The council chamber of Hastinapura glowed with a warm, steady light, its stone walls softened by the flicker of oil lamps hung in iron sconces.
Maps sprawled across a broad oak table, their parchment edges curling, inked rivers and plains glowing under the lamplight like veins of gold.
The air hung tense, thick with the scent of wax and ink, a faint tang of dust drifting in on a breeze from the open window overlooking the Ganga.
The river's hum pulsed beyond, a low, steady murmur beneath the chamber's quiet, broken only by the rustle of scrolls and the soft scuff of boots.
Bhishma stood at the table's head, his dark tunic taut across his broad frame, his silver-streaked hair tied back, his gray eyes sharp as a hawk's.
His hands rested on the map, fingers tracing the western plains, his presence a pillar of steel amid the room's simmering strategy.
Pandu, twenty summers strong, leaned beside him, his pale hands steady, his tunic patched but crisp, a sword—Bhishma's gift—sheathed at his hip.
His dark hair hung loose, framing a face hardened by war, his eyes bright with a restless fire, the valley's blood still a shadow in his memory.
Satyavati sat at the table's far end, her gray sari shimmering faintly, her hands folded, her dark gaze flickering between Pandu and the maps with quiet intent.
Dhritarashtra lingered near the wall, his staff propped beside him, its scarred tip pressed to the stone, his sightless eyes fixed on nothing, his silence heavy.
Vidura stood by the window, a scroll unrolled in his hands, his dark curls shifting as he read, his calm a steady anchor in the chamber's tension.
A messenger burst through the doors, his tunic streaked with sweat and dust, his breath ragged as he dropped to one knee, a sealed scroll clutched tight.
"From Kuntibhoja," he gasped, his voice hoarse from the ride, "King Kuntibhoja sends word—urgent, for your eyes, lord."
Bhishma's brow arched, and he took the scroll, breaking the wax seal—a sun over crossed spears—with a flick of his calloused thumb.
The chamber hushed, the lamps flickering, and he unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanning the tight, elegant script, his jaw tightening as he read.
"A swayamvara," he said, his voice firm, resonant, cutting through the stillness as he lowered the scroll, his gaze lifting to Pandu.
Satyavati leaned forward, her hands unclenching, and her voice came soft, a thread of curiosity, "Kuntibhoja's daughter—Kunti?"
Bhishma nodded, tapping the map where the Yamuna curved through Kuntibhoja's plains, his finger resting on the kingdom's heart, small but bold.
"Pritha, they call her there," he said, his tone steady, "fostered by the king, raised as his own—a prize worth more than gold."
Pandu's head tilted, his eyes sparking with interest, and he stepped closer, his hand brushing the sword's hilt, a faint grin tugging at his lips.
"A prize?" he asked, his voice low, eager, the fire in his chest flaring at the scent of a challenge, a new battlefield to conquer.
Bhishma turned, his gaze locking with Pandu's, and pointed to Kuntibhoja's mark on the map, his voice firm, a command wrapped in pride.
"She's a prize," he said, his eyes narrowing, "strong, fierce—Kuntibhoja's flame, they say. Win her, Pandu—strength needs a queen."
The chamber pulsed, the words hanging heavy, and Pandu's grin widened, his fingers tightening on the sword, ambition flaring bright in his gaze.
"I'll bring her home," he said, his voice eager, ringing clear, a vow stitched into the air as he straightened, his shoulders squaring.
Satyavati's lips curved, a faint, knowing smile, and she traced the map with a finger, her voice soft, almost a murmur, "Her blood's old… potent."
Bhishma glanced at her, his brow creasing faintly, and nodded, his hand resting on the scroll, the swayamvara's details a call to action in his grip.
"Old blood, yes," he said, his tone warm, "Shurasena's line—Kunti carries it, tempered by Kuntibhoja's plains. A match for Kuru's future."
Pandu's eyes sparked again, ambition burning hotter, and he leaned over the map, tracing the route to Kuntibhoja, his mind already racing ahead.
"How many compete?" he asked, his voice sharp, his fingers pausing on the Yamuna's curve, the plains a battlefield in his thoughts.
