The sun beat down on the training field beyond Hastinapura's palace, its harsh light bleaching the earth to a pale, dusty gray.
A brisk breeze swept through, tugging at the straw targets swaying on their wooden stakes, their edges frayed from countless strikes.
The air hung thick with the sharp scent of sweat and leather, mingling with the dry rustle of grass trampled underfoot by restless boys.
A dozen trainees milled about, their tunics stained and damp, wooden bows creaking as they nocked arrows under the watchful eyes of their mentors.
Bhishma stood at the field's center, his dark tunic taut across his broad shoulders, his silver-streaked hair tied back against the wind.
His boots sank slightly into the cracked earth, his gray eyes narrowed, tracing the arc of every arrow with a hawk's precision.
Pandu, seven summers old, stood a few paces away, his pale hands gripping a bow nearly too big for him, its string taut and humming.
His tunic hung loose, patched at the knees, and his dark hair clung to his forehead, slick with sweat, but his stance was firm, unyielding.
Dhritarashtra sat on a low stool near the field's edge, a scroll unrolled across his lap, his fingers tracing the raised script with a jerky rhythm.
His staff leaned against his shoulder, its tip scarred, and his sightless eyes stared ahead, his lips twitching with muttered words.
Vidura perched on a flat stone nearby, a pile of scrolls at his feet, his dark curls bouncing as he scribbled notes with a reed pen.
The field buzzed with the snap of bowstrings and the shouts of boys, their arrows thudding into straw or skittering wide into the dirt.
Bhishma stepped closer to Pandu, his shadow falling over the boy, and tapped the bow with a calloused finger, his voice firm.
"Again, Pandu," he said, his tone sharp but steady, "precision is power—hit the reed this time."
Pandu nodded, his jaw tightening, and adjusted his grip, his small fingers flexing as he nocked a fresh arrow, its fletching worn but straight.
The reed target swayed, a thin stalk pinned to a straw bale thirty paces off, its green tip glinting faintly in the sunlight.
He drew the string back, his breath steadying, and the bow creaked, the tension singing through the wood as he aimed.
The arrow flew, a blur of motion, and struck clean—splitting the reed down its center with a soft crack, straw puffing outward.
A murmur rippled through the trainees, heads turning, and Bhishma's lips twitched, a rare nod of approval breaking his stern mask.
"Good," he said, his voice low but warm, clapping Pandu's shoulder. "That's the mark of a warrior—keep it sharp."
Pandu's chest swelled, a grin flashing across his pale face, and he turned to Bhishma, his eyes bright with pride.
"I'll hit it again," he said, already reaching for another arrow, his voice eager, ringing over the field's hum.
Bhishma's smile flickered, fleeting but real, and he stepped back, folding his arms as Pandu drew the bow once more.
The string sang, a clear, high note, and the second arrow flew, grazing the split reed, lodging deep in the straw with a solid thud.
The trainees cheered, a ragged chorus, and Pandu laughed, swinging the bow in a wide arc, dust kicking up around his feet.
Dhritarashtra's head jerked toward the sound, his fingers pausing on the scroll, and his lips pressed into a thin, bitter line.
He gripped the parchment tighter, its edges crinkling, and muttered under his breath, his voice sharp, "Words don't win wars."
A mentor nearby, a wiry man with a scarred cheek, glanced over, his voice gruff, "They rule them, boy—keep reading."
Dhritarashtra snorted, a quick, harsh sound, and traced the script again, his fingers digging into the scroll as if to tear it.
"Why bother?" he mumbled, too low for the mentor to hear, his staff tapping once against the stool, a dull, resentful beat.
Vidura looked up from his notes, his reed pen pausing, and tilted his head, his dark eyes catching Dhritarashtra's tension.
He set his scrolls aside, brushing dust from his tunic, and rose, his bare feet padding softly across the field toward his brother.
Before he reached Dhritarashtra, a shout broke out—two trainees, boys barely older than Pandu, squabbling over a bent arrow.
"You broke it!" one snapped, his voice high, shoving the other, whose bow clattered to the dirt, kicking up a cloud.
Vidura veered toward them, his steps quick but calm, and raised a hand, his voice steady, cutting through the noise.
