Footsteps sliced through the banquet hall's din, Vidura's plain tunic a shadow amid the revelry.
His dark eyes gleamed with steady resolve, a sage stepping into the fray of clashing voices.
The air shifted, a ripple of calm, as his presence pierced the storm of wine and laughter.
The hall had soured, its celestial glow dimming, tables askew with wine-stained cloths.
Nobles argued over borders, their silks of sapphire and emerald flashing in heated gestures.
Spiced meat lay forgotten, goblets tipped, the feast's joy twisting into a rising tide of chaos.
Dhritarashtra sat enthroned, his fingers still dug into the wood, fury masking his blind face.
Gandhari's hand rested on his, a warm anchor, though his scowl deepened with each shout.
The bard's lute lay silent, drowned by discord, Pandu's name lingering like a bitter aftertaste.
A noble in crimson silk swayed, his spilled wine a red pool, his laugh cutting through the noise.
"Pandu's absence leaves us scrabbling!" he slurred, pointing at a lord across the hall.
The accused noble snarled, slamming his goblet down, "My lands are mine, you drunken fool!"
Voices rose, a tempest of greed, border claims clashing like swords in the torchlit haze.
A warrior joined, his roar loud, "The east owes me tribute, Pandu's wars won it!"
The hall trembled, tension coiling tight, the feast fracturing under the weight of their wrath.
Vidura stepped forward, his frame unyielding, a pillar of quiet strength amid the storm.
His voice rang out, steady and clear, cutting through the shouting like a blade of light.
"Right endures, lords, not greed," he said, his words a beacon in the hall's dark tumult.
Nobles turned, their faces flushed, some sneering at the plain-clad figure before them.
A lord in emerald silk, gruff and broad, spat, "Who's this bastard to judge us?"
His hand gripped his goblet, knuckles white, disdain dripping from his rumbling voice.
Vidura stood amid the chaos, his gaze sweeping the hall, unyielding as a mountain peak.
He raised a hand, palm open, his calm a stark contrast to the nobles' fiery discord.
"Land bends to law, not swords," he continued, his tone firm, a sage's decree unshaken.
Bhishma rose from his seat, his silver hair glinting, his presence a thunder rolling near.
He strode to Vidura's side, gray eyes fierce, his tunic dark against the hall's fading glow.
"Wisdom in a bastard's blood," he said, firm and low, "heed him, or fracture us all."
The room stilled, Bhishma's words a hammer, striking silence into the nobles' raging storm.
The gruff lord faltered, his goblet lowering, his sneer fading under Bhishma's stern gaze.
Vidura's voice resumed, a steady stream, outlining borders with logic sharp as steel.
"East yields to the river's bend," he said, his finger tracing an invisible line in the air.
"West holds the plains, fair and just, greed has no claim where right prevails."
His dark eyes met each noble's, unblinking, a sage weaving peace from their tangled strife.
Nobles murmured, heads nodding slow, the chaos unraveling beneath his quiet command.
A warrior in leather grunted, his anger cooling, "He speaks true, the river marks it."
The hall exhaled, tension easing, Vidura's clarity a balm on the feast's festering wound.
Dhritarashtra shifted, his grip loosening, though his blind face remained a mask of shadow.
Gandhari's hand tightened briefly, her blindfold stark, sensing the shift in the air.
The bard watched, lute in hand, his bold voice silenced by Vidura's rising calm.
Bhishma nodded, a single tilt of his head, approval sealing Vidura's words in stone.
"Law holds us," he added, his voice deep, a titan's echo grounding the hall's unrest.
The nobles settled, their silks rustling, dissent fading under the weight of his nod.
Vidura stood tall, his gaze unwavering, a sage voice rising amid the wine-soaked ruin.
He stepped forward, hands clasped, his logic a thread stitching the hall back together.
"Right endures," he repeated, softer now, a mantra etching peace into their minds.
A noble in sapphire silk leaned back, his goblet steady, "Fair enough, I'll yield the ridge."
Another nodded, his voice gruff but tame, "The plains stay mine, as he says."
The air lightened, the feast's sour edge blunted, Vidura's wisdom a quiet triumph.
Servants moved again, righting tables, their steps cautious in the hall's fragile calm.
The clinking of goblets resumed, softer now, a murmur replacing the earlier storm.
Vidura's presence lingered, a steady flame, burning bright against Dhritarashtra's brooding dark.
A noble in crimson silk rose, his face twisted, muttering, "Pandu's absence breeds this mess."
He stormed toward the doors, his silks trailing, his voice a growl lost in the hall's hum.
Vidura's eyes followed, sharp and still, then turned as Bhishma gestured toward the council chamber.
Bhishma strode forward, his steps resolute, his shadow stretching long across the stone.
"Come," he said, his voice a low command, "we settle this beyond the feast's reach."
Vidura fell in step, his tunic plain, following Bhishma through the hall's arched exit.