The sun blazed high over the dusty roads stretching west from Hastinapura, its heat shimmering off the cracked earth in waves of hazy gold.
Hooves churned the dirt, kicking up clouds that clung to the air, gritty and thick, the scent of dry grass and leather sharp in the midday stillness.
Pandu rode at the head of his small retinue, his pale hands steady on the reins, his dark hair tied back, whipping faintly in the hot wind.
His tunic, patched but crisp, clung to his frame, the sword—Bhishma's gift—bouncing at his hip, its scarred hilt glinting under the harsh light.
Twenty summers strong, his face was sharp with purpose, his eyes bright, scanning the horizon where Kuntibhoja's plains promised a new battlefield.
Behind him, ten Kuru warriors followed—five archers, their bows slung across their backs, and five horsemen, spears lashed to their saddles, armor creaking.
Their mounts snorted, lathered with sweat, and the dust painted their tunics a dull brown, their chatter low, punctuated by the clink of gear.
A young archer, barely older than Pandu, rode close, his voice bright despite the heat, "How far, prince? My bow's itching for a target."
Pandu grinned, a flash of teeth, and glanced back, his tone warm, "Save it for the swayamvara, —Kuntibhoja's no raid."
The archer laughed, a sharp sound swallowed by the wind, and nudged his horse, the retinue stretching behind like a lean, coiled snake.
The road wound through low hills, their slopes dotted with scrub and stone, the Yamuna's distant shimmer a silver thread guiding them west.
Hours bled into the afternoon, the sun sinking lower, and the plains opened wide—golden wheat swaying, villages of mud huts smoking faintly in the haze.
Kuntibhoja's walls loomed at last, mud-brick and sturdy, their carvings of lotus and flame catching the light, a fortress baked hard by time.
The gates yawned open, guards in leather tunics waving them through, their spears tapping the earth as Pandu's horse clattered onto the stone streets.
The city buzzed—merchants hawked grain and cloth, children darted underfoot, their laughter sharp, the air thick with dust and the tang of roasting spices.
Pandu's retinue slowed, the horses snorting, and he raised a hand, his voice firm, "Stable the mounts—meet me at the palace. Keep sharp."
The warriors nodded, peeling off toward a squat stable, and Pandu dismounted, his boots hitting the ground with a dull thud, dust swirling around him.
He adjusted the sword, its weight a steady comfort, and strode toward the palace, its crimson-and-gold domes rising proud over the sprawl.
The courtyard stretched wide before it, a chaos of color and sound—banners of blue and gold fluttering high, their sun-and-spear sigils snapping in the breeze.
The sun glared overhead, harsh and unyielding, baking the marble tiles, and the space teemed with life—servants rushing, nobles shouting, horses stamping.
Rival princes milled about, their retinues a clash of silk and steel—eastern lords in flowing robes, southern warriors with axes slung low, all eyeing each other.
Pandu stepped in, his tunic plain against their finery, and the crowd parted faintly, whispers rippling as his Kuru banner—a red-and-gold scrap—fluttered behind.
A broad-shouldered prince in green, his beard braided with gold, turned, his voice loud, sneering, "A Kuru pup—nothing more! Look at him, barely a man."
Laughter barked from his retinue, sharp and mocking, and Pandu's gaze flicked to him, calm, steady, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"We'll see," he said, his voice low, cutting through the jeers, his hand resting light on the sword, unshaken by the taunt.
The rival snorted, turning away, but the courtyard's hum shifted—heads craning, voices hushing—as a figure emerged from the palace arches.
Kunti stepped into the light, her saffron sari shimmering, silver threads catching the sun, her dark hair tumbling free, a cascade of midnight fire.
Her dagger gleamed at her waist, her steps silent on the marble, and her eyes—piercing brown, fierce as a storm—swept the crowd with quiet command.
The air stilled, the bustle fading, and Pandu's breath caught, his gaze locking with hers across the sea of rivals, a jolt sparking through his chest.
Her stare was fierce, unyielding, a blade's edge honed by the plains, but beneath it flickered something softer—curiosity, a challenge unspoken.
Pandu held her gaze, his heart thudding, and felt a pull—raw, electric, like the valley's chaos distilled into a single, burning moment.
She paused, her hand brushing the dagger, and murmured, her voice quiet, meant for herself, "He's different…"
A servant beside her flinched, catching the words, but Kunti's eyes didn't waver, lingering on Pandu, fierce yet soft, a flame testing the wind.
The green-clad rival stepped forward, his axe glinting, and barked, "Kuru's runt thinks he's a match? She'll pick a real warrior—watch!"
Kunti's gaze flicked to him, sharp and cold, and her lips twitched, a faint smirk, but she said nothing, turning back to Pandu, her stare unbroken.
Pandu's smile widened, calm and sure, and he inclined his head, a silent answer to her look, his hand steady on the sword, his resolve a quiet fire.
The courtyard surged back to life—rivals jostling, banners waving, servants shouting as they raised a dais at the center, its wood scarred and sturdy.
A herald climbed atop it, his tunic blue, a horn at his hip, and raised his arms, his voice booming, "Princes of the plains, warriors of the rivers—Kunti's swayamvara dawns tomorrow!"
Cheers erupted, loud and ragged, and the rivals roared—some pounding chests, others raising blades, their eyes glinting with greed and pride.
Pandu's retinue filtered in, their dust-streaked faces grim, and the young archer, sidled up, his bow slung low, his voice low, "Crowded field, prince."
"Fields clear with a good swing," Pandu murmured, his eyes still on Kunti, her figure a beacon amidst the chaos, her fire a match to his own.
Kunti turned, her sari swirling, and stepped back toward the arches, her gaze lingering a heartbeat longer, a spark of recognition in its depths.
The green-clad rival laughed again, his voice grating, "She'll see through him—a pup's no king!"—and his men jeered, their axes clanging.
Pandu's warriors bristled, hands twitching to spears, but he raised a hand, his voice calm, "Let them bark—tomorrow's the bite."
He grinned, nudging him, "They don't know you, prince—valley broke under you, this'll be lighter work."
Pandu's lips curved, a quiet laugh, and he turned to the dais, the herald's words echoing—"A trial of strength and soul—Kunti chooses the worthy!"
The sun dipped lower, its light harsh on the courtyard, and the banners fluttered wild, the air thick with dust, sweat, and the promise of a fight.
Kunti vanished into the palace, her shadow a fleeting flame, and Pandu felt her pull linger, a thread tugging at his chest, fierce and unyielding.
A southern prince in black, his spear tall, sneered as he passed, "Kuru's boy'll falter—watch him crawl back east."
Pandu met his glare, his voice steady, "Crawl's not my way—step light tomorrow, or you'll see."
The prince huffed, stalking off, and the courtyard pulsed—rivals circling, servants scrambling, the dais a stage set for blood and glory.
Pandu's warriors gathered close, their eyes sharp, and he nodded, his voice low, "Rest tonight—dawn's the real road. We ride it hard."
They saluted, fists to chests, and dispersed, their gear clinking as they sought shade, leaving Pandu alone by the courtyard's edge.
He leaned against a pillar, the sword heavy at his hip, and gazed where Kunti had stood, her fire etched in his mind, a challenge he'd meet.
The sun sank, painting the sky red, and the courtyard glowed—bustling, fierce, a crucible waiting to forge a king's fate.