laughed again, their goblets clinking, and Pandu clapped, his laughter bright, a bell ringing through the torchlit haze.
A lord in blue leaned close to Bhishma, his voice low, "He's your shadow, isn't he? A king's spark already."
Bhishma's eyes gleamed, and he ruffled Pandu's hair, his tone quiet, "More than a shadow—a flame of his own."
Pandu beamed, hopping again, and darted to a table, grabbing a wooden cup to mimic a shield, swinging it with a gleeful shout.
The hall roared with amusement, nobles toasting, "To Pandu!"—"Kuru's lion!"—their voices a wave crashing over Dhritarashtra's silence.
Dhritarashtra's head dipped, his muttering resuming, and he gripped the staff anew, his voice a whisper, "Flame… what am I, then?"
Vidura heard, his brow creasing, and rested a hand on his brother's arm, his tone firm, "A foundation—stronger than you know."
Dhritarashtra snorted, a quick, harsh sound, but his staff stayed still, his fingers uncurling slightly as Vidura's calm held him steady.
"Keep talking," he muttered, his voice low, "something solid—none of this flame nonsense."
Vidura smiled, small and patient, and began, "A king once built a wall, stone by stone, unyielding…"
His words flowed, steady and clear, weaving a tale of endurance, and Dhritarashtra's frown eased, his breath slowing as he listened.
Bhishma watched from the table, his arms crossed, the torchlight flickering across his face as Pandu swung his "shield" with wild glee.
The Ganga's hum grew louder, a faint echo through the windows, and the hall pulsed with life—laughter, murmurs, the clink of cups.
A servant approached Bhishma, her sari rustling, and bowed, her voice hushed, "Satyavati asks for the boys, lord—bedtime nears."
Bhishma glanced at Pandu, then to Dhritarashtra and Vidura, and shook his head gently, his tone warm, "A few moments more—they're growing here."
The servant nodded, retreating, and Bhishma turned back to Pandu, his voice firm, "One more tale, then—make it quick, little lion."
Pandu grinned, dropping the cup, and launched into a garbled recount of the day's sparring, his hands waving, the hall laughing anew.
Dhritarashtra's staff tapped once, soft this time, and he leaned closer to Vidura, his voice a murmur, "Make it louder—stronger."
Vidura's tale rose, his voice steady, "The wall stood, storms broke against it, and still it held…"
The torches flared, casting long shadows, and the hall shimmered—Pandu's laughter, Dhritarashtra's quiet rage, Vidura's calm weaving through.
Bhishma stood tall, his gaze sweeping them all, his heart a steady drumbeat, pride and worry mingling in the flickering light.