The golden palace of Madra rose like a titan from the desert's embrace, its sandstone walls shimmering with veins of amber, spires piercing a sky ablaze with noon's fury.
Sands shifted in restless waves beyond its gates, a sea of gold rippling under a sun that scorched the earth, its light a hammer pounding the world below.
The air buzzed with heat, dry and biting, laced with the faint perfume of desert blooms and the smoky tang of incense drifting from the palace courtyards.
A dueling ring waited ahead, a broad circle of packed earth framed by low stone benches, its surface scarred from countless clashes, simmering under the sun's glare.
Pandu rode in at the head of his small band, twenty-four summers etched into his lean frame, his crimson tunic faded from the trek, dust clinging to its hem.
His dark hair hung loose, wild and tangled, his eyes sharp with a restless spark, a man who thrived on the edge of chaos, grinning like he'd already won.
Ten warriors flanked him, their leather gear creaking, spears propped on shoulders, faces weathered but eager—loyal dogs trailing a wolf with a taste for conquest.
He swung off his horse, boots crunching sand, and tossed the reins to a wiry archer, "Keep 'em watered, lads, we're not bolting back east just yet."
The archer, a lanky youth named Keshav, smirked, "Aye, prince, but if this lot's as tough as their heat, we might be running sooner than you think."
Pandu laughed, a rough, barking sound, "Tough's my bread, Keshav, let's see if Madra's got the spice to match."
The palace gates groaned open, and Madri stepped out, a whirlwind wrapped in emerald silk, her sari hugging her like a second skin, glinting under the sun.
Her midnight hair spilled in loose waves, pinned with gold that caught the light, her green eyes bright and cutting, a woman who could charm a snake or slit its throat.
She moved with a dancer's grace, barefoot on the hot stone, her smile small but sly, sizing Pandu up like a merchant eyeing a rare coin.
"Welcome to Madra, Kuru," she said, her voice smooth and teasing, "you look half-baked already, hope you've got more than dust in you."
Pandu grinned, wiping sweat from his brow, "Plenty more, lady, I've hauled worse than sand to get here, your brother's offer worth the sweat?"
Madri's laugh was quick, a flash of teeth, "Shalya's offers come with teeth, you'll see, he's not handing me over without a scrap."
Shalya swaggered out behind her, a bear of a man, broad and loud, his bronze tunic stretched tight over muscle, his beard a wild tangle braided with silver rings.
His broadsword hung at his hip, a beast of steel, and his brown eyes glinted with a rough, playful edge, a king who loved a brawl as much as a feast.
"So this is the river prince," Shalya boomed, his voice a barrel rolling downhill, "heard you drowned Anga, Pandu, think you can wrestle Madra's sands too?"
Pandu squared his shoulders, his grin widening, "Drowned 'em, fenced 'em, whatever it took, Shalya, I'm here for your sister, not your dunes."
Shalya slapped his thigh, laughing loud, "Good answer, lad, but I don't toss Madri to any stray who rides up, you'll earn her the Madra way!"
He jerked a thumb at the dueling ring, the crowd already gathering—nobles in bright silks, warriors leaning on spears, kids scrambling for a better view.
Pandu cracked his knuckles, "A scrap, eh? Fair enough, I've danced worse floors than this, let's see what you've got, big man."
Madri crossed her arms, her smirk growing, "He's all bluster till the blade's out, Pandu, don't let him scare you off, I'd hate a dull match."
"Don't worry," Pandu shot back, winking, "I'm not here to bore you, Madri, let's give 'em a show worth the heat."
Shalya snorted, stomping toward the ring, "Show's right, Kuru, I'll have you flat before the sun blinks, Madri's no prize for soft hands!"
The crowd parted, their cheers swelling like a dust storm, and Pandu followed, his warriors trailing, Keshav muttering, "Boss loves a tussle, hope this one's quick."
Another warrior, a grizzled horseman named Ravi, chuckled, "Quick? Shalya's built like an ox, Pandu'll need more than luck to drop him."
Pandu reached the ring, shrugging off his cloak, his sword—Bhishma's battered gift—gleaming as he drew it, its edge catching the sun like a shard of fire.
Shalya stood opposite, twirling his broadsword with a grunt, "Last chance, Pandu, bow out now, save your pretty face for the ride home!"
Pandu planted his feet, his stance loose, "Pretty's overrated, Shalya, I'll take a few scars if it gets me Madri, let's roll."
Madri perched on a bench, her green eyes glinting, "He's cocky," she said to a nearby noble, "but he's got guts, this might be fun."
The noble, a thin man in gold, nodded, "Shalya's a brute, lady, your Kuru better have more than swagger, or he's eating sand."
Shalya bellowed, charging first, his broadsword swinging high, a heavy slash aimed at Pandu's chest, "Take this, river rat!"
Pandu sidestepped, quick as a jackal, his blade flashing up to parry, the clash ringing sharp, dust kicking high as steel met steel with a jolt.
"Not bad," Pandu grunted, shoving back, "but I've dodged worse from drunk bandits, you're slow, Shalya!"
Shalya laughed, loud and rough, spinning to swing again, his blade cutting low, "Slow's still heavy, lad, feel the weight!"
Pandu leapt, the broadsword grazing his boot, and countered, his sword slashing fast, nicking Shalya's arm, a thin red line blooming quick.
The crowd roared, a wild surge, and Madri leaned forward, her smirk softening, "He's got moves," she muttered, "not just talk, huh?"
Shalya rubbed his arm, grinning through the sting, "First blood's yours, Kuru, but I'm just warming up, ready for the real dance?"
Pandu twirled his sword, his breath steady, "Born ready, big man, let's see if Madra's got more than hot air!"
The sun blazed on, the ring a cauldron of dust and steel, the duel sparking fierce, its end a tale for the next breath of the desert wind.