The throne room of Hastinapura blazed with a riotous glow, its marble walls aglow with the flicker of torches thrust into iron brackets high above.
Red and gold banners swayed from the rafters, their edges curling, rippling in the warm draft that swept through the hall, thick with the scent of pitch and spice.
Long tables groaned under platters of roasted meat, steaming bread, and bowls of glistening fruit, the air heavy with the tang of wine and the hum of laughter.
The Ganga's faint pulse drifted through the open arches, a silver thread at dusk beyond, its glow softening the night as drums beat a lively rhythm outside.
Pandu stood at the hall's heart, his crimson robe catching the torchlight, the garland from Kuntibhoja still fragrant at his neck, its petals wilting faintly.
Twenty summers strong, his dark hair hung loose, his face bright with a rare ease, his sword sheathed at his hip, a quiet badge of his triumphs.
Kunti stood beside him, her red sari shimmering, silver threads glinting, her dark hair cascading free, her poise regal, her piercing brown eyes steady.
Her bangles chimed softly as she moved, her presence a flame amid the revelry, drawing gazes—nobles nodding, servants whispering, the hall alive around her.
Bhishma loomed near the throne, his dark tunic crisp, his silver-streaked hair glinting, his gray eyes warm as he watched, a goblet steady in his hand.
Satyavati sat at a high table, her gray sari rustling, her hands folded, her dark gaze flickering over Kunti, sharp and intrigued, a faint smile on her lips.
Dhritarashtra lingered along the wall, his staff propped beside him, its scarred tip pressed to the stone, his sightless eyes blank, his silence a heavy shroud.
Vidura moved through the crowd, a tray of cups in his hands, his dark curls shifting, his calm a steady thread weaving through the hall's cheer.
Nobles clustered in silks of blue, green, and gold, their voices loud, goblets clinking as they toasted, the wine flowing red and free under the torchlight.
A lord in blue, his beard streaked gray, climbed atop a bench, his goblet raised high, his voice booming, "To Pandu and his queen—Kuru's strength reborn!"
The hall roared, a thunderous cheer shaking the banners, cups slamming tables, and Pandu lifted his own goblet, his grin flashing, warm and bold.
"To Kuru," he called, his voice clear, ringing over the din, "and to Kunti—my fire, our future!"
Kunti's lips curved, a regal smile, and she raised her cup beside him, her bangles chiming, her stance tall, the crowd's eyes drawn to her steady grace.
"To Kuru," she echoed, her voice firm, cutting through, "and to Hastinapura—I stand with you now."
The nobles cheered louder, "Kuru's queen! Kuru's flame!"—their voices a tide, servants rushing to refill cups, the hall pulsing with their fervor.
Bhishma's smile widened, a rare break in his stern mask, and he nodded, his goblet tipping toward them, approval a quiet fire in his gaze.
"Well matched," he murmured, his voice low, meant for Satyavati, who tilted her head, her eyes glinting, her fingers tracing the table's edge.
"Very," she replied, her tone soft, cryptic, her stare lingering on Kunti, the poise in her bearing a puzzle she turned over in her mind.
Dhritarashtra's staff tapped once, a dull thud against the marble, and he forced a smile, thin and brittle, his fingers tightening on the wood.
"Yes… to them," he said, his voice flat, a hollow echo in the cheer, his grip creaking the staff, the tension coiling beneath his calm.
A noble in green, his face flushed with wine, stumbled forward, his goblet sloshing, his voice loud, "To Pandu—the warrior who wins all, eh?"
The hall laughed, a hearty roar, but the words struck Dhritarashtra like a barb, his smile faltering, his staff tapping harder, a sharp crack on the stone.
"To Pandu," he repeated, his tone sharper, a bitter edge slicing through, and the crowd hushed faintly, heads turning, the air thickening.
Vidura stepped in, his tray set aside, and raised his hands, his voice calm, cutting the tension like a cool breeze, "Unity lifts us all—drink to that."
The nobles paused, then nodded, their murmurs resuming, and a few raised cups, "To unity!"—the cheer softer, steadier, the moment eased.
Pandu glanced at Vidura, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes, and clapped his shoulder, his voice low, "Well said, brother—keeps the night bright."
Vidura smiled, small and warm, and nodded, his gaze flicking to Dhritarashtra, whose staff stilled, his frown easing, just a fraction, under the calm.
Kunti watched, her eyes narrowing faintly, and leaned closer to Pandu, her voice soft, "Your brother—he carries shadows."
Pandu's grin softened, his hand brushing hers, and he murmured, "He'll find light—give him time. Tonight's ours."
She nodded, her gaze steady, and turned back to the hall, her poise unshaken, the queen's mantle settling on her shoulders like a second skin.
A noble in crimson approached, his goblet raised, his voice hearty, "Kunti—heard you chose him with steel in your eyes—true plains blood!"
Kunti's smile flashed, fierce and bright, and she inclined her head, "Steel and fire—Kuntibhoja taught me both, and Pandu proved the match."
The noble laughed, clapping Pandu's back, "A pair to fear, then—Kuru's lucky stars shine tonight!"—and the hall echoed, cups clinking anew.
Bhishma stepped closer, his goblet lowered, and rested a hand on Pandu's shoulder, his voice warm, "You've brought us pride—and strength."
Pandu bowed, his hand tightening on Kunti's, and replied, "We'll build on it—together, Kuru rises higher."
Bhishma's nod was firm, his eyes sweeping to Kunti, and he added, "She's Hastinapura's now—guard her well, Pandu."
Kunti met his gaze, her voice clear, "I guard myself, lord—but Kuru's walls suit me fine."
Bhishma chuckled, a low rumble, and raised his cup again, the hall's cheer swelling, torches flaring as the night deepened outside.
Satyavati watched, her fingers tapping lightly, and leaned toward a servant, her voice low, "She fits—too well, perhaps. Keep an eye."
The servant nodded, slipping away, and Satyavati's gaze lingered on Kunti, intrigued, the queen's poise a riddle she'd yet to unravel.
Dhritarashtra's grip tightened anew, the staff creaking faintly, and he muttered, his voice a hiss, "Toasts and shadows—always him."
Vidura heard, his brow creasing, and settled beside him, his tone gentle, "A king once ruled with brothers, and peace held strong…"
His tale began, soft and steady, and Dhritarashtra's frown softened, his breath slowing, the staff stilling as the words wove their quiet spell.
The hall pulsed on, wine flowing, voices rising—nobles toasting, "To the line! To the future!"—their cheers a wave crashing over the tension.
Pandu raised his cup again, Kunti at his side, her hand steady in his, and called, "To Hastinapura—stronger now, always!"
The crowd roared, a final thunder, and Kunti stood regal, her eyes glinting, the queen's fire a beacon in the torchlit haze.