The war room of Hastinapura thrummed with a quiet, coiled energy, its stone walls cool and gray under the flicker of oil lamps.
Maps lay unrolled across a broad wooden table, their edges curling, inked lines tracing rivers and hills, smudged by years of restless fingers.
The wind slipped through a high window, carrying dust from the plains beyond, its dry bite rustling the parchment and stirring the air.
Shadows danced on the walls, cast by the lamps' steady glow, and the faint hum of the Ganga drifted in, a murmur beneath the tension.
Bhishma stood at the table's head, his dark tunic taut across his shoulders, his silver-streaked hair tied back, his gray eyes sharp as flint.
His boots pressed firm against the stone, a spear leaning against his side, its iron tip glinting faintly in the lamplight.
Pandu, sixteen summers old, stood across from him, his pale hands restless, his tunic patched but neatly belted, a bow slung over his shoulder.
His dark hair hung loose, framing a face sharpened by youth and fire, his eyes bright, flickering with a hunger to prove himself.
Dhritarashtra sat near the wall, his staff propped beside him, its scarred tip resting on the floor, his fingers tracing a scroll he didn't read.
His sightless eyes stared ahead, his lips pressed thin, the room's hum washing over him as he listened, silent and still.
Vidura lingered by the window, a map tucked under his arm, his dark curls catching the breeze, his gaze darting between his brothers and Bhishma.
A scout burst through the door, his tunic torn, dust clinging to his sweat-streaked face, his breath ragged as he dropped to one knee.
"Raids, lord," he gasped, his voice hoarse, "border tribes—three villages burned, cattle gone, they're pushing east."
Bhishma's jaw tightened, his hand resting on the spear's shaft, and he leaned forward, his voice low, cutting through the scout's panting.
"How many?" he asked, his tone steady, his eyes narrowing as he traced the map's western edge with a calloused finger.
"Fifty, maybe more," the scout said, wiping his brow, "armed with spears and bows—fast, striking at dusk."
Satyavati stepped from the shadows, her gray sari rustling, her hands clasped tight, her dark eyes glinting with a fierce resolve.
"They test us," she said, her voice sharp, "Kuru's strength wavers if we falter—crush them, Bhishma."
Bhishma nodded, his gaze shifting to Pandu, and straightened, lifting the spear with a slow, deliberate motion, its weight steady in his grip.
"Pandu," he said, his voice firm, a command wrapped in trust, "you'll lead a force—twenty men, light and swift."
Pandu's breath caught, his hands stilling, and he stepped closer, his eyes locking with Bhishma's, a spark flaring in their depths.
"Me?" he asked, his voice low, eager, a tremor of excitement threading through as he squared his shoulders.
Bhishma handed him the spear, its iron tip cold against Pandu's palm, and met his gaze, his eyes sharp, piercing through the boy's fire.
"Prove yourself, Pandu," he said, his tone unwavering, "bring peace—show them Kuru's arm is long and strong."
Pandu gripped the spear, his fingers tightening around the ashwood shaft, his heart pounding a fierce rhythm against his ribs.
"I'll return victorious," he said, his voice ringing clear, resolve flaring bright as he hefted the weapon, its weight a promise.
Bhishma watched, steady and unyielding, a faint nod breaking his stern mask, his hand resting briefly on Pandu's shoulder.
"Take archers," he said, his voice low, "strike from the ridges—speed over force, and come back whole."
Pandu nodded, his grin flashing, and turned the spear in his hands, its tip catching the lamplight, a gleam of iron in the dust-laden air.
Dhritarashtra's head tilted, catching Pandu's words, and his fingers dug into the scroll, the parchment crinkling under his grip.
"He'll get the glory…" he muttered, his voice low, a bitter whisper swallowed by the wind's rustle through the window.
Vidura glanced at him, his brow creasing faintly, and stepped closer, his sandals scuffing the stone as he adjusted the map in his arms.
"Glory's earned, Dhrita," he said, his tone soft, steady, "he's tested—you'll have your own soon enough."
Dhritarashtra's lips twitched, a scowl flickering, and he tapped his staff once, a dull thud against the floor, his silence biting back a retort.
Satyavati moved to the table, her boots clicking with purpose, and traced the raided villages on the map, her voice sharp, "They've gone too far."
"Pandu will end it," Bhishma said, his gaze still on the boy, his hand dropping from his shoulder as he turned to the scout.
"Rest, then guide him," he told the man, his tone firm, "you know their trails—lead him true."
The scout nodded, rising stiffly, and bowed, his voice steadying, "Aye, lord—I'll see him there."
Pandu spun the spear again, its tip whistling faintly, and stepped back, his eyes darting to the map, tracing the western plains.
"When do I leave?" he asked, his voice eager, barely contained, his fingers flexing around the spear's shaft.
"Dawn," Bhishma said, his tone calm, "gather your men tonight—archers, horsemen, light gear—be ready."
Pandu's grin widened, and he nodded, turning to the door, his steps quick, the spear tapping the stone as he moved.
"I'll pick the best," he called back, his voice bright, echoing off the walls as he slipped into the corridor beyond.
Satyavati watched him go, her hands unclenching, and murmured to herself, "A king's blood rises—good."
Bhishma's eyes lingered on the empty doorway, steady and sure, a quiet pride warming his chest as the wind tugged at the maps.
Dhritarashtra's staff tapped again, softer this time, and he leaned back, his voice a low mutter, "Victorious… always him."
Vidura settled beside him, his map unrolled across his lap, and traced a line with his finger, his tone gentle, "Victory's just a step, Dhrita."
Dhritarashtra snorted, a quick, sharp sound, but his staff stilled, his fingers loosening on the scroll as Vidura's calm brushed against his edge.
"Tell me something," he said, his voice flat, "something about laws—none of this war talk."
Vidura nodded, his curls shifting, and began, "A king once ruled by decree, and order held the land…"
His words flowed, soft and clear, weaving a tale of justice, and Dhritarashtra's frown eased, his breath slowing as he listened.
The lamps flickered, their light glinting off the spear's tip in Bhishma's memory, and the war room hushed, the wind carrying dust and whispers.
A servant slipped in, her sari rustling, and bowed to Satyavati, her voice low, "The men muster, lady—Pandu's calling them."
Satyavati nodded, her gaze sharp, and turned to Bhishma, her voice firm, "He's young—guide him well."
"He's ready," Bhishma said, his tone steady, his hand resting on the table as he traced the raided lands, his trust unshaken.
The wind gusted, rattling the window, and the maps shivered, their lines blurring faintly as the night deepened outside.
Dhritarashtra's head dipped, his muttering fading, and Vidura's tale rolled on, a quiet anchor in the room's restless hum.
Bhishma stepped to the window, his cloak swaying, and gazed out at the plains, the dust a faint haze under the moon's silver glow.
"Prove yourself," he murmured, his voice lost to the wind, his eyes steady, watching the horizon where Pandu's path began.