The sun dipped low over Kuntibhoja, its amber light spilling across the kingdom's rolling plains, igniting the fields of golden wheat in a shimmering blaze.
Mud-brick walls rose sturdy and proud around the capital, their surfaces baked hard by years of relentless sun, etched with swirling carvings of lotus and flame.
Beyond the gates, the Yamuna River wound like a silver serpent, its waters glinting as they carved through the land, a lifeblood pulsing under the sky.
The air hummed with the scent of ripe grain and jasmine, carried on a warm breeze that rustled the palm fronds shading the bustling streets below.
At the city's heart stood the palace of Kuntibhoja, its domed roofs tiled in crimson and gold, catching the sunset like a crown atop the sprawl.
Towers flanked its edges, their stone weathered but unbowed, banners of deep blue snapping in the wind, each stitched with the kingdom's sigil—a rising sun over crossed spears.
Within the palace's open courtyard, Kunti paced, her bare feet silent on the cool marble, her dark hair tumbling loose past her shoulders, a cascade of midnight silk.
Her sari shimmered, a deep saffron edged with silver, its folds swaying as she moved, her hands restless, tracing the hilt of a small dagger at her waist.
Twenty summers old, her face was sharp and fierce, her eyes a piercing brown that flickered with a fire both wild and steady, a storm held in check.
Her skin glowed bronze under the fading light, kissed by the sun of her land, and her steps carried a grace that belied the strength coiled beneath.
Around her, the courtyard buzzed—servants swept the tiles with twig brooms, their whispers a soft hum, while guards in leather tunics patrolled the arches, spears glinting.
A fountain bubbled at the center, its water splashing in a steady rhythm, lotus blossoms drifting on its surface, their petals curling in the heat.
Kunti paused, her gaze lifting to the horizon, where the plains stretched endless, dotted with villages—huts of mud and thatch, their smoke curling into the dusk.
Her kingdom was no vast empire, no sprawling dominion like Hastinapura, but it thrived—its fields rich, its people fierce, its borders a shield of will and blade.
She turned, her sari rustling, and leaned against a pillar, her fingers brushing the dagger's worn hilt, a gift from her father, Kuntibhoja's king.
Pritha, they'd called her at birth, daughter of Shurasena, fostered here when her bloodline shifted—a princess forged in the plains' hard sun.
But Kunti she'd become, named for this land, its spirit woven into her bones, her every breath a testament to its unyielding heart.
A servant approached, her sari a faded green, her arms laden with a tray of clay cups, and bowed, her voice soft, "Water, my lady? The heat lingers."
Kunti nodded, taking a cup, her fingers brushing the cool clay as she drank, the water sharp and clean, tasting of the Yamuna's depths.
"Tell my father I'll join him soon," she said, her tone steady, a quiet command as she handed the cup back, her eyes drifting to the palace doors.
The servant bobbed her head, retreating, and Kunti straightened, her hand resting on the dagger, her mind turning to the whispers she'd caught of late.
Her father, Kuntibhoja, graying but unbent, had grown restless—his council murmuring of alliances, of suitors, of a future secured through her hand.
She'd heard the names—princes from the east, warriors from the south, even whispers of Hastinapura's rising star, a name carried on the wind like a blade's edge.
Kunti's lips curved, a faint, wry smile, and she stepped to the fountain, dipping her fingers into the water, watching the ripples spread wide.
"I'll not be a trinket," she murmured, her voice low, a vow to herself as the lotus petals bobbed, "not for any crown or spear."
The courtyard stilled, the servants' brooms pausing, and a guard glanced her way, his spear tapping the marble, a flicker of pride in his weathered face.
Kunti was no stranger to their loyalty—since childhood, she'd roamed these plains, ridden with the horsemen, trained with the bow until her arms ached.
She'd climbed the ridges beyond the walls, her dagger flashing as she hunted jackals with the guards, her laughter ringing over the wheat fields.
Her father had watched, his eyes gleaming, and named her his flame—unyielding, bright, a daughter to rival any son in Kuntibhoja's line.
