Bhishma strode forward, his boots striking the marble with the weight of a falling star.
His dark tunic rippled like a storm unleashed, silver hair blazing under the torchlight's celestial glow.
Gray eyes burned through the haze, twin moons piercing the throne room's quiet, a titan among mortals.
Nobles parted like waves before a divine wind, their silks rustling, whispers fading into awe.
He halted before the throne, shadow stretching vast, a mountain rooted in the heart of the hall.
Dhritarashtra sat rigid, staff trembling in his grip, jade and ebony gleaming with unspoken fury.
His blind eyes stared into the void, ears straining, catching the thunder of Bhishma's presence.
The air quivered, thick with incense and tension, as Bhishma's voice rose, a decree from the heavens.
"Gandhari's house is strong," he declared, words sharp as a blade forged in celestial fire.
"Her loyalty will bind the north to us, an unbreakable chain of iron and blood."
His hand rested on his sword hilt, a silent vow, strength radiating from his towering frame.
"Pandu's absence stretches long, Dhritarashtra. This union will steady Kuru's realm."
Each syllable struck like a hammer, forging duty into the silence of the hall.
Dhritarashtra's hand tightened, staff creaking, wood bending under the storm in his soul.
His lips parted, a sharp breath hissing free, voice lashing out like a whip of shadow.
"A bride to prop me up while Pandu conquers?" he snarled, bitterness dripping from every word.
The question sliced the air, a venomous cry, his chest heaving with suppressed rage.
"Why him?" echoed in his mind, a relentless drumbeat, Pandu's name a curse unbanished.
Nobles shifted, their sapphire and emerald silks catching the dim light, eyes darting nervously.
A lord in emerald silk stepped forward, voice cautious, a thread of calm amid the tempest.
"A king needs a queen, my lord," he said, soft but firm, bowing slightly.
"It's wisdom, not weakness, to secure the realm with such a bond."
His goblet hung low, fingers tense, words a fragile shield against the king's wrath.
Bhishma's gaze held steady, unyielding as a mountain peak, gray eyes locked on Dhritarashtra.
"Gandhara's strength is no crutch," he countered, voice a river carving through stone.
"It's a bulwark for Kuru, a northern shield while Pandu carves his path in the wilds."
He leaned closer, presence towering, words a command woven with unshakeable will.
"Stability demands this. Your reign needs roots to stand against the storm."
Dhritarashtra's jaw clenched, staff tapping once, a crack that split the silence.
The sound echoed, a defiance swallowed by the hall's vastness, his anger a smoldering ember.
His fingers dug into the throne's armrest, splinter biting deeper, blood a faint whisper on his palm.
Pandu's triumphs blazed in his thoughts, a golden flame searing his pride to ash.
Bhishma pressed forward, voice a steady drum, each word a stone in Kuru's foundation.
"Gandhari is no mere bride," he said, tone rising, a call to the divine order of kings.
"Her house commands legions, her will is steel, her union will forge a northern titan."
He straightened, shadow stretching like a dragon's wing, urging a king to rise.
Dhritarashtra's chest tightened, envy clashing with duty, a war raging beneath his ribs.
His staff tapped again, slower, a reluctant rhythm forming, surrender creeping in.
Nobles watched, breaths held, the air heavy with the weight of his unseen struggle.
Bhishma's eyes softened, a flicker of warmth, though his stance remained a pillar of stone.
"This is not to diminish you," he said, voice lowering, a rare thread of compassion.
"It's to lift Kuru beyond what any one soul can claim, a legacy for all."
Dhritarashtra's head dipped, a nod forming, reluctant, born of necessity's cold grip.
His staff steadied, trembling eased, though the fire in his spirit burned unquenched.
The hall exhaled, murmurs rippling, tension loosening like a bowstring unstrung.
The noble in emerald silk nodded, voice faint, "Wisdom indeed, my lord."
His words drifted, a breeze pulling Dhritarashtra from the abyss of his brooding.
Bhishma stepped back, shadow receding, his purpose carved into the moment's silence.
A horn wailed outside, sharp and piercing, slicing through the throne room's haze.
The sound rose, a cry from the mortal world, heralding a shift beyond the walls.
Nobles turned, heads lifting, whispers swelling as the note grew louder.
Dhritarashtra's blind eyes narrowed, staff stilling, the horn snapping his focus outward.
The gates rumbled in the distance, a caravan's thunder rolling closer, dust on the wind.
Servants stirred, footsteps hastening, the hall buzzing with a new, restless energy.
Bhishma's gaze flicked to the windows, silver hair glinting, a sentinel poised for fate