"Peace, both of you," he said, soft but firm, kneeling to pick up the bow. "It's just wood—there's more to spare."
The boys froze, their faces flushed, and the taller one muttered, "He started it," pointing a grubby finger.
Vidura smiled, small and patient, and handed the bow back, his tone even, "Fix it together—anger splits more than arrows."
The trainees grumbled but nodded, shuffling off to the armory shed, and Vidura straightened, brushing dirt from his hands.
Dhritarashtra's head tilted, catching Vidura's voice, and he called out, his tone sharp, "What's the point, Vidura?"
Vidura turned, stepping closer, and settled beside him, his voice calm, "They win hearts, brother—words matter."
Dhritarashtra's lips twisted, a scowl flickering, and he tapped his staff again, harder, a crack against the stool's leg.
"Hearts don't fight," he said, his voice low, bitter, "Pandu's bow does—everyone sees it."
Vidura's eyes softened, and he picked up a pebble, rolling it between his fingers as he glanced toward Pandu's target.
"Pandu fights with strength," he said, his tone gentle, "but you'll rule with mind—both build the kingdom."
Dhritarashtra huffed, a quick exhale, but his staff stilled, his fingers loosening slightly on the crumpled scroll.
Bhishma watched from the field's center, his arms still crossed, the breeze tugging at his tunic as Pandu nocked another arrow.
"Focus," he called, his voice firm again, "don't let the cheers sway you—aim truer still."
Pandu nodded, his grin fading to focus, and drew the bow, the string humming as he sighted a farther reed, swaying in the wind.
The arrow flew, swift and clean, and struck—splitting the reed with a crisp snap, the straw bale shuddering under the blow.
The trainees erupted again, louder this time, and Bhishma's smile returned, fleeting but real, a quiet pride warming his chest.
"Well done," he said, stepping forward, his boots crunching the dirt. "You're learning fast, Pandu—faster than most."
Pandu beamed, lowering the bow, and wiped sweat from his brow, his voice bright, "I'll be the best, Bhishma—I promise."
Bhishma chuckled, a low rumble, and ruffled the boy's hair, his hand lingering a moment, steady and sure.
"You're on the path," he said, his tone warm, "keep walking it—precision and power, together."
Dhritarashtra's head dipped, his muttering resuming, and he unrolled the scroll further, his fingers tracing faster, angrier.
"Best," he whispered, too low for Bhishma to catch, his voice a bitter thread lost in the wind. "Always him…"
Vidura glanced at him, his brow creasing faintly, and leaned closer, his voice soft, "You'll find your place, Dhrita—give it time."
Dhritarashtra's staff tapped once more, a sharp note, but he nodded, grudgingly, his fingers slowing on the script.
"Keep talking," he muttered, his tone flat, "tell me something useful—something loud."
Vidura grinned, picking up another pebble, and tossed it lightly, its clink against a target ringing out as he began, "A king once spoke, and mountains bowed…"
The wind picked up, tugging at the targets, and the field pulsed with life—arrows thudding, voices shouting, dust swirling high.
Pandu darted to Bhishma's side, his bow raised, and loosed another shot, the arrow grazing a reed, lodging deep in straw.
Bhishma nodded, his eyes gleaming, and murmured to himself, "A spark already—burning bright."
A horn sounded from the palace, sharp and distant, signaling the midday break, and the trainees lowered their bows, chatter rising.
Bhishma raised a hand, his voice cutting through, "Enough for now—rest, then back at it."
The boys scattered, some racing for water skins, others collapsing in the shade, their laughter echoing off the palace walls.
Pandu lingered, his bow still in hand, and looked up at Bhishma, his voice eager, "One more, please—just one?"
Bhishma's smile lingered, and he nodded, stepping back, "One more, then—make it count, Pandu."
The string sang again, the arrow flew, and the reed split clean, a final crack ringing out as the field hushed in awe.
Bhishma's pride flared, a steady flame, and he clapped Pandu's shoulder once more, his voice low, "That's my boy."
Dhritarashtra's scroll crinkled under his grip, his muttering fading, and Vidura's tale rolled on, a quiet bridge in the storm.