The noble in sapphire silk straightened from his bow, his voice still hanging in the throne room's dim air, the torchlight flickering across his formal stance.
Dhritarashtra's staff steadied in his grip, his blind eyes narrowing as the words sank in, his hunched frame lifting slightly on the throne.
Gandhari's hand rested on his arm, her indigo sari catching the low light, her silence a steady presence beside his brewing resolve.
Bhishma stood firm near Vidura, his silver hair glinting, his deep voice cutting through. "Orders await—let's see them done."
Vidura nodded, his dusty tunic a mark of the gates' chaos, his dark eyes shifting from the noble to Dhritarashtra, the room poised for a shift.
Midday sun soon pierced the throne room, streaming through high slits to chase the shadows, the space bustling with scribes and nobles crowding the dais.
Scrolls piled high on tables dragged in from the archives, their edges curling, the air thick with the sharp scent of ink and parchment dust.
Dhritarashtra sat straighter, his dark tunic stark against the throne's gold, his staff tapping a slow rhythm as voices hummed around him.
Gandhari remained at his side, her blindfold a quiet contrast to the room's clamor, her hands folded as nobles shuffled in with reports and demands.
A scribe, young and nervous, approached with a ledger, his voice stuttering as he bowed low. "My lord, trade's faltering—bandits hit the gates again, merchants are holding back goods."
Dhritarashtra's staff stopped mid-tap, his head tilting toward the sound, his tone loud and abrupt. "Then force it moving—raise the trade tax, ten percent more, now."
The scribe hesitated, his fingers tightening on the ledger, his eyes darting to the nobles lining the room's edges.
A murmur rippled through them, heads turning, silks rustling as the weight of the decree settled like a stone in still water.
A noble in emerald silk, lean and sharp-eyed, stepped forward, his voice low but clear. "That's steep, my lord—merchants are already stretched thin from Pandu's campaigns."
He shifted his weight, hands clasped tight. "Push them harder, and they'll stop trading altogether—Pandu balanced this better, kept it flowing."
Dhritarashtra's staff slammed the throne's arm, the crack echoing sharp through the room, his voice booming. "I'm king, not Pandu's echo—my word stands!"
The noble flinched, stepping back, but the murmur grew, a quiet dissent threading through the crowd like a slow burn.
Gandhari's hand brushed Dhritarashtra's, her voice calm and measured. "You'll find your way, my lord—this is new, it takes time."
Her fingers lingered, a steadying touch, but Dhritarashtra's jaw clenched, his staff tapping fast against the throne's base.
"Time?" he snapped, his tone biting. "They don't give me time—they compare me to him every breath, every misstep!"
His blind eyes widened, unseeing but fierce, his resentment spilling out in the midday light's harsh glare.
The scribe cleared his throat, his voice trembling as he clutched the ledger tighter. "My lord, Pandu's tax was lighter—he offset it with northern tolls, kept the merchants willing."
Dhritarashtra's staff hit the floor again, harder, the sound a thunderclap that silenced the room for a heartbeat. "Pandu's finesse, is it? Write the decree—ten percent, no less!"
The scribe's hands shook, ink smudging as he scribbled, his eyes darting to the nobles who exchanged uneasy glances.
A noble in crimson, broad and graying, muttered under his breath, loud enough to carry. "Pandu knew the limits—trade's fragile, this'll break it."
Bhishma moved forward, his boots heavy on the marble, his deep voice cutting through the rising tension. "The king's spoken—make it work, or we'll have bigger problems than grumbling merchants."
His gray eyes swept the room, a warning in their steel, his hand resting on his sword hilt like a promise.
The crimson noble swallowed his next words, his face tightening, but the murmurs persisted, a low hum of doubt circling the throne.
Vidura stood silent near the dais, his dark eyes tracking the scribes, his presence a steady shadow amid the growing unrest.
Dhritarashtra leaned forward, his staff tapping a frantic beat, his voice rising over the noise. "They'll pay—I rule here, not Pandu's ghost! Scribe, read it back, now!"
The young scribe fumbled the ledger, his voice cracking as he recited. "Ten percent increase on all trade goods entering Hastinapura, effective immediately, by order of King Dhritarashtra."
A noble in sapphire winced, his hand rubbing his temple, his voice barely audible. "Pandu never rushed it like this—he planned, waited."
Dhritarashtra's head snapped toward the sound, his staff slamming down once more, the crack splitting the air. "Enough of Pandu—I'm done with his name!"
Gandhari's hand pressed harder on his arm, her tone soft but firm. "My lord, they'll adjust—your rule will steady them, just breathe."
Her blindfold tilted toward him, her calm a lifeline, but Dhritarashtra's chest heaved, his voice a raw growl. "Steady them? They whisper his skill while I stumble—how do I rule with that in my ears?"
His fingers dug into the throne's arm, splintering wood, his fury a storm the room couldn't contain.
Vidura shifted, his voice cutting in, measured but clear. "The decree's set—give it a day, my lord. Merchants will grumble, but they'll move if we enforce it."
Bhishma nodded, his stance widening, his tone gruff. "Vidura's right—force it through, and they'll fall in line. Pandu's way isn't the only one."
The crimson noble muttered again, his voice low but sharp. "Pandu's way didn't choke trade dead—this'll stir more trouble than it's worth."
Dhritarashtra's staff trembled in his grip, his blind eyes blazing with a fury he couldn't aim, his voice a harsh shout. "Trouble? Let them try me—I'll crush their dissent before it festers!"
The room stilled, the nobles' murmurs dying under the weight of his outburst, the air thick with ink and unspoken doubt.
The scribe finished writing, his quill scratching loud in the silence, his hands shaking as he rolled the scroll tight.
A noble in emerald coughed, his voice tentative. "My lord, the western lords won't like this—they're already on edge from Pandu's demands."
Dhritarashtra's laugh was short, bitter, his staff tapping slow now. "Let them squirm—I'm not here to coddle them like he did."
Gandhari's hand stayed steady, her voice a quiet balm. "You're carving your path, my lord—it's yours, not his."
Vidura stepped closer, his tunic still dusty, his tone firm. "The tax will hold if we back it—guards at the gates, tolls in the north. It's rough, but it's workable."
Bhishma's hand dropped from his sword, his voice a low rumble. "Rough's fine—kings don't bend to whispers. Make it stick, and they'll shut up."
The sapphire noble's eyes narrowed, his voice a mutter. "Pandu bent just enough—kept them quiet without breaking their backs."
Dhritarashtra's staff snapped against the throne again, the sound a jagged echo, his voice a roar. "I said enough—his name stops here, or I'll silence it myself!"
The room froze, scribes pausing mid-scratch, nobles holding their breath as Dhritarashtra's fury pulsed through the space.
Gandhari rose, her sari rustling soft, her hand lingering on his shoulder as her voice soothed. "Come, my lord—let them finish this, you've set it in motion."
Dhritarashtra's breath slowed, his staff resting still, his head dipping as her calm seeped in, though his grip stayed tight.
The crimson noble slipped toward the door, his grumble low but clear. "Pandu's skill kept us smooth—this'll trip us up."
Bhishma's eyes tracked him, his growl faint but sharp. "Let him talk—decree's done, he'll live with it."
Vidura watched the noble go, his dark eyes steady, his silence a weight as the room buzzed with scribes rolling scrolls.
Dhritarashtra stood, his staff tapping the floor, his voice a mutter. "My rule—let them choke on it if they must."
Gandhari followed, her steps quiet, guiding him toward their chambers as the throne room's tension lingered, thick and unresolved.