Bhishma unrolled the scroll further, his eyes scanning, and replied, "Princes from the east, warriors from the south—dozens, maybe more."
Pandu laughed, a bright, bold sound, and clapped the table, the sword clinking at his hip, his voice brimming with confidence.
"Dozens fall to one," he said, his grin fierce, "I've faced worse odds—tribes broke under my spear, this'll be no different."
Satyavati's smile deepened, a hint of secrets glinting in her eyes, and she leaned back, her hands folding, her voice a quiet murmur to herself.
"He'll need more than spears," she said, her tone soft, cryptic, her gaze drifting to the Ganga beyond, its waters a silver thread in the dusk.
Bhishma's head tilted, catching her words, but he turned back to Pandu, his voice firm, "It's not just strength—cunning, too. Kuntibhoja tests the worthy."
Pandu nodded, his grin softening to focus, and he tapped the map, his voice steady, "I'll outsmart them—blade or wit, I'll win her."
Vidura looked up from his scroll, his brow creasing faintly, and stepped forward, his sandals scuffing, his tone calm, measured.
"Kuntibhoja's no fool," he said, his voice cutting through Pandu's fire, "their swayamvara won't be simple—expect a trial, not just a fight."
Pandu's eyes flicked to him, a spark of respect beneath the eagerness, and he nodded, his hand resting on the sword, its scars a comfort.
"A trial, then," he said, his tone firm, "I've faced death—I'll face this. Kuru grows stronger with her at my side."
Dhritarashtra's staff tapped once, a dull thud against the stone, and his head jerked, catching Pandu's words, his silence sharpening into a blade.
"Stronger," he muttered, his voice low, bitter, swallowed by the chamber's hum, his fingers digging into the staff, the wood creaking faintly.
Vidura glanced at him, his eyes softening, and moved closer, his scroll tucked under his arm, his voice gentle, "Strength takes many forms, Dhrita."
Dhritarashtra's lips twitched, a scowl flashing, and he tapped the staff again, harder, his silence a wall, his envy a shadow in the lamplight.
Satyavati rose, her sari rustling, and stepped to the table, her hands tracing Kuntibhoja's borders, her voice firm, breaking the tension.
"Kuru needs this," she said, her gaze sweeping the room, "the plains are restless—Kuntibhoja's alliance steadies them, and her blood binds us."
Bhishma nodded, his hand resting on the sword's hilt at Pandu's side, a quiet pride warming his chest as he met Satyavati's eyes.
"Pandu's the one," he said, his tone steady, "he's proven his arm—now he proves his heart. Kuntibhoja's flame meets Kuru's steel."
Pandu's chest swelled, the weight of their faith a fire in his veins, and he turned to Bhishma, his voice eager, "When do I ride?"
"Dawn," Bhishma said, his tone firm, "take a small retinue—archers, horsemen—show them Kuru's might, but travel light."
Pandu clapped his fist to his chest, a warrior's salute, and grinned, "I'll ride fast—Kunti won't wait, and neither will I."
Satyavati's smile flickered, a hint of something deeper in her gaze, and she murmured, "Fast indeed—bring her, Pandu, and more besides."
The chamber buzzed, the maps glowing brighter under the lamps, and Bhishma rolled the scroll tight, his nod firm, sealing the quest.
"Prepare tonight," he said, his voice warm, "the swayamvara's a battlefield—win it, and Kuru's reach doubles."
Pandu turned, his boots scuffing the stone, and strode to the window, gazing out at the Ganga, its waters a silver gleam under the rising moon.
"Another victory," he murmured, his voice low, a promise to himself, the sword a steady weight at his hip, ambition blazing in his eyes.
Dhritarashtra's staff stilled, his muttering fading, and he slumped back, the cheers of the valley echoing in his mind, a bitter taste on his tongue.
Vidura settled beside him, his scroll unrolled, and began, "A king once bound two lands with words…" his voice a quiet balm.
The lamps flickered, the chamber alive with strategy and hope, and Satyavati's smile lingered, secrets glinting, as Pandu's path stretched anew.