The throne room of Hastinapura towered like a fortress of triumph, its marble walls draped in banners of crimson and gold, their edges frayed from battles won.
Torches blazed in iron sconces, casting jagged shadows that danced across the stone, the air thick with the tang of wine and the musk of a hundred gathered souls.
Tables stretched long, laden with roasted pheasant, bowls of spiced rice, and pitchers brimming red, their surfaces gleaming under the flickering light.
The Ganga's hum drifted faint through the open arches, a silver whisper beneath the clamor of voices, its waters a distant mirror to the room's restless pulse.
Pandu sat at the high table, twenty-four summers weathered into his frame, his gold robe creased from the road, its crimson trim dulled by dust.
His dark hair hung loose, streaked with sweat, his eyes shadowed despite the grin he forced, a king whose victories rang hollow without a legacy.
Kunti flanked his left, her crimson sari a steady flame, its silver threads catching the torchlight, her dark hair braided tight, her poise unyielding.
Her piercing brown eyes flickered with quiet strain, her bangles silent as she gripped a cup, a queen bearing Kuru's weight with muted grace.
Madri sat to his right, her indigo sari a soft night against the blaze, its silver weave shimmering, her midnight hair loose, her green eyes dim with thought.
She traced the table's edge, her smile faint, a desert bloom wilting under the court's gaze, her grace tempered by an unspoken burden.
Satyavati stood near a pillar, her gray sari stark against the revelry, her hands clasped tight, her dark gaze a blade cutting through the room's cheer.
Bhishma lounged by the throne, his dark tunic crisp, his silver hair glinting, his voice a low rumble as he toasted with a goblet, pride in his steady grip.
Dhritarashtra lingered along the wall, his staff a silent anchor, his sightless eyes blank, his lips a thin line, the celebration a bitter echo to him.
Vidura moved among the nobles, a tray of bread in hand, his dark curls shifting, his calm a thread of reason amid the rising tide of wine and noise.
Nobles filled the hall, their silks of emerald and sapphire rustling, their faces flushed as they stood, goblets raised, their voices a roar over the din.
A lord in sapphire, his beard streaked white, climbed a bench, his cup sloshing, and bellowed, "Pandu, Kuru's pride! Victor of east and west!"
The room thundered, a cheer shaking the banners, cups slamming tables, and Pandu rose, lifting his goblet with a weary nod, his voice steady but soft.
"To Kuru," he called, the words carrying over the noise, "its strength endures, drink to our lands, our people!"
The nobles roared back, "Kuru's pride! Kuru's sword!" their shouts a wave, wine spilling, the hall pulsing with their fervor under the torchlight.
Kunti's lips curved faintly, her hand brushing Pandu's arm, "They honor you, Pandu, your campaigns hold us high, rest in that."
Madri nodded, her tone gentle, "High indeed, Pandu, Madra's riders speak your name now, Kuru's reach spans wide because of you."
Pandu's grin flickered, "Wide's good, Madri, Kunti, I've carved us a realm, but it's heavy tonight, heavier than the sword."
Bhishma approached, his goblet lowered, his voice warm, "Heavy with glory, Pandu, you've bound east and west, Kuru stands taller for it."
The crowd cheered again, a noble in emerald shouting, "To the river prince! Plains and sands bow!" and laughter rolled, hearty and loud.
Satyavati's gaze sharpened, her steps swift as she crossed to Kunti, her hand catching the queen's wrist, pulling her aside near a shadowed arch.
"Pride needs heirs, Kunti," she said, her voice low and sharp, cutting through the revelry, "three years with you, months with Madri, where are the sons?"
Kunti stiffened, her eyes meeting Satyavati's, "We've built a realm, Satyavati, strength takes time, sons will come when fate allows."
Satyavati's grip tightened, "Fate bends to need, Kunti, Kuru's banners fly, but they'll fall without a line, you must press this, both of you."
Kunti pulled free, her tone firm, "Pressing fate breaks it, Satyavati, we stand united, Pandu's glory holds us, the rest follows."
Madri caught the exchange, rising to join them, her voice soft but clear, "She's right, Satyavati, we're new yet, give us breath, heirs aren't forged overnight."
Satyavati's eyes flicked between them, "Breath's a luxury, Madri, Kuru teeters without sons, your grace won't hold an empty throne."
Pandu watched from the table, his grin fading, and set his goblet down, his gaze drifting to a small cradle in the corner—empty, carved for a child unborn.
He stared, silent, the room's cheer a distant hum, and murmured, "Soon… I hope," his voice a whisper swallowed by the clatter of cups.
The noble in sapphire raised his goblet again, "To Pandu's might! Kuru's unyielding star!" and the hall echoed, oblivious to the king's quiet shadow.
Bhishma settled beside Pandu, his hand on his shoulder, "You've done well, Pandu, the realm thrives, let this night lift you."
Pandu's nod was slow, "It lifts, Bhishma, but it's hollow, victories pile high, yet that cradle mocks me."
Vidura approached, his tray set aside, "Hollow now, Pandu, but not forever, Madra's pact, your queens, Kuru's foundation is firm."
Pandu's eyes lingered on the cradle, "Firm, Vidura, but brittle, I feel it, glory's a shell without a seed beneath."
Satyavati returned to her pillar, her gaze dark, and muttered to a servant, "Triumph fades fast, no heirs bite deeper than defeat."
The servant, a wiry man, bowed, "They're young, lady, campaigns take toll, perhaps peace brings what war delays?"
Satyavati's laugh was dry, "Peace delays, not delivers, Kuru's pride hangs on a thread, tension rises, mark it."
Dhritarashtra's staff tapped, a slow rhythm, and he spoke low, "Celebrated, childless, his star dims while mine waits."
Vidura heard, stepping near, "Stars shift, Dhritarashtra, Pandu's light strengthens us all, patience binds Kuru, not envy."
Dhritarashtra's snort was sharp, "Patience for his glory," but he turned away, the wine's warmth a faint flicker against his cold silence.
Pandu rose, the cradle's shadow heavy, and joined Kunti and Madri, his voice quiet, "You heard her, queens, she's right, we need more."
Kunti's hand found his, "We will, Pandu, strength first, sons follow, don't let this dim you."
Madri's touch was light on his arm, "She presses hard, Pandu, but we're enough for now, Kuru stands, heirs come in time."
The moment hung, Pandu's silence a weight, Satyavati's urgency a bite, the throne room's cheer a fading echo against the empty cradle's stare.