The grand arena of Kuntibhoja thrummed with a wild, restless energy, its broad circle of packed earth ringed by tiers of wooden benches groaning under the crowd.
Banners of blue and gold flapped high above, their sun-and-spear sigils snapping in a brisk wind, the midday sun blazing down, harsh and unrelenting.
The air buzzed with the roar of voices—nobles shouting, commoners cheering, the scent of dust and sweat mingling with the sharp tang of oiled wood.
At the arena's heart stood a wooden wheel, massive and scarred, its spokes whirring as it spun on a creaking axle, driven by a rope and pulley manned by guards.
Above it, suspended on a thin pole, dangled a wooden fish, its painted eye a glinting black dot, swaying faintly as the wheel's motion rocked the air.
Pandu stood among the rivals, his pale hands steady, his patched tunic stark against their silks, the sword at his hip silent, his bow slung over his shoulder.
Twenty summers strong, his dark hair was tied back, his face sharp with focus, his eyes tracing the wheel's blur, a calm fire burning within.
Around him, princes jostled—eastern lords in flowing robes, southern warriors with axes at their belts, their voices loud, their stances brash and restless.
Kunti watched from a high dais, her saffron sari shimmering, her dark hair loose, framing a face fierce and still, her piercing brown eyes fixed on the arena.
Her dagger gleamed at her waist, her hands resting light on the railing, and beside her stood Kuntibhoja, his graying beard catching the sun, his gaze proud yet tense.
The crowd roared as a herald climbed a platform, his blue tunic flapping, his voice booming over the din, "The swayamvara begins—Kunti's test awaits!"
He raised a horn, its wail sharp and piercing, and the wheel's spin quickened, a whirring blur of wood and shadow, the fish's eye a fleeting speck.
"To strike the fish's eye," the herald shouted, "through the wheel's heart—prove your worth, princes, or step aside!"
The rivals surged, their laughter sharp, and a broad-shouldered prince in green, his beard braided with gold, strode forward, bow in hand, his grin smug.
"Too fast for them all," he barked, nocking an arrow, his voice loud over the wheel's hum, "watch me claim her—Kuru's pup'll choke!"
He drew, his bow creaking, and loosed—the arrow flew, a swift blur, but grazed a spoke, splintering with a crack, tumbling useless to the dirt.
The crowd groaned, jeers rising, and the prince's smirk faltered, his axe clanging as he stomped back, muttering, "Wheel's cursed—unfair!"
A southern warrior in black stepped up, his spear swapped for a bow, his voice a growl, "Too fast for him, maybe—not me!"
His shot soared, cutting the air, but veered wide, thunking into the pole's base, the fish untouched, and the crowd's roar turned to laughter, sharp and mocking.
Rival after rival tried—arrows snapped, some struck spokes, others sailed high, their boasts crumbling under the wheel's relentless spin.
Pandu watched, his stance still, his breath steady, his eyes tracking the blur—spokes flashing, the fish's eye a fleeting pulse in the chaos.
The green-clad prince sneered as he passed, his voice loud, "Too fast for him! Look at him—Kuru's runt's frozen stiff!"
Pandu's lips curved, a faint, calm smile, and he stepped forward, his boots scuffing the earth, his bow slipping into his hands with quiet grace.
"Watch closely," he said, his voice steady, cutting through the jeers, his gaze flicking to the dais where Kunti's eyes met his, fierce and searching.
The crowd hushed, a ripple of anticipation, and Pandu nocked an arrow, its fletching worn but straight, his fingers steady on the string.
The wheel whirred, a storm of wood and wind, and he drew, the bow creaking under his strength, his breath slowing to a single, still point.
His eyes narrowed, the world fading—crowd's roar, rivals' taunts, the sun's glare—all swallowed by the fish's eye, a black star in the blur.
He loosed, the string snapping with a sharp twang, and the arrow flew—a streak of death cutting the air, threading the wheel's heart with deadly grace.
It struck true, piercing the fish's eye clean, the wood splintering with a crisp crack, the arrow lodging deep, quivering as the wheel slowed.
Cheers erupted, a thunderous wave crashing over the arena, benches shaking as the crowd leapt, their voices a wild, exultant roar—"Kuru! Kuru!"
Pandu lowered his bow, his chest heaving, and turned, his gaze lifting to Kunti, her nod subtle, a flicker of respect softening her fierce stare.
She leaned forward, her hands tightening on the railing, and murmured, her voice soft, a whisper lost to the din, "He sees what they don't."
Kuntibhoja's eyes gleamed, his hand resting on her shoulder, and he chuckled, a low rumble, "A steady hand—your plains might've met their match."
The green-clad rival snarled, his bow clattering to the earth, and shouted, "Luck! A fluke—give me another shot!"—but the crowd drowned him, jeering.
Pandu stood tall, the bow loose in his grip, dust swirling around his boots, his face calm but bright, the triumph a quiet fire in his chest.
A southern prince in black stormed forward, his spear raised, his voice a growl, "One hit proves nothing—face me, pup!"
Pandu's eyes flicked to him, steady and unshaken, and he smiled, his voice low, "The wheel's the test—your turn's done."
The prince bristled, but the herald's horn wailed again, cutting through, and the guards stepped in, their spears tapping, pushing the rivals back.
Kunti's gaze lingered on Pandu, fierce yet soft, a spark of something deeper threading through, and she straightened, her sari catching the sun.
The crowd chanted, "Kuru's prince! Kuru's prince!"—their voices a tide, banners waving wild, the arena alive with their fervor.
Pandu's retinue pressed close, the young archer clapping his shoulder, his voice bright, "Told you—fields clear with a swing, eh?"
Pandu laughed, a sharp, warm sound, and nodded, his eyes drifting back to Kunti, her presence a pull he couldn't shake, steady and fierce.
The herald raised his arms, his voice booming, "Pandu of Kuru strikes true—step forth, prince, claim your place!"
Pandu moved, his boots steady on the earth, and approached the dais, the bow still in hand, the arrow's echo a badge of his skill.
The green-clad rival shoved through, his voice loud, "He's no king—Kuntibhoja deserves better than a dusty swordsman!"
The crowd jeered, a noble in blue shouting back, "Better than a braggart who can't aim!"—and laughter rolled, sharp and biting.
Kunti's lips twitched, a faint smirk, and she met Pandu's gaze again, her nod subtle, her eyes a storm of respect and curiosity, unvoiced but clear.
Pandu stopped before the dais, bowing low, the sword at his hip clinking, his voice steady, "For Kuntibhoja's flame—I offer my bow."
Kuntibhoja smiled, broad and warm, and clapped his hands, his voice ringing, "A worthy shot, Pandu—Kuru's steel shines bright today!"
The crowd roared again, fists pounding benches, and the wheel stilled, the fish's pierced eye a testament, its splintered wood glinting in the sun.
Kunti stepped forward, her sari rustling, and leaned over the railing, her voice soft, meant for Pandu alone, "Skill's a start—prove the rest."