The hall of Kuntibhoja bloomed with a riot of color, its mud-brick walls draped in garlands of jasmine and marigold, their petals scattering underfoot.
Torches flared along the arches, their flames casting a golden glow over the flower-strewn floor, the air thick with the scent of blooms and burning sandalwood.
A low platform stood at the hall's heart, piled with cushions and silks, its edges ringed by clay lamps flickering like stars against the evening's deepening blue.
Drums beat a steady rhythm outside, their thrum echoing through the open windows, mingling with the Yamuna's distant hum, a pulse of life beyond the walls.
Pandu stood atop the platform, his pale hands steady, his tunic swapped for a crimson robe, its gold threads glinting, the sword at his hip a quiet shadow.
Twenty summers strong, his dark hair was combed back, his face bright with a rare stillness, his eyes fixed on the archway where Kunti would emerge.
Kunti stepped into the hall, her saffron sari replaced by a deep red veil, its edges shimmering with silver, trailing behind her like a river of fire.
Her dark hair cascaded beneath the veil, her dagger gone, replaced by bangles that chimed softly, her piercing brown eyes glinting through the sheer fabric.
Kuntibhoja followed, his blue tunic crisp, his graying beard streaked with pride, his steps slow but sure as he guided her forward, a father's farewell.
The crowd hushed—nobles in silks, warriors in leather, Pandu's retinue dust-streaked but beaming— their breaths held as the drums swelled, a triumphant beat.
A priest in white stood beside the platform, his hands stained with turmeric, a fire crackling before him, its smoke curling upward in thin, fragrant wisps.
Pandu stepped down, his boots silent on the petals, and met Kunti at the platform's edge, his hands lifting her veil with a gentle, steady touch.
The fabric fell away, revealing her face—fierce yet tender, her eyes locking with his, a storm of fire and calm that sent his heart thudding against his ribs.
"You're my strength now," he said, his voice soft, a vow meant for her alone, his hands lingering near her face, the crowd a distant hum.
Kunti's lips curved, a faint, firm smile, and she met his gaze, her voice steady, "And you mine—Kuru and Kuntibhoja stand as one."
The priest raised his hands, his voice chanting low, and the fire flared, its light dancing across their faces as he tossed herbs into the flames.
Pandu took her hand, his fingers warm against hers, and led her around the fire—seven steps, seven vows, the smoke weaving a bond in the flickering glow.
The crowd erupted, cheers rolling through the hall, petals raining from the arches, and Kuntibhoja clapped, his eyes gleaming, his voice lost to the din.
Pandu's retinue pounded fists to chests, Arjun shouting, "To the prince and his flame!"—and laughter broke, bright and warm, a tide of joy.
Kunti's hand tightened in his, her bangles chiming, and she glanced at him, fierce yet tender, a spark of something deeper threading through her gaze.
The priest sprinkled water, its droplets cool on their skin, and declared, his voice ringing, "Bound by fire and word—Pandu and Kunti, one!"
The drums thundered, the hall alive with sound, and Pandu lifted Kunti's hand, his grin flashing, the garland from the swayamvara still fragrant at his neck.
The night deepened, the celebration spilling outside—fires lit, dancers whirling, the plains aglow with Kuntibhoja's farewell to its flame.
Days later, the gates of Hastinapura loomed tall, their stone arches draped in red and gold, drums beating a welcome as the sun dipped low, gilding the Ganga.
Pandu rode at the head, Kunti beside him, her red sari shimmering, her veil gone, her dark hair catching the dusk, her poise a quiet strength.
His horse snorted, dust clinging to its flanks, and behind them trailed the retinue—archers and horsemen, their gear clinking, their faces bright with pride.
The Ganga glowed at dusk, its waters a molten gold beneath the city's walls, the air warm with the scent of river and earth, drums echoing off the stone.
Bhishma stood at the gates, his dark tunic crisp, his silver-streaked hair glinting, his gray eyes warm as he watched them approach, a rare smile breaking his stern mask.
Satyavati waited beside him, her gray sari rustling, her hands clasped, her dark gaze fixed on Kunti, sharp and intrigued, a whisper of secrets in her stare.
Dhritarashtra lingered back, his staff pressed to the earth, his sightless eyes blank, his silence a shadow amid the crowd's swelling cheers.
Vidura stood near Satyavati, a scroll under his arm, his dark curls shifting as he smiled, his calm a steady thread in the gates' clamor.
Pandu dismounted, his boots hitting the ground, and offered Kunti a hand, her fingers firm in his as she stepped down, her bangles chiming softly.
The crowd roared, "Kuru's prince! Kuru's queen!"—their voices shaking the banners, nobles pressing forward, commoners waving from the walls.
Bhishma stepped forward, his hands outstretched, and clasped theirs together, his grip strong, his voice warm, "A union forged in strength—blessed be."
Pandu bowed, Kunti dipping her head, and Bhishma's smile widened, his eyes lingering on them, pride a steady fire in his weathered face.
"Welcome, Kunti," he said, his tone firm, "Kuru's gates open wide—your flame lights our line now."
Kunti met his gaze, her voice clear, "I'll burn bright for it—Kuntibhoja's will joins Kuru's steel."
Satyavati moved closer, her steps light, and studied Kunti, her eyes narrowing faintly, tracing the poise in her stance, the fire in her bearing.
"She's more than she seems," she murmured, her voice low, a whisper to herself, a hint of Kunti's boon glinting in her cryptic tone.
Pandu caught it, his brow creasing faintly, but Kunti's hand squeezed his, her gaze steady, and he turned to her, the question swallowed by her calm.
The drums beat louder, a noble in blue shouting, "To the hall—feast for the union!"—and the crowd surged, a tide of red and gold sweeping them in.
Inside Hastinapura's throne room, lamps flared, banners swayed, and a long table groaned under platters of spiced meat, fruit, and bread, the air rich with celebration.
Pandu and Kunti stood at its head, their hands still clasped, the garland's petals brushing his chest, her bangles a soft chime against the drums.
Bhishma raised a goblet, his voice booming, "To Pandu and Kunti—strength and fire, Kuru's future!"—and the hall echoed, cups clinking, cheers rolling.
Satyavati watched from her seat, her smile faint, her eyes on Kunti, intrigued and sharp, the whisper of her words a thread of mystery in the revelry.
Dhritarashtra's staff tapped once, a dull thud, and he muttered, his voice low, "Fire… more glory for him," his silence biting deeper.
Vidura leaned close, his voice gentle, "A union lifts us all, Dhrita—peace holds its own strength," and began a tale, soft and steady.
Pandu turned to Kunti, his grin warm, and murmured, "Hastinapura's yours now—our road starts here."
Kunti's eyes met his, fierce yet tender, and she nodded, her voice firm, "Ours—together, we'll shape it."
The Ganga glowed beyond, its dusk light spilling through the windows, and the hall pulsed—drums beating, voices rising, their bond sealed in fire and steel.