The muddy riverbank stretched dark and restless under a sky pricked with stars, its waters churning slow and cold, glinting faintly in the night's deep hush.
Tents flapped along the shore, their canvas taut against a brisk wind, stakes driven deep into the sodden earth, their shadows dancing in the torchlight.
The air hung heavy with the scent of damp mud and smoke, the faint tang of sweat and steel threading through as fifty Kuru warriors moved in quiet purpose.
Fires crackled low, their embers spitting, casting a warm glow over the camp, the river's edge a silver shimmer beneath the vast, unyielding heavens.
Pandu crouched by a makeshift table near the water, his pale hands steady, a whetstone scraping along his sword—Bhishma's gift—its blade gleaming sharp.
Twenty-two summers strong, his crimson tunic was streaked with dust, his dark hair tied back, his face lit by torchlight, eyes fierce with a restless fire.
His bow rested beside him, arrows fletched and ready, and around him, the army stirred—archers stringing bows, horsemen checking reins, their breaths clouding.
The river lapped at the bank, its restless waters mirroring the stars, and the wind carried a distant murmur—Magadha's defiance, a challenge on the horizon.
A scout slipped through the tents, his tunic mud-splashed, his face taut, and dropped to one knee before Pandu, his voice tense, "They're ready, lord."
Pandu's hand stilled, the whetstone pausing, and he looked up, his grin flashing, eager and bold, "Good—I like a fight. Tell me more."
The scout exhaled, his breath a white plume, and gestured to the table, where maps glowed under the torchlight, their inked lines tracing Magadha's plains.
"Walls are high," he said, his finger tapping the parchment, "stone and timber, gates barred—archers on the ramparts, spears in the yards."
Pandu leaned forward, his sword resting across his knees, and traced the map, his eyes glinting as he followed the river's curve past Magadha's stronghold.
"High walls fall to cunning," he murmured, his voice low, a spark of thrill in its depths, "how many guard the gates?"
The scout's brow creased, his voice steadying, "Two dozen at dusk—more inside, maybe fifty total. They're dug in, expecting us at dawn."
Pandu's grin widened, a fierce edge to it, and he set the whetstone aside, the sword's blade gleaming cold, its scars catching the flickering light.
"Then we strike tonight," he said, his tone eager, rising as he hefted the sword, its weight a promise in his grip, "darkness is our spear."
The scout nodded, rising, and saluted, his fist to his chest, "Aye, lord—I'll fetch the others. They've seen the trails, the weak spots."
Pandu clapped his shoulder, his voice warm, "Quick now—bring them. We move before the stars fade."
The scout darted off, his boots squelching in the mud, and Pandu turned to the table, his fingers brushing the map, his mind racing with the night's plan.
Tents rustled as his warriors gathered—archers in leather, their bows strung tight, horsemen in dust-streaked tunics, their spears glinting in the firelight.
A young archer, Arjun, stepped close, his bow slung low, his voice bright despite the chill, "Night strike, prince? Bold move—walls won't see us coming."
Pandu's laugh was sharp, a burst of sound swallowed by the wind, and he nodded, his sword tapping the map, "Bold breaks them—ready your arrows."
Arjun grinned, his fingers flexing, and darted off, barking orders to the archers, their shadows shifting as they rallied, a quiet hum of purpose rising.
A horseman approached, his mount tethered nearby, and saluted, his voice rough, "River's shallow upstream—horses can cross, flank their east gate."
Pandu's eyes sparked, and he traced the river's bend, his voice firm, "Good—ten riders, light gear. Hit hard when the archers loose."
The horseman nodded, his spear clinking, and turned, his boots splashing as he rallied his men, their horses snorting, restless in the dark.
Two more scouts slipped in, their tunics damp, kneeling before the table, their voices low, urgent, "Towers watch the plains—fires burn all night."
Pandu crouched, his sword propped beside him, and studied the map, his grin steady, "Towers blind in shadows—archers take them first."
The scouts exchanged glances, one murmuring, "High walls, lord—ladders won't breach easy," but Pandu's hand waved, his voice cutting through.
"No ladders," he said, his tone fierce, "arrows and speed—gates crack under chaos. We're not climbing, we're breaking."
The scouts nodded, rising, and saluted, their fists sharp, "Aye, prince—we'll mark the paths," and vanished into the camp, shadows in the night.
Pandu stood, his blade gleaming as he sheathed it, and turned to the gathered warriors, their faces lit by torchlight, eyes fixed on him, fierce and ready.
"Magadha defies us," he called, his voice ringing over the river's lap, "they burn our banners, mock our name—tonight, we answer with steel."
The army roared, a ragged cheer, fists pounding chests, spears tapping the earth, and Pandu raised his sword, its tip catching the starlight.
"Archers to the ridges," he shouted, "horsemen upstream—strike fast, strike quiet. They'll kneel by dawn, or they'll bleed."
The warriors surged, their gear clinking, and the camp pulsed—tents flapping, fires spitting, the river's restless waters a mirror to their spirit.
Arjun rallied the archers, his voice sharp, "Bows tight, aim high—towers first, then gates!"—and they moved, a swift line toward the ridge.
The horsemen mounted, their horses snorting, and splashed upstream, their spears glinting faintly, a shadow force cutting through the dark.
Pandu turned back to the table, his sword sheathed, and traced the map once more, his breath steady, his spirit fierce, a storm coiled in his chest.
A torch sputtered nearby, its light flaring over the maps, and he murmured, his voice low, "Kunti's faith rides with me—east falls tonight."
The wind gusted, the stars glinted cold, and the camp emptied—warriors slipping into the night, their steps silent, their resolve a blade's edge.
Pandu hefted his bow, arrows slung across his back, and strode toward the ridge, his boots sinking in the mud, the river's hum a war drum in his ears.