The fortress of Magadha loomed black against a moonless sky, its stone walls jagged and towering, a silhouette of defiance etched in shadow.
Torches flared atop the ramparts, their flames guttering in a fitful wind, casting pools of orange light over the cracked stone and the glint of waiting spears.
The air thrummed with the clash of steel and the shouts of men, thick with the acrid bite of smoke and the iron tang of blood pooling in the dirt below.
Walls trembled, their foundations shuddering as Kuru warriors struck—arrows hissing, hooves thundering, the night alive with the chaos of breach and battle.
Pandu sprinted through the dark, his crimson tunic torn at the shoulder, his sword—Bhishma's gift—gripped tight, its blade already stained with the night's work.
Twenty-two summers fierce, his breath puffed white in the chill, his dark hair plastered with sweat, his eyes glinting with a predator's focus under torchlight.
His archers perched on a ridge beyond, their bows singing death—arrows arced, striking Magadha's sentries, who fell with choked cries, tumbling from the heights.
Horsemen surged below, their spears lancing through the outer gates, wood splintering under their charge, a roar of triumph echoing as the breach widened.
Pandu reached the wall's base, his boots slipping in mud churned red, and vaulted a fallen timber, his hands scraping stone as he hauled himself up a jagged gap.
The fortress groaned, a section of wall crumbling under a barrage of arrows, dust billowing thick, and he landed atop the rampart, his sword flashing free.
A Magadha guard lunged, spear thrusting, his armor clanking, but Pandu twisted, the blade grazing his ribs, and struck—steel bit flesh, the man collapsing in a heap.
Shouts rose—sharp, frantic—and more guards charged, their spears a forest of iron, but Pandu moved like a storm, his sword slashing, parrying, relentless.
One fell, blood spraying, another staggered, clutching a severed arm, and Pandu pressed on, his boots pounding the stone, the inner yard his target.
The fortress's heart blazed with torchlight—a courtyard of packed earth, ringed by barracks, its air thick with the cries of the wounded and the clang of steel.
At its center stood Magadha's king, a towering figure clad in bronze armor, his broadsword raised, his beard streaked with ash, his eyes wild with defiance.
Jarasandha's kin—Vikrama, they called him—roared commands, his voice a thunderclap, rallying his men, their shields locking tight around him like a wall.
Pandu leapt from the rampart, landing hard in the yard, dust exploding around him, and charged, his sword a blur, his war cry shattering the night—"Kuru!"
Vikrama's guards met him, their shields slamming forward, but Pandu ducked low, his blade slicing a leg, toppling one with a howl, chaos erupting anew.
An arrow whistled past, grazing his cheek—a hot sting—and he spun, his sword cleaving a bowman's chest, blood pooling dark under the torchlit sky.
The guards scattered, their line breaking, and Pandu faced Vikrama, blade meeting blade with a jarring clang, sparks spitting into the smoky haze.
"You're a demon!" Vikrama gasped, his voice ragged, his broadsword swinging wild, a heavy arc aimed at Pandu's skull, strength fueling his rage.
Pandu parried, the shock rattling his arms, and grinned, his voice calm, "No—a king. Yield," his sword darting fast, seeking an opening.
Vikrama roared, his blade slashing low, grazing Pandu's thigh—a shallow cut, blood welling—and he pressed, his armor clanking, his breath heaving.
Pandu sidestepped, the broadsword thudding into the earth, and struck—his blade slashed Vikrama's arm, bronze splitting, blood streaming down the king's side.
Vikrama staggered, his sword dipping, and lunged again, desperate, but Pandu pivoted, his foot hooking the king's ankle, sending him crashing to his knees.
The broadsword fell, clattering, and Pandu's blade flashed to Vikrama's throat, its edge cold against the king's sweat-slick skin, a whisper from death.
"Mercy," Vikrama rasped, his voice breaking, his hands raised, trembling, blood pooling beneath him, the fight bleeding out into the dirt.
Pandu's chest heaved, his sword steady, and he stepped back, his voice firm, "Live—and pay tribute. Magadha bends to Kuru now."
Vikrama's head bowed, his breath shuddering, and he nodded, his voice a whisper, "Tribute… it's yours," defeat heavy in his sagging frame.
The courtyard stilled, the clash fading, and Kuru warriors poured in—archers scaling the walls, horsemen thundering through the shattered gates, victorious.
Pandu sheathed his sword, his hands slick with blood, and turned, snatching a Kuru banner—red and gold—from a horseman, its fabric torn but bold.
He drove its pole into the earth, the banner snapping in the wind, a weary pride settling in his chest as the fortress knelt under its shadow.
Soldiers cheered, their voices raw, a ragged wave crashing over the yard—"Pandu! Kuru!"—fists raised, spears pounding, the night theirs.
Arjun sprinted through the chaos, his bow slung across his back, his grin wide, "Walls down, prince—Magadha's yours! Clean strike!"
Pandu laughed, a sharp, tired sound, and clapped his shoulder, his voice warm, "Clean enough—bind the king, secure the gates. We hold it now."
Arjun saluted, darting off, and the warriors moved—ropes lashing Vikrama's wrists, spears herding survivors, the fortress bending under Kuru's will.
Pandu stepped to the banner, his boots crunching on shattered stone, and wiped blood from his cheek, his gaze sweeping the carnage, steady but worn.
A horseman rode up, his mount snorting, and saluted, his voice rough, "East gate's ours—ten dead, most yielded. Orders, lord?"
"Guard it," Pandu said, his tone calm, "no looting—tribute's our prize. Send word to Hastinapura at dawn—Magadha's fallen."
The horseman nodded, wheeling away, and Pandu turned back to the yard, the torchlight flickering over blood and ruin, the air heavy with victory's cost.
Vikrama knelt, his head low, his men silent, and a soldier approached, his voice low, "He's broken, prince—swears the tribute, grain and gold."
Pandu nodded, his sword resting at his hip, and murmured, "Mercy binds tighter—let him spread Kuru's name. Fear'll do the rest."
The soldier saluted, retreating, and the night deepened, the wind howling through the breached walls, stars glinting cold over the conquered fortress.