But now, the kingdom's whispers grew louder, the weight of her twentieth year pressing close, and Kunti felt the shift—a storm brewing beyond her grasp.
The palace doors creaked open, and a figure emerged—Kuntibhoja himself, his tunic deep blue, his beard streaked white, his steps slow but sure.
His crown rested light, a simple band of gold, and his eyes, sharp as hers, found her across the courtyard, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Pritha," he called, his voice warm, rough with age, "brooding by the water again? The plains won't answer your scowl."
Kunti laughed, a bright, sharp sound, and crossed to him, her sari trailing, her hand falling from the dagger as she met his gaze.
"They might if I shout loud enough," she said, her tone teasing, but her eyes held a question, a spark of the unrest she'd sensed.
Kuntibhoja chuckled, a rumble deep in his chest, and rested a hand on her shoulder, his grip firm, steadying as he guided her toward the doors.
"Come inside," he said, his voice softening, "the council waits—and they've ideas you won't like, my flame."
Kunti's brow arched, her smile fading, and she followed, her steps matching his, the dagger tapping her thigh with each stride.
The throne room opened before them, its walls lined with tapestries—scenes of hunts, battles, the Yamuna's flood—woven in threads of blue and gold.
A broad table dominated the space, its surface scarred, maps and scrolls scattered across it, lit by the glow of clay lamps flickering in the corners.
Councilors stood as they entered, their tunics a mix of plain and fine, their faces weathered—farmers turned advisors, warriors turned voices of the land.
Kunti took her place beside her father, her hands resting light on the table, her eyes sweeping the room, reading the tension in their stances.
"My lord," a councilor began, his voice gruff, his beard braided tight, "the borders hold, but the east stirs—alliances falter without a tie."
Kuntibhoja nodded, his gaze steady, and leaned forward, his hands tracing a map of the plains, its edges curling under his weathered fingers.
"Kuntibhoja thrives," he said, his tone firm, "our grain feeds half the riverlands—our spears guard the rest. What tie do we lack?"
The councilor hesitated, his eyes flicking to Kunti, and another spoke, a woman in green, her voice sharp, "A match, my king—for your daughter."
Kunti's fingers tightened on the dagger's hilt, her breath catching, but she held her tongue, her gaze locking with the woman's, unyielding.
"We've had offers," the woman continued, undeterred, "princes, lords—strong blood to bind us to greater powers, to secure the future."
Kuntibhoja's jaw tightened, and he glanced at Kunti, his eyes searching, a flicker of unease beneath the pride that always lingered there.
"Strong blood," he echoed, his voice low, "my daughter's is the strongest here—Kuntibhoja's sun rises in her, not some stranger's shadow."
The councilors murmured, some nodding, others shifting, and Kunti's lips twitched, a spark of gratitude warming her chest at her father's words.
But the braided councilor pressed, his tone urgent, "The east grows bold—raiders test us, trade wanes. A match could steady it all."
Kunti stepped forward, her sari rustling, and leaned on the table, her voice cutting through, steady and clear, "I'll steady it with steel if need be."
The room hushed, the councilors blinking, and Kuntibhoja's smile returned, faint but fierce, his hand resting on hers, a silent approval.
"Steel's one path," he said, his tone warm, "but they're right, Pritha—the world shifts, and we must shift with it, one way or another."
Kunti's eyes narrowed, her mind racing, and she traced the map with a finger, the Yamuna's curve a lifeline under her touch.
"I'll not be bartered," she said, her voice low, a vow renewed, "but I'll hear your plans—speak, then, and make it worth my time."
The councilors exchanged glances, the woman in green nodding, and the braided man straightened, his voice firm, "A swayamvara, my lady—your choice, your strength."
Kunti's breath stilled, the word hanging heavy, and the throne room pulsed—lamps flickering, banners swaying, the Yamuna's hum a distant call.
Her father watched, his gaze steady, and the council waited, their eyes on her, the plains' flame, as the future loomed bright and uncertain.