Dhritarashtra shoved through the throne room's balcony doors, the heavy wood banging against the stone as he burst into the night air, his staff dragging a jagged line behind him.
Gandhari followed, her indigo sari catching the wind, her steps quick but careful, her blindfolded face tight with the strain of his unraveling fury.
The palace balcony stretched wide, its marble rail cold under the deep night sky, stars sharp and unyielding above the restless hum of the Ganga far below.
His dark tunic whipped in the gusts, his blind eyes staring into the void, his breath heaving as the scout's words—failure, raiders, gaps—burned in his ears.
The wind tore at them, a restless howl that matched the storm in his chest, the Ganga's murmur rising like a taunt from the blackness beyond the city's edge.
Dhritarashtra gripped the rail with one hand, his staff thumping the marble with the other, his voice fierce and raw. "I'm king, yet they chant him—Pandu, always Pandu!"
His shout carried into the dark, swallowed by the wind, his knuckles whitening as he squeezed the stone, his rage a live thing clawing free.
Gandhari stood beside him, her sari snapping in the gusts, her voice soft but steady. "You are enough, my lord—your rule holds us, not his memory."
He spun toward her, his staff striking the rail, the crack sharp against the night's howl, his tone a bitter snarl. "Enough? They don't see me—they see him, his plans, his wins, every damn time I speak!"
His chest heaved, his blind gaze wild, the stars above a cold witness to the resentment boiling over after days of whispers and failures.
Gandhari's hands clenched her sari, her tone holding firm despite the wind. "They'll see you—your strength is here, now, not in his shadow."
Her blindfold shifted slightly, the fabric catching the breeze, her calm a fragile wall against his rising tide.
The Ganga's hum pulsed louder, a restless undertone that seemed to mock his grip on the rail, the wind whipping their robes into a tangle of silk and fury.
Dhritarashtra's staff tapped fast, then slammed down, his voice a jagged roar. "Strength? They laugh at my strength—generals stumble, nobles sneer, all because I'm not him!"
His fingers dug into the marble, scraping skin, his rage spilling out like a flood breaking a dam, the night swallowing his words but not his pain.
Gandhari stepped closer, her hand reaching for his arm, her voice softer now. "You lead us, my lord—through this, through all of it. That's what matters."
He yanked his arm free, his staff swinging up, his shout tearing through the wind. "Lead? I lead a court that trips over itself, pining for him—Pandu's ghost rules, not me!"
His staff cracked against the rail again, the wood groaning, his blind eyes blazing with a fury he couldn't aim, his voice echoing off the palace walls.
Gandhari's hand hovered, trembling, her tone straining to hold. "His ghost doesn't rule—you do, here, with me. They'll feel it in time."
Her sari flapped wild, her calm bending under the weight of his relentless bitterness, the stars above unmoved.
The wind gusted harder, rattling the shutters below, the Ganga's hum a steady drone beneath Dhritarashtra's ragged breaths as he gripped the rail tighter.
"They mock me, Gandhari—every failure, every stumble, they chant his name like a curse on my throne!" he snarled, his voice fierce and breaking.
His staff thumped the marble, then rose, his hands shaking as he clutched it, his resentment a fire that burned hotter with each memory of Pandu's praise.
Gandhari's voice dropped low, almost lost in the wind. "You're king—they'll learn to say your name, not his. I know you're enough."
He laughed, a harsh, hollow sound, his staff slamming down again, the wood creaking under the force, his tone dark and low. "Not to them—I'm the blind fool who falters where he soared, and they'll never let me forget it."
His shoulders slumped for a moment, then tensed, his grip tightening as he turned back to the rail, his voice a raw whisper. "Not to them."
Gandhari's hand fell to her side, her blindfold slipping further, her calm cracking as she stood silent, her words failing against his storm.
The night deepened, the stars sharper, the wind a relentless whip that tore at the silence between them.
Dhritarashtra's staff rose one last time, his hands trembling, then snapped it in two with a savage twist, the crack splitting the air like a thunderclap.
His roar echoed into the dark, raw and unhinged, the broken halves clattering to the marble as his voice shook the balcony. "I'll make them see me—or I'll break them all!"
He staggered back, his tunic whipping wild, his blind eyes wide with a rage that consumed him, the Ganga's hum a faint echo to his fury.
Gandhari's blindfold shifted fully, one edge lifting in the wind, her hand reaching out, then stopping, her voice a strained whisper. "My lord, you're enough—please, hold on."
He turned away, his breath heaving, his hands clenching into fists, his voice a low growl lost in the gusts. "They don't want me—they want him, and I'm done fighting it alone."
The wind swallowed his words, the night pressing in, the stars cold and distant as his bitterness peaked, a wall between them Gandhari couldn't breach.
Her hands dropped, trembling, her sari snapping in the gale, her calm shattered as she stood frozen, the weight of his rage a chasm widening fast.
The balcony trembled under his steps as he paced, the broken staff a jagged mark of his breaking point, the Ganga's hum a restless pulse below.
Footsteps cut through the wind, steady and firm, Vidura's shadow falling across the balcony as he emerged from the throne room's doors.
His plain tunic was streaked with dust, his dark eyes sharp with urgency, his voice clear despite the gusts. "My lord, urgent news—the raiders hit deeper, villages burn."
Dhritarashtra spun, his fists still clenched, his voice a snarl. "Burn? Then why are you here—fix it, Vidura!"
Gandhari's head turned, her blindfold settling back, her silence heavy as Vidura's presence broke the storm, pulling them into the next fight.