The hall of Madra glowed like a jewel forged in the desert's heart, its sandstone walls draped in tapestries of saffron and jade, shimmering under torchlight.
Flowers fell in cascades—marigolds and desert roses—scattering petals across the floor, their fragrance mingling with the smoky swirl of sandalwood rising from braziers.
Drums echoed through the vast space, a deep, resonant pulse that shook the air, matched by the hum of voices from Madra's nobles, their silks rustling like wind over dunes.
The sun dipped beyond the horizon, its last rays bleeding through arched windows, painting the hall in hues of amber and gold, a throne for a union of power.
Pandu stood at the hall's center, twenty-four summers strong, his gold robe crisp and regal, its edges embroidered with crimson threads, a king in bloom.
His dark hair was combed back, gleaming under the light, his eyes warm with a quiet fire, a man whose victories carved a path for this moment.
Madri faced him, radiant in a sari of deep indigo, its fabric woven with silver threads that caught the torchlight, a desert star brought to life.
Her midnight hair flowed beneath a sheer veil, her green eyes bright with a blend of pride and promise, her presence a graceful force amid the hall's splendor.
Shalya loomed nearby, a broad figure in bronze, his beard freshly braided, his grin wide as he clapped a hand on Pandu's shoulder, pride etched in his weathered face.
A priest stood between the couple, his robes white as dawn, his hands stained with turmeric, chanting low as he fed herbs to a crackling fire at their feet.
Pandu reached forward, his fingers steady, and lifted Madri's veil, the fabric falling away to reveal her face—sharp, radiant, her smile a spark of warmth.
The crowd hushed, a ripple of awe spreading, and he spoke, his voice soft yet clear, "Two queens, one heart, Madri, you join my fire today."
Madri met his gaze, her smile deepening, "I'll honor this, Pandu, Madra's strength binds with Kuru's, our flame will burn bright."
The priest's chant rose, a rhythmic hymn, and Pandu took her hand, leading her around the fire—seven steps, seven vows, the smoke weaving their bond in the flickering glow.
Shalya stepped forward, his voice booming over the drums, "My sister's yours, Pandu, Madra stands with you, may your line stretch to the stars!"
The hall erupted, cheers rolling like thunder, petals raining harder, and nobles raised goblets, their voices blending, "To Pandu! To Madri!"
Pandu clasped Madri's hand tighter, his grin breaking free, "A star worth claiming, Shalya, Madra's gift strengthens us all."
Madri's laugh was soft, a breeze through the noise, "A gift with grit, Pandu, I'll match your pace, east awaits us."
The drums swelled, the fire flared, and the priest sprinkled water, its droplets cool on their skin, sealing the union under Madra's golden roof.
Days later, Hastinapura's gates towered under a dusk sky, their stone arches draped in garlands of jasmine and lotus, swaying in a gentle evening wind.
Crowds gathered thick, their cheers a rising tide—nobles in silks of blue and gold, commoners pressing close, children tossing flowers from baskets.
Drums echoed through the city, a steady beat that pulsed with the Ganga's distant hum, its waters glinting silver beyond the walls as twilight settled.
Pandu rode at the head, his horse snorting dust, Madri beside him, her indigo sari shimmering, her veil gone, her hair catching the fading light.
His warriors trailed, their gear clinking, Keshav whistling low, "Two queens now, prince, you're stacking the deck!"
Ravi, gruff as ever, muttered, "Stacking trouble, more like, hope they don't claw each other's eyes out."
Pandu chuckled, glancing at Madri, "They'll manage, lads, Kuru's tougher with both, you'll see."
Kunti stood at the gate's edge, her crimson sari a pillar of strength, its silver threads glinting, her dark hair bound in a simple braid, her stance unyielding.
Her piercing brown eyes softened as Pandu approached, her bangles chiming faintly, a queen ready to weave a new thread into her realm.
Bhishma waited beside her, his dark tunic crisp, his silver hair tied back, his gray eyes warm with approval, a goblet resting in his hand.
Satyavati lingered near, her gray sari rustling, her gaze sharp and assessing, tracing Madri's form with a flicker of curiosity and hope.
Dhritarashtra stood apart, his staff planted firm, his silence a shadow amid the cheers, his envy a quiet ember beneath the dusk's glow.
Pandu dismounted, his boots hitting the earth, and offered Madri a hand, her fingers light in his as she stepped down, her grace a match to the falling flowers.
The crowd roared, "Kuru's prince! Kuru's queens!" their voices shaking the gates, banners waving high, dust swirling in the evening air.
Kunti stepped forward, her stride steady, and clasped Madri's hand, her voice firm, "For Kuru, we stand, welcome, Madri, sisters now."
Madri's smile warmed, her grip returning the strength, "Sisters, Kunti, I'll honor this house, Kuru gains with us both."
Pandu watched, his chest swelling, "Two queens, one heart," he repeated, softer now, "Hastinapura's stronger today, you've made it so."
The nobles surged, Bhishma raising his goblet, his voice a deep roll, "To Pandu and his queens, Kuru's roots deepen, its branches soar!"
Cheers thundered, "To the queens! To Kuru!" goblets clinking, flowers raining, and Satyavati nodded, her tone low, "A fine weave, this trio, let it hold."
Kunti's strength shone, a quiet pillar in the dusk, and Madri's grace blended, a new flame beside her, their hands still clasped as the crowd pressed in.
Dhritarashtra's staff tapped once, a dull thud, and he muttered, "More for him, always more," his voice lost to the drums, his shadow shrinking.
Vidura appeared, a scroll under his arm, his smile calm, "A union well forged, Pandu, Madri's a spark, Kunti's the steel, Kuru thrives."
Pandu clapped his shoulder, "Thrives it will, Vidura, we're a force now, east and west bound tight."
Madri glanced at Kunti, her tone warm, "You're tougher than I expected, Kunti, I'll fit in, we'll make this work."
Kunti's nod was firm, "We will, Madri, for the realm, for him, it's ours to build."
The drums rolled on, the gates aglow with dusk, and Pandu's family grew, Kunti's resolve a rock, Madri's charm a breeze, their trio a pillar under Kuru's rising star.