The forest near Hastinapura pulsed with a shadowed heartbeat, its canopy a dense weave of ancient boughs, leaves rustling soft as dawn's light bled away.
Thin spears of sunlight pierced the branches, glinting off mossy roots that twisted across the earth like the sinews of some buried titan, shrouded in mist.
The air hung cool and biting, thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, a faint whisper of wild mint curling through the stillness, heavy with intent.
A stag stood in the brush ahead, its antlers a jagged crown against the green, its breath a fleeting puff of white, a living mark in the forest's embrace.
Pandu crouched low, twenty-four summers taut in his frame, his hunter's green tunic blending with the foliage, his bowstring creaking as he held it drawn.
His dark hair clung to his brow, his eyes locked on the stag, a fierce spark cutting through the fog of his mind, the arrow's fletching brushing his cheek.
Kunti stood paces behind, her crimson sari dulled beneath a gray shawl, its silver threads faint, her dark hair swaying as she watched, her unease a rising tide.
Her piercing brown eyes bore into Pandu's back, her hands clenched tight beneath the shawl, her voice a soft plea from moments before still echoing in her chest.
Madri lingered at her side, her indigo sari tucked for the trek, its silver weave catching slivers of light, her midnight hair bound, her green eyes sharp with tension.
She gripped a low branch, her poise steady but strained, a desert queen sensing the forest's weight, her breath a faint mist in the morning chill.
Keshav and Ravi flanked the rear, their spears planted firm, their leather gear creaking softly, their gazes darting through the mist, hands poised for trouble.
The servant trailed last, a wiry youth with a pack of water and bread, his steps faltering, his eyes wide as the forest's stillness pressed closer.
Pandu's bowstring hummed, the arrow trembling as he held it taut, his whisper fierce from moments past, "There you are, steady now, one shot to clear the haze."
Kunti's breath hitched, her voice rising soft but urgent, "Pandu, wait," she urged, stepping forward, "something's wrong, I feel it, don't loose yet."
Madri's hand brushed Kunti's arm, her tone low and steady, "He's too fixed, Kunti, that stag's his anchor, let him have this, we'll pull him back."
Pandu's jaw tightened, his focus unyielding, "Wrong or not, Kunti, I need this," he said, his voice a taut thread, "it's meat, it's life, it's something real."
Keshav squinted through the mist, his spear tilting, "Clean shot, prince," he said, his voice crisp, "but the brush is thick, hit true, or we're chasing it."
Ravi shifted his weight, his grunt rough, "Thick and dark, Pandu, don't miss, I'm not dragging a wounded buck through that mess, you hear?"
Pandu's nod was sharp, "True's my aim, Ravi, watch me," his fingers flexed, his breath slowing to a hunter's rhythm, the stag's pulse his only world.
The forest stilled, shadows pooling deeper, the mist curling like tendrils over the earth, the stag lifting its head, antlers catching a fleeting ray of light.
Kunti's hand clenched her shawl, her voice dropping to a whisper, "Pandu, please," she said, her unease blooming, "my heart's tight, something's off."
Madri's grip steadied her, "Off or not, Kunti, he's set," she murmured, her tone firm, "we'll guard him, he's ours to keep, let it play out."
Pandu exhaled, the bowstring sang, and the arrow flew—a streak of shadow slicing the mist, striking deep into the stag's flank with a dull, wet thud.
A cry tore through the trees, not the stag's bellow but a scream—human, raw, shattering the stillness, twisting the air into a sudden, dreadful hush.
Kunti flinched, her hand flying to her mouth, "Pandu, no," she gasped, her eyes wide, "that wasn't a beast, what have you struck?"
Madri's grip faltered, the branch snapping under her hand, "A scream," she whispered, her voice trembling, "that's no deer, Pandu, we need to see."
Pandu froze, his bow slipping from his grasp, his face draining pale, "What…" he muttered, his voice a broken shard, his feet stumbling forward.
Keshav dropped his spear to his side, "Gods," he breathed, his tone tight, "that's no game cry, prince, what's in that brush?"
Ravi surged ahead, his spear raised, "Stay back, Pandu," he growled, "something's wrong, let us check it, you've stirred a mess."
The servant shrank back, his pack slipping, "Sages?" he stammered, his voice a quiver, "could be holy ones, prince, we're in it now."
Pandu shook his head, pushing past Ravi, "No staying back," he rasped, "my arrow, my fault, I'll see it, move!"
Kunti followed swift, her shawl trailing, "Pandu, slow down," she called, her voice fraying, "we're with you, but don't rush blind!"
Madri kept pace, her sari snagging on thorns, "Blind or not, Kunti," she said, her tone sharp, "he's going, we can't stop him, we follow."
The brush loomed thicker, the mist a gray wall, the scream's echo fading into a low moan, a thread of sound pulling them deeper into the wild.
Pandu's hands parted the brambles, his breath ragged, "Where…" he muttered, his eyes scanning, "show yourself, I didn't mean…"
Keshav flanked him, "There," he pointed, his voice low, "under that oak, something's down, prince, looks bad."
Ravi pushed through, "Blood," he said, his tone grim, "smell it, Pandu, that's no clean kill, brace yourself."
The forest held its breath, the mist curling tighter, the arrow's path a line to a truth unseen, the hunt's edge a blade turned sharp and cruel.