The throne room of Hastinapura towered like a celestial palace, its marble walls rising to kiss the heavens.
Banners of crimson and gold flared in the wind, their silken threads ablaze with the light of a thousand suns.
Torches thundered in iron sconces, their flames leaping as if fed by dragon's breath, casting shadows that danced with wild abandon.
The air pulsed with divine might, thick with incense smoke that spiraled upward, a storm of sandalwood and myrrh woven by immortal hands.
High windows drank the noon sun, their arches framing beams of golden fire that slashed through the haze.
The throne gleamed at the hall's heart, a seat forged from the bones of mountains, its surface aglow with a radiant aura.
Dhritarashtra sat upon it, a mortal king dwarfed by eternal splendor, his forty summers etched into a face of stone.
His dark tunic hugged his frame, a shadow cast against the throne's gilded embrace, stark and unyielding.
A staff of jade and ebony rested in his grip, its weight a tether for a soul adrift in endless night.
Silver streaked his bound hair, a warrior's mane without a crown, his blind eyes locked in a void beyond the mortal veil.
Nobles thronged the chamber, their silks of sapphire and emerald flashing like shards of a shattered sky.
Goblets clashed in their hands, wine spilling like the blood of fallen titans, their laughter a tempest that shook the earth.
The hall shimmered with their energy, a court of warriors and lords, their voices weaving a hymn to glory.
A tremor stirred the air as the great doors groaned, a roar of ancient wood parting to reveal a herald from the wilds.
A messenger staggered forth, his leather armor caked in western dust, a warrior born from the sands of battle.
He knelt before the throne, his breath a ragged gale, his young face alight with the fury of his tale.
The nobles stilled, their eyes glinting like stars, leaning forward as his voice rose, sharp and unyielding.
"Pandu felled their chief with a single stroke, my lord," he proclaimed, his words a blade forged in the fires of war.
"The western tribes crumbled before his might, their banners shredded beneath his iron boots!"
He thrust his arms wide, a gesture of triumph, as if summoning the battlefield's chaos into the hall.
"The west kneels to Kuru now, its strength reborn in the crucible of your brother's divine wrath!"
His chest heaved, pride blazing in his gaze, his voice echoing like a war drum through the stone.
The hall ignited, a roar of awe that split the heavens, a sound to rival the clash of celestial armies.
Nobles surged to their feet, their cheers a tidal wave, crashing against the walls with unstoppable force.
Goblets rose high, wine sloshing like rivers of flame, their voices a chorus that shook the very pillars.
"Pandu's arm strengthens us all!" thundered a lord in emerald silk, his gray-streaked beard quivering with zeal.
His cry rang out, a warlord's bellow, igniting a storm of fervor that swept the chamber.
"To Pandu! To Kuru!" they chanted, fists pounding the air, their faces ablaze with the light of victory.
The sound swelled, a hymn to a conqueror, each shout a thread in a tapestry of immortal glory.
Dhritarashtra's fingers clamped onto the throne's armrest, the wood groaning beneath his crushing grip.
A splinter pierced his palm, a silent wound, its sting lost to the fire raging in his soul.
His blind eyes stared into the dark, unseeing yet drowning in the flood of Pandu's triumph.
The tide of praise crashed over him, each cheer a dagger plunged deep, twisting in his core.
His lips parted, a breath hissing free, and a murmur slipped out, low and venomous, "Why him? Why always him?"
The words were a curse, a whisper to the void, a storm brewing in the depths of his spirit.
His staff quivered in his other hand, its tip tapping the dais, a faint echo swallowed by the court's roar.
The nobles' voices thundered on, a relentless gale, each shout a lash against his fragile pride.
Pandu, the golden son, whose blade sundered mountains, whose victories painted the skies with celestial fire.
Dhritarashtra sat, a king cloaked in shadow, his name unspoken, his deeds buried beneath his brother's light.
The air thickened with their fervor, a divine wind that pressed against him, heavy and unyielding.
His chest tightened, envy surging like a black river, its currents tearing at the walls of his restraint.
A wiry servant in gray edged near, his tray of cups trembling, his breath quick with awe.
"The court sings his name, my lord," he whispered, his voice a spark in the storm.
"They say Pandu's valor gilds Kuru's star, lifting it beyond the western sands to the heavens!"
His words struck like lightning, meant to kindle pride, but they sank into Dhritarashtra's heart like ash.
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding, as his fingers dug deeper into the armrest.
Blood welled from the splinter now, a crimson bead, a pain he welcomed as the storm within raged.
Envy roared, a dark wind howling through his spirit, a force that threatened to shatter his mortal shell.
Pandu's banners waved in his mind, a vision of glory he could neither see nor seize.
The cheers swelled higher, a celestial hymn to a brother whose light eclipsed his own existence.
The hall pulsed with their energy, a divine chorus, each voice a thread in Pandu's immortal legend.
Dhritarashtra's silence deepened, a void that swallowed sound, his presence a shadow amid the blaze.
A noble in sapphire silk lurched forward, his goblet thrust high, wine spilling like a sacred offering.
"We should feast for this, my lord!" he roared, his voice a thunderclap cutting through the din.
"A triumph like Pandu's demands the halls blaze with song and the wine of the gods!"
His words sparked a ripple of assent, heads nodding, eyes turning to the throne with eager light.
The hall stilled slightly, a breath held, as the noble's call hung like a decree in the air.
Dhritarashtra's grip tightened, the armrest creaking, his lips a grim slash across his face.
His staff tapped again, a slow, deliberate beat, a rhythm of restraint against the tide.
Pandu's name echoed in his skull, a relentless drumbeat, each victory a chain binding his soul.
The court's gaze pressed down, unseen but heavy, awaiting a word he could not summon.
The air shifted, a new weight descending, as footsteps rang out from the hall's far end.
The sound was sharp, unyielding, slicing through the fading cheers like a blade of destiny.
A figure emerged from the shadowed arches, tall and resolute, his dark tunic a storm against the light.
Bhishma strode forth, his silver hair a crown of starlight, his gray eyes piercing the haze like twin moons.
The nobles turned, their whispers shifting, as his boots struck the marble with the force of fate.
His presence rolled through the hall, a quiet thunder, silencing the last echoes of Pandu's name.
The torchlight flickered, shadows bowing before him, as he approached the throne with purpose.