Dhritarashtra barged into the throne room, his boots slamming the marble floor, his dark tunic flapping with every furious step. His scowl was etched deep, the kind that made servants scurry out of sight, and his staff thumped once, hard, as he stopped near the throne. Vidura walked beside him, his plain tunic swaying gently, his dark eyes calm despite the storm brewing in the king. Bhishma followed a step behind, his silver hair catching the torchlight, his broad shoulders steady as ever, while Gandhari slipped in last, her indigo sari whispering against the floor. The room was already a mess—generals hunched over tables, nobles muttering in tight little groups, the air thick with tension and the smoky glow of flickering torches.
Maps littered a big table near the throne, their edges curling up like they'd been argued over too long. Ink smudges marked where someone had jabbed a finger or spilled a cup, and the generals looked up as Dhritarashtra approached, their faces tight with strain. He didn't sit, just paced along the table's edge, his staff tapping a restless beat, his blind eyes glaring at nothing. Vidura stepped forward, his hands brushing the nearest map, smoothing it flat with a quiet sort of confidence that made the room feel a bit less jagged. "The border's in trouble, my lord," he said, his voice even and clear, like he was explaining something simple to a restless child. "Raiders got through because we spread too thin. We can fix it, though. Order holds us, not rumors."
A general with a thick scar across his cheek, his helmet tucked under his arm, leaned in, squinting at the map. "They hit a village—three weak spots, and fifty men couldn't cover them," he said, his voice low and gritty. "Slipped right past us before we could turn around." Dhritarashtra's staff hit the floor harder, a sharp crack that made a nearby noble jump. "I told you to crush them!" he snapped, his gruff voice bouncing off the walls. "Fifty should've been plenty—why's it always a mess when I'm in charge?" His knuckles whitened around the staff, his shoulders hunching like he might swing it at something.
Vidura didn't blink, his fingers tracing a line along the eastern ridge, steady as if he hadn't heard the king's temper. "Fifty might've worked with a better setup, my lord, but that's done. We've got a hundred men waiting near the river—send them here." He tapped a narrow pass on the map, his finger pressing firm against the ink. "Raiders like tight spots—they'll try this next, thinking we're still running around. Line them up solid, and they're finished." The scarred general nodded slowly, scratching his jaw, his eyes following Vidura's mark like it made sense.
Dhritarashtra stopped pacing, his staff stilling for a moment, but his voice came out rough, full of doubt. "They still wait for him, don't they? Pandu's out there, silent, and they're all holding their breath for him." He leaned closer to the table, his breath sharp, his fingers flexing around the staff. Vidura looked up, his dark eyes steady, not a flicker of worry in them. "Some might, my lord, but that's just noise. This plan holds the border—your border. It's real, not whispers." Bhishma stepped up beside him, his big hands folding across his chest, his deep voice rumbling. "Looks tight to me—Vidura's got the right of it."
A younger general, wiry with a scruffy beard, spoke up, his voice quiet but sure. "This'll work, sire—solid ground. Dawn march, straight to the pass, they won't slip through." He pointed to the same narrow spot, his finger hovering near Vidura's mark, like he was testing it. Dhritarashtra's scowl didn't vanish, but his staff stayed still, his head tilting a bit as he listened. Gandhari moved closer, her sari brushing the table's edge, her voice soft and steady. "Vidura's pulling it together, my lord—let him fix this for you."
The room seemed to settle, just a little, the generals loosening their shoulders, the nobles' muttering dropping to a low buzz as Vidura kept going. "After we stop them, pull half the men back here," he said, tapping a village dot near the river, a small black smudge on the parchment. "Set up a watch—raiders won't come back if they see us dug in. They'll break off quick." His words were simple, like laying out a game plan, turning the night's mess into something that felt solid. The scarred general gave a grunt, nodding again. "Clever—keeps us steady, not chasing them all over."
Dhritarashtra's staff tapped once, lighter this time, his gruff voice softening a fraction. "You're sure they'll break, Vidura? I want them gone, not just scared off." His blind eyes narrowed, his fingers easing on the staff, a hint of curiosity sneaking through the anger. Vidura nodded, his finger circling the pass again. "They'll break, my lord—no room to fight, no way out. A hundred men hit them hard, and it's over." He stepped back, his hands folding behind him, his calm like a rope tossed to a sinking ship.
Bhishma clapped a hand on the table, firm but not loud, his deep voice steady. "That's the way—quick, clean, no fuss. Generals, get it done." The wiry one straightened up fast, his scruffy beard twitching with a nod. "Dawn it is—hundred men, pass first, watch after. I'll take them out myself." The scarred one turned to a captain nearby, muttering about torches and extra spears, his voice a low growl of action. Dhritarashtra sank into the throne at last, the wood groaning under him, his staff resting against his knee, his scowl less sharp now. "If it works, maybe they'll stop staring west for once," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.
Gandhari's hand found his arm, her touch light, her voice gentle. "They're moving now, my lord—Vidura's got them listening to you." She stood still, her blindfold a quiet mark of her trust, her sari glowing faintly in the torchlight. The nobles, scattered along the walls, watched with less fidgeting, their silks rustling as they nodded here and there. The scarred general rolled up a spare map, his voice low. "It's a good fix—better than the scramble we had. We'll hold it." The wiry one added, almost under his breath, "Raiders won't stand a chance."
Vidura stayed by the table, his hand steadying the main map as the generals started moving, their boots clumping against the floor, their voices a steady hum of orders. "Order holds us, my lord," he said, his tone plain and sure. "It's not loud, but it works. The court's settling because you let it." Dhritarashtra's fingers loosened on his staff, his frown easing into something less fierce, a grudging sort of trust flickering through. Bhishma gave a rare nod, his deep voice rumbling. "Vidura's got the knack—always does. This'll stick, Dhritarashtra, you'll see."
The throne room calmed, the maps turning from a jumble into a proper plan, the generals' tension fading into focus as they headed out to round up the men. Nobles lingered, their eyes flicking between Vidura and the king, the air feeling lighter than it had all night. Dhritarashtra leaned back, his staff still against his knee, his gruff voice quieter now. "If it holds, maybe they'll shut up about him for a bit," he said, not sounding convinced but not snapping either. Gandhari's hand stayed on his arm, her presence a steady anchor as the court caught its breath, the torches burning a little steadier.
The big doors swung open with a bang, a messenger stumbling in, his tunic damp with sweat, his chest heaving as he dropped to one knee. "My lord—rumors from the west!" he panted, his voice rough from running. "Pandu's camp's gone quiet—no word, no heirs, nothing coming back!" Dhritarashtra's scowl snapped back, his staff thumping the floor, his gruff voice rising. "Quiet? What's he up to now—leaving me to clean this up while they wonder?" Vidura's hand lifted from the map, his dark eyes steady as he turned to the messenger, his calm holding firm while the room buzzed with fresh curiosity.