The forest edge near Hastinapura rustled with life, its canopy of broad leaves swaying under a late afternoon breeze, dappled light spilling onto the earth.
Roots twisted through the soil, moss clinging to their gnarled curves, and the air carried the sharp scent of pine and damp earth, heavy with promise.
A boar crashed through the underbrush, its bristled hide glinting, tusks slashing at vines as it charged, its snorts echoing through the trees.
Pandu, ten summers old, crouched behind a fallen log, his pale hands steady on a bow, its string taut, an arrow nocked and ready.
His tunic, patched and streaked with dirt, clung to his frame, his dark hair matted with sweat, but his eyes burned bright, fixed on the beast.
Bhishma knelt beside him, his dark cloak blending with the shadows, his silver-streaked hair tied back, his gray eyes sharp and unyielding.
His hand rested lightly on Pandu's shoulder, steadying the boy, his voice a low murmur, "Wait for it—breathe, then loose."
The boar wheeled, its hooves churning the earth, and Pandu's breath steadied, his chest rising slow as he drew the string tighter, the wood creaking.
The arrow flew, a swift blur cutting the air, and struck true—piercing the boar's flank with a wet thud, blood blooming dark against its hide.
The beast staggered, a guttural squeal ripping free, and collapsed, its bulk thudding into the leaves, staining the earth red beneath it.
Pandu leapt up, a shout bursting from him, and Bhishma rose, his boots crunching twigs as he clapped the boy's shoulder, firm and proud.
"A king's aim, Pandu," he said, his voice warm, a rare smile breaking across his weathered face. "Clean and sure—well done."
Pandu beamed, his pale cheeks flushing red, and dropped the bow, racing to the boar, his hands trembling with triumph as he touched its still form.
"Look at it, Bhishma!" he cried, his voice high, ringing through the trees. "I got it—right where you said!"
Bhishma's smile lingered, softening the lines of his face, and he stepped forward, kneeling beside the boar, his hand tracing the arrow's path.
"You listened," he said, his tone steady but bright, "and you struck—skill and heart together, that's the mark."
The breeze stirred, rustling the leaves, and a distant bird called, sharp and clear, as Pandu grinned, his chest swelling with Bhishma's praise.
Back in Hastinapura, the throne room hummed with a quieter energy, its marble walls aglow with the flicker of oil lamps, their light steady and gold.
Nobles sat on cushioned benches, their robes rustling—blues, greens, golds—murmurs weaving through the air as they awaited the day's council.
Dhritarashtra, ten summers as well, stood near the dais, his staff propped beside him, a scroll unrolled in his hands, its edges worn and curling.
His tunic hung neatly pressed, his dark hair combed back, but his sightless eyes stared blankly, his lips moving faintly as he rehearsed.
Satyavati sat atop the dais, her gray sari shimmering faintly, her hands resting light, her dark eyes sweeping the room with quiet command.
Vidura stood to her left, a stack of scrolls at his feet, his simple tunic unmarked, his reed pen poised as he scribbled a final note.
A noble in blue rose, his voice gruff, "Let's hear the boy, then—Dhritarashtra, recite the laws of succession, prove your study."
Dhritarashtra straightened, his staff tapping once, and stepped forward, his voice ringing clear, cutting through the hall's hum like a blade.
"The throne passes to the eldest son," he began, his tone flat but flawless, "born of the king's first wife, unless unfit—then to the next."
The nobles nodded, a few leaning forward, and Dhritarashtra continued, his fingers tracing the scroll though he needed no guide.
"If no sons live," he said, his voice steady, "the king's brother takes the mantle, or his kin, by blood and merit judged."
He finished, the final words echoing, and the hall stilled, a ripple of approval passing through—nods, murmurs, a soft clap from the back.
Satyavati's lips curved, a faint smile, and she leaned forward, her voice soft, "Well spoken, Dhritarashtra—clear as stone."
Dhritarashtra's head tilted, a flicker of triumph crossing his face, but it faded fast, his hands tightening on the scroll, the victory hollow.
"Laws are my arrows," he said, his tone flat, a mutter to himself as he stepped back, the staff tapping a slow retreat to his bench.
