Bhishma surged to his feet, his chair scraping the stone floor with a harsh grind, his gray eyes flashing like steel as the guard's words sank in.
Vidura spun on his heel, his calm fracturing into swift determination, his dark gaze locking onto Bhishma as they moved as one toward the chamber's exit.
The guard stumbled ahead, armor clanking, his breathless shout of bandits at the gates driving them into the corridor's shadowed stretch.
Their boots pounded the stone in unison, the council chamber's stifling air giving way to the open rush of Hastinapura's outer walls.
The gates loomed ahead, a massive arch of weathered timber and iron, dust swirling thick in the fading afternoon sun as chaos spilled across the threshold.
Carts lay overturned, their wooden frames splintered, sacks of grain and bolts of cloth strewn like casualties across the packed earth.
Merchants and guards clashed in a tangle of fists and shouts, the crowd's roar swelling under the orange-streaked sky, a scene of fury born from desperation.
Vidura slowed his stride, taking it in—men grappling, voices hoarse with anger, the air heavy with sweat and the tang of spilled wine.
Bhishma pushed forward, his towering frame cutting through the throng, his deep voice booming over the din. "Stand down, all of you—now!"
The merchants barely faltered, their shouts rising sharper, a burly man in a stained tunic swinging at a guard who ducked and cursed.
Vidura stepped into the fray, his plain tunic stark against the chaos, his hands raised high as he planted himself between two brawling figures.
"Enough!" he barked, his voice firm and unyielding, carrying a weight that sliced through the clamor like a blade through cloth.
A merchant with a split lip, his beard matted with dust, shoved forward, his eyes wild. "Pandu's wars bleed us dry—taxes choke us, and now this?"
He gestured at the overturned carts, his voice cracking with rage. "We can't move goods, can't pay, and you expect us to take it quiet?"
Another, lean and sunburned, joined in, clutching a broken staff. "Bandits hit because Pandu's gone—where's our protection, huh?"
The crowd surged, their shouts blending into a wave of frustration, fists still raised, the air crackling with unrest.
Vidura held his ground, his hands steady, his dark eyes sweeping the mob with a focus that didn't waver. "Right endures, not this rage—stop and think."
He pointed to the scattered goods, his tone steady but forceful. "You're breaking what's left—fighting here solves nothing, only costs you more."
The split-lip merchant sneered, stepping closer. "Words don't fill my purse—Pandu's absence has us starving, and your taxes finish the job."
Vidura met his glare, unflinching. "Taxes keep the kingdom standing—Pandu's absence doesn't change that, but I'm here to fix what's breaking."
Bhishma loomed at Vidura's side, his hand resting on his sword hilt, his deep voice rolling out like a storm's warning. "Vidura speaks for Kuru—listen, or face the consequences."
The merchants hesitated, some lowering their fists, Bhishma's presence a wall of authority that pressed against their fury.
A wiry trader, his tunic torn, spat on the ground, his voice bitter. "Kuru's fine words don't stop bandits—or feed my kids when I've got nothing left."
Vidura shifted, pointing north. "Bandits hit because trade's stalled—I've set tolls to reopen those routes, guards to clear them. Goods move, you profit."
The lean merchant gripped his broken staff tighter, his voice rising again. "Tolls? More coin out of our pockets—how's that help us now?"
Vidura stepped forward, his tone sharpening. "Tolls pay the guards—your goods get through safe, not looted. You're losing more to bandits than you'll ever pay."
The split-lip man laughed, harsh and short. "Guards? Where were they an hour ago when this started? We're dying out here!"
Vidura's jaw tightened, his voice dropping low. "They're coming—fifty men, rotating from the west. This won't happen again if you hold steady now."
The crowd grumbled, their anger simmering, a few still clenching fists but others starting to waver under Vidura's relentless calm.
Bhishma's grip on his sword tightened, his gray eyes scanning the mob, his silence a threat louder than any shout.
A broad-shouldered merchant, his face bruised, pushed through, his voice thick. "Pandu's been gone too long—taxes go up, bandits swarm, and we're left to rot."
Vidura nodded, acknowledging it. "Pandu's absence strains us—I'm not blind to that. But breaking each other apart doesn't bring him back or fill your carts."
The wiry trader kicked a shattered crate, his frustration boiling over. "You're all talk—Hastinapura sits pretty while we bleed out here!"
Vidura's eyes narrowed, his voice cutting through. "Hastinapura bleeds with you—I've spent all day in there arguing lords into line so you can trade again."
He gestured to the gates, firm and clear. "Those tolls and guards aren't talk—they're happening. Stand down, and you'll see the proof soon enough."
The lean merchant hesitated, his staff lowering slightly, his voice gruff. "Soon enough doesn't fix today—my load's gone, who pays for that?"
Bhishma growled, stepping closer, his shadow falling heavy. "Kuru pays when order holds—Vidura's fixing it, not me swinging this blade."
The crowd stilled, Bhishma's threat hanging thick, his hand steady on the sword, a line they dared not cross.
Vidura seized the moment, his hands raised again, his voice steady as stone. "Today's losses hurt—I get it. But fight here, and tomorrow's worse—trust me to make this right."
The split-lip merchant wiped blood from his chin, his glare softening. "You better, or we're done listening to anyone from that palace."
The broad-shouldered man muttered, his fists unclenching. "If guards show up, maybe I'll buy this—otherwise, it's just noise."
Vidura nodded, his tone unwavering. "They'll show—west's already shifting men. You'll have clear roads by week's end, and coin after that."
The wiry trader tossed his torn sleeve aside, his voice low. "Week's end? Long wait when I'm broke now—better not be lying."
Vidura met his eyes, firm. "I don't lie—north's trade opens, your goods move, your purse fills. Hold out, and it works."
The crowd's shouts faded to murmurs, the fight draining out as Vidura's words sank in, his calm a lifeline in their storm.
Bhishma relaxed his grip, his sword still sheathed, his deep voice cutting through the last of the noise. "Order's back—keep it that way, or I step in next time."
A few merchants bent to right their carts, others shuffled back, the dust settling as the sun dipped lower, painting the gates in fading gold.
Vidura lowered his hands, his dark eyes scanning the group, his presence a steady force that held the fragile peace together.
The lean merchant kicked at the dirt, his voice quieter now. "Pandu's wars started this—Dhritarashtra sits blind while we suffer out here."
Bhishma's head snapped toward him, his growl low. "Watch your tongue—Vidura's here, not the king, and he's the one fixing this."
The merchant shrank back, muttering under his breath, his words lost in the crowd's shifting murmurs.
Vidura stayed silent, his gaze flickering to Bhishma, then back to the gates, the weight of the man's jab lingering.
Bhishma turned, his broad frame casting a long shadow, his voice a command. "Come on—we're done here. Throne room's next."
Vidura fell in step, his tunic dusty from the fray, his mind already turning to the king as they left the gates behind.
The crowd dispersed slow, carts creaking upright, the afternoon sun sinking as Hastinapura's edge settled into an uneasy calm.
The merchant's mutter echoed faint—Dhritarashtra's weakness a spark Bhishma and Vidura couldn't quite stamp out.