The valley camp lay ravaged, its earth a churned mire of blood and ash, the air thick with the acrid sting of smoke and the coppery reek of death.
Fires crackled, their embers spitting from ruined tents, casting jagged shadows over the strewn bodies—tribesmen and Kuru alike, locked in final stillness.
The mist had burned away, the sky clearing to a harsh noon sun that blazed down, bleaching the rocks and turning the blood to a dark, glistening crust.
Pandu stood at the camp's heart, his pale hands stained red, his spear planted in the dirt, its iron tip black with gore, dripping slow and steady.
His tunic hung in tatters, slashed and soaked, his dark hair plastered with sweat and blood, his chest heaving as the battle's echo faded from his ears.
Around him, the surviving Kuru warriors moved, their leather armor torn, their faces grim—some binding wounds, others dragging the fallen to a line.
The river glinted nearby, its waters stained pink where the current had carried the fight's leavings, its hum a faint undertone to the crackling flames.
Pandu's breath rasped, ragged and raw, his eyes scanning the carnage—twenty tribesmen dead, a dozen more roped and kneeling, their defiance broken.
The battle had teetered, a brutal dance of steel and will, but he'd pushed through—blade flashing, voice roaring, until the chieftain fell, his axe buried in the dirt.
Now, the valley stilled, the tribesmen's shouts silenced, their survivors hunched under the weight of Kuru bows, their eyes darting, fearful yet resigned.
A horseman rode up, his mount lathered and snorting, and saluted, his voice rough, "They're done, prince—five of ours lost, ten wounded."
Pandu nodded, his jaw tight, and wiped a hand across his face, smearing blood and sweat, his gaze falling to a fallen Kuru archer nearby.
The man lay still, an arrow through his chest, his bow snapped beside him, his young face frozen in a grimace of shock and pain.
"Bury them," Pandu said, his voice low, steady despite the tremor in his chest, "our dead come home—properly."
The horseman dismounted, barking orders, and the warriors moved, their boots crunching as they gathered the fallen, their silence heavy with respect.
Pandu stepped to the archer, kneeling briefly, and closed the man's eyes, his fingers trembling faintly as he murmured, "You fought well."
The sun beat down, its heat searing, and he rose, turning to the captives—twelve tribesmen, their hands bound, their heads bowed under Kuru spears.
A warrior approached, his blade drawn, and glanced at Pandu, his voice hard, "What of them, prince? End it quick?"
Pandu's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the spear, and he stepped forward, the blood-soaked earth squelching beneath his boots.
The captives flinched, one—a wiry man with a scarred face—lifting his head, his voice cracked, pleading, "Mercy, lord… we yield."
Pandu stared, his breath slowing, the weight of the battle pressing against his ribs, the blood on his hands a slick, cold reminder.
"Enough blood today," he said, his voice quiet, firm, cutting through the crackle of fires, a decision settling in his bones.
The warrior hesitated, his blade hovering, and Pandu raised a hand, his tone sharp, "Sheathe it—they live, they march with us."
The captives exhaled, a collective shudder, and the scarred man sank lower, his voice awed, trembling, "A king's heart…"
Pandu's hand trembled as he lowered it, the spear's shaft quivering faintly, a spark of mercy flaring amidst the pride and weariness in his chest.
He turned, pulling the spear free, and drove it into the earth at the camp's center, planting a Kuru banner—a tattered cloth tied to its shaft.
The fabric fluttered, red and gold against the noon sun, its edges frayed but bold, a mark of victory over the blood-soaked ground.
His eyes, tired and shadowed, lingered on it, the weight of lives lost and spared sinking in, his shoulders sagging under the triumph.
The scout staggered over, his tunic ripped, his face streaked with soot, and dropped to a knee, his voice hoarse, "You did it, prince—they're broken."
Pandu nodded, wiping his hands on his tunic, the blood smearing rather than fading, and murmured, "At a cost—always a cost."
The warriors finished their grim work, five Kuru bodies laid in a row, wrapped in cloaks, their weapons placed beside them, a silent honor.
A soldier approached, his arm bound with a bloody strip, and saluted, his voice steady, "Captives tied, wounded ready—we march when you say."
Pandu glanced at the river, then the banner, and hefted the spear, its weight a comfort as he turned to the men, his voice rising, weary but proud.
"To Hastinapura," he said, "we bring peace—and proof of it—move out."
The warriors rallied, their steps slow but sure, lifting the wounded, roping the captives in a line, their gear clinking as the camp emptied.
Pandu lingered, his eyes tracing the fallen—Kuru and tribesmen alike—his hand steadying on the spear, the banner snapping in the wind.
A young soldier, barely older than him, limped over, his shoulder bandaged, and murmured, "You spared them, prince—why?"
Pandu's lips curved, a faint, tired smile, and he glanced at the captives, their heads bowed, their fight bled out in the dirt.
"Dead men raid no more," he said, his voice soft, "but living ones spread the word—Kuru's strength, and its mercy."
The soldier nodded, a flicker of awe in his eyes, and fell into step as Pandu turned, leading the march, the banner a beacon at his back.
The noon sun glared, its light harsh on the blood-soaked camp, the fires dying to smoldering ash as the valley fell silent, emptied of war.
Pandu walked, his boots heavy, the spear tapping the earth, each step a testament—victory won, lives lost, compassion born in the fray's wake.
The captives shuffled behind, their ropes taut, and the wounded leaned on comrades, their breaths ragged but alive, a fragile triumph in their eyes.