A noble in green snorted, low and sharp, "Arrows that don't fly—Pandu's out felling boars while you read, boy."
Dhritarashtra's jaw clenched, his fingers digging into the scroll, and a few nobles chuckled, their laughter a thorn in his silence.
Satyavati's gaze sharpened, but before she could speak, a shout broke out—a lord in red, his face flushed, jabbed a finger at another in gray.
"You'd tax the border clans again?" he snapped, his voice rising, "They'll revolt—mark it!"
The gray-clad noble bristled, rising from his bench, "And let them raid unchecked? You're blind to reason!"
The hall tensed, murmurs swelling, and Satyavati's hand twitched, but Vidura stepped forward, his sandals scuffing the stone, his voice calm.
"Hold," he said, soft but firm, raising a hand as he moved between them, his dark eyes steady, cutting through the heat.
The nobles paused, their glares faltering, and Vidura tilted his head, his tone even, "A tax too heavy breaks the branch—ease wins loyalty."
The red-clad lord frowned, his flush deepening, but he sank back, muttering, "Boy's got a point…"
The gray one nodded, grudgingly, "Aye, loyalty's worth more than coin—sometimes."
Vidura stepped back, his scroll tucked under his arm, and Satyavati watched, her faint smile returning, a spark of pride in her gaze.
"Vidura sees what others miss," she said, her voice soft, a murmur to herself as she leaned back, her hands steadying on the throne.
The hall settled, the dispute fading into low chatter, and Dhritarashtra's head dipped, his scroll crinkling under his grip, his triumph dimming.
Outside, the forest grew still, the boar's blood pooling dark, and Pandu knelt beside it, his hands stained red as he traced the wound.
Bhishma stood over him, his cloak rustling, and pulled a knife from his belt, handing it to Pandu, his voice low, "Finish the task—honor it."
Pandu took the blade, his hands steady despite the tremor in his chest, and worked the hide, Bhishma guiding with a quiet nod.
"Strength and care," Bhishma said, his tone warm, "a king needs both—you're learning fast, Pandu."
Pandu grinned, wiping sweat from his brow, and the boar's hide peeled back, the air thick with its musky scent as the sun dipped lower.
"I'll hunt bigger next time," he said, his voice bright, "something fierce—maybe a tiger!"
Bhishma's chuckle rumbled, deep and rare, and he ruffled Pandu's hair, his hand lingering, steady and proud.
"A tiger's a worthy mark," he said, his eyes gleaming, "and you'll hit it—I've no doubt, little king."
Pandu laughed, the sound bouncing through the trees, and hefted the hide, his small frame buzzing with energy as Bhishma watched.
Back in the hall, the lamps flickered, their light softening, and Dhritarashtra sat silent, his staff still, his fingers loosening on the scroll.
A servant approached Satyavati, her sari whispering, and bowed, "The meal's ready, my lady—the boys should rest."
Satyavati glanced at Dhritarashtra, then Vidura, and nodded, her voice firm, "Soon—let them finish here first."
The servant retreated, and Dhritarashtra muttered, his voice low, "Finish what? They cheer him, not me…"
Vidura heard, his brow creasing, and stepped closer, his tone gentle, "They cheer the hunt, Dhrita—your laws hold the court."
Dhritarashtra's lips twitched, a faint scoff, but he leaned back, the staff tapping once, soft, as Vidura settled beside him.
"Tell me something," Dhritarashtra said, his voice flat, "something real—no hunt nonsense."
Vidura nodded, his curls bouncing, and began, "A king once ruled with words, and peace held strong…"
His voice flowed, steady and clear, and Dhritarashtra's frown eased, his breath slowing as the tale wove its quiet spell.
In the forest, Pandu dragged the hide to a clearing, Bhishma following, the breeze cooling their sweat as the sky turned gold and pink.
"Proud of you," Bhishma said, his voice low, his rare smile lingering as Pandu beamed, the boar's blood a badge on his hands.
The hall hummed on, the forest stilled, and three paths stretched forward—Pandu's shining, Dhritarashtra's simmering, Vidura's steadying.