The throne room of Hastinapura shimmered under a warm evening glow, its marble walls bathed in the flicker of oil lamps hung high in bronze brackets.
Tables stretched long and heavy, their surfaces piled with platters of roasted fowl, spiced lentils, and glistening mounds of fruit, steam curling into the air.
Music drifted soft and lilting from a corner, where a trio of players plucked at strings and tapped small drums, their notes weaving through the hum of voices.
The Ganga's faint murmur slipped through the open arches, a distant pulse beneath the clatter of cups and the laughter spilling from the crowded hall.
Pandu sat at the head table, his crimson tunic swapped for a deep gold robe, its edges stitched with red thread, a quiet nod to his eastern victories.
Twenty-two summers strong, his dark hair gleamed under the lamplight, his face alight with a broad grin, his sword propped beside him, a silent trophy.
Kunti sat at his side, her red sari shimmering, its silver threads catching the glow, her dark hair loose, her piercing brown eyes bright with shared pride.
Her bangles chimed as she reached for a cup, her poise steady, a queen's grace threading through the revelry, her presence a match to Pandu's fire.
Bhishma lounged nearby, his dark tunic loose, his silver-streaked hair unbound, his gray eyes warm as he sipped from a goblet, watching the hall with ease.
Satyavati perched at a smaller table, her gray sari folded neat, her hands resting light, her dark gaze drifting over the crowd, thoughtful and sharp.
Dhritarashtra sat apart, his staff leaning against his chair, his sightless eyes fixed nowhere, his lips a thin line, the feast's cheer a distant echo to him.
Vidura moved among the nobles, a tray of bread in his hands, his dark curls bouncing slightly, his calm voice cutting through the noise with gentle words.
Nobles filled the room, their silks of blue, green, and crimson rustling as they stood, cups raised high, their faces flushed with wine and victory's thrill.
A lord in green, his beard thick and graying, climbed onto a bench, his goblet sloshing, and bellowed loud above the din, "To Pandu, Kuru's sword!"
The hall erupted, a thunderous cheer shaking the rafters, cups clinking hard, wine splashing, and Pandu stood, lifting his own goblet with a bright laugh.
"To Kuru," he called, his voice ringing clear, "and to you all, east bends, our name grows, drink deep tonight!"
The nobles roared back, "Kuru's sword! Kuru's might!" their voices a wave crashing over the tables, feet stomping, the music swelling to match.
Kunti smiled, her cup tipping toward Pandu's, and she murmured soft under the noise, "You've earned this, they see your strength now."
Pandu's grin widened, his hand brushing hers, and he replied low, "Our strength, Kunti, yours holds me steady, always."
Bhishma chuckled, a deep rumble, and leaned forward, his goblet steady, "East kneels, Pandu, your fire carves Kuru's path, bright and bold."
The crowd cheered again, a noble in blue shouting, "Magadha's gold, Anga's grain, all his doing, to Pandu!" and laughter rolled, hearty and free.
Vidura set his tray down, stepping to the table's edge, and raised his hands, his voice calm, cutting through the fervor, "Glory needs roots, friends."
The hall quieted slightly, heads turning, and he continued, his tone even, "Pandu's blade shines, but a tree grows strong from its base, balance it well."
A few nobles nodded, their cheers softening, and one in crimson muttered, "Wise words, Vidura, but let's toast the branches tonight!"
Laughter sparked anew, cups clinking, and Pandu inclined his head, his voice warm, "Roots and branches, Vidura, I'll tend both, you'll see."
Vidura smiled, small and steady, and stepped back, his gaze flicking to Dhritarashtra, whose staff tapped the floor, a faint thud in the revelry.
Satyavati watched, her fingers tracing the edge of her cup, and leaned closer to a servant, her voice low, "No heirs yet, that nursery sits empty still."
The servant blinked, bowing slight, and whispered back, "Two years wed, lady, perhaps soon," but Satyavati's gaze shifted to Kunti, thoughtful.
Pandu's laugh rang out, bright and bold, as a noble in green clapped his back, "River prince, they'll call you, drowning Anga's pride!"
Kunti's eyes glinted, her smile fierce, and she added, "River and sword, he bends what resists, Kuru's lucky to have him."
The hall echoed, "River prince! Kuru's luck!" their voices tumbling over each other, music weaving through, the feast a blaze of sound and light.
Bhishma raised his goblet again, his voice warm, "Pandu's victories pile high, east sings his name, long may it ring!"
The crowd surged, a noble in blue shouting, "To the east's bane!" and wine flowed free, the tables groaning as servants rushed with fresh trays.
Satyavati's gaze lingered on Kunti, her brow creasing faintly, and she murmured to herself, "Strong queen, but a line needs more, time presses."
Dhritarashtra's staff tapped harder, a sharp crack, and he muttered low, his voice a hiss, "Cheers for him, always him, never enough."
Vidura heard, his tray abandoned, and settled beside him, his tone gentle, "Feasts pass, Dhrita, roots hold the realm, you're part of that."
Dhritarashtra's frown eased, just a touch, and he nodded, his staff stilling, the music a faint balm against the envy curling in his chest.
Pandu turned to Kunti, his cup lowered, and murmured, "They laud loud, but you're my victory, here, now."
Kunti's hand found his, her voice soft, "And you mine, Pandu, this hall's yours, but I'm your home."
The moment hung, warm and steady, and Satyavati's gaze shifted, a seed of tension sprouting in her sharp eyes, the empty nursery a quiet shadow.
The music swelled, strings plucking fast, and the hall pulsed, tables laden, voices rising, Pandu's rise a flame, Satyavati's thought a whisper beneath.