Dhritarashtra swept into the throne room, his boots striking the marble with a slow, deliberate thud, his dark tunic hanging heavy on his frame, his scowl tight and inward after the noble's news of merchant unrest. The room crackled with life—nobles bunched together like nervous birds, their silks whispering, torches blazing high on the walls, the air thick with murmurs that darted around like sparks. Vidura trailed him, his plain tunic a steady contrast, his dark eyes flicking over the crowd, while Satyavati slipped in behind, her silver hair catching the light, her sharp gaze slicing through the buzz. Gandhari followed, her indigo sari a quiet ripple, her blindfold a pale mark as she lingered near the throne, the court restless with questions about Pandu's silence.
A noble in emerald silk pushed forward, his boots loud on the floor, his voice bold and brassy. "Pandu's stalled—no heirs, no return—yet he won us wars! We're here squeezing merchants while he sits quiet out west!" He planted his feet, arms crossed, his eyes glinting with a mix of irritation and old admiration, the nobles behind him nodding, their chatter rising like a tide. Dhritarashtra's staff tapped once, a low, hard sound, his voice coming out fierce but controlled, a growl under his breath. "Wars he won years ago—and they still can't let him go, can they?" His blind eyes narrowed, his fingers tightening on the staff, his envy coiling tight inside him.
Vidura stepped up, his voice firm and clear, cutting through the growing hum. "Hold steady, my lord—rumors pass. They're loud because he's not here, not because he's strong." His hands stayed folded behind him, his dark eyes calm, his words a steady line in the shifting sand. The emerald noble tilted his head, his bold tone sharpening. "Not strong? He's got two queens and no sons—something's off, and it's us paying for it with taxes and raids!" The crowd's murmurs spiked, heads turning, the torches casting jumpy shadows over their restless faces.
Dhritarashtra didn't shout this time, his staff tapping a slow, deliberate beat, his voice low and bitter, dripping with menace. "Paying for it? I'm the one paying—every day, every coin, while they dream of him coming back to save them." He leaned forward, his tunic creasing, his shoulders stiff, his envy shifting into something darker, quieter, like a storm brewing under the surface. Satyavati edged closer, her sharp eyes glinting, her voice low and pointed. "Dreams don't rule, Dhritarashtra—give them reality, and they'll wake up." She stood near Gandhari, her silks rustling faintly, her gaze fixed on him.
Gandhari's hand hovered near his arm, her voice soft but sure. "They'll wake to us, my lord—our time's near, and they'll see it." Her sari shimmered in the torchlight, her calm a gentle nudge against his simmering edge. The emerald noble smirked, his bold voice dropping a notch, teasing almost. "Near? Pandu's past still shines brighter—his victories stick, and we're stuck with empty promises!" The nobles behind him chuckled darkly, their silks shifting, the air buzzing with a new, mocking undertone.
Vidura raised a hand, his voice firm and steady, pushing back the tide. "His past is just that—past. What's here is your rule, my lord—make it loud, and their dreams dry up." His dark eyes swept the room, his words a solid plank over the court's shaky ground. Dhritarashtra's staff paused, his fierce voice low, almost a hiss. "Loud? They don't hear me—they hear him, silent or not, and I'm tired of it." His fingers flexed, his blind eyes glinting with a cold, brooding anger, his bitterness festering into something sharper, more dangerous.
Satyavati's sharp gaze tightened, her low voice cutting through. "Then make them hear—Gandhari's your voice, Dhritarashtra. Pandu's got no heirs to shout for him." She folded her arms, her silver hair steady in the light, her words a firm prod at his pride. A wiry noble in sapphire silk stepped up, his voice thin but sly. "No heirs, sure—but his name still pulls them. He held the west once; now we're losing it!" He flicked a hand toward the east, his smirk faint, the crowd's murmurs turning sharper, more accusing.
Dhritarashtra's staff tapped again, slow and hard, his fierce voice a quiet snarl. "Losing it? I'm holding this mess together—me, not him—and they'd still trade me for his shadow!" His shoulders hunched, his envy twisting into a dark, simmering doubt, his rage cooling into something heavier. Vidura's voice rose, firm and clear, a steady thread through the noise. "They trade for what they imagine, my lord—show them what's real, and imagination fades. You're here, he's not." His hands stayed steady, his dark eyes locked on Dhritarashtra, his calm a fragile hold against the court's rising edge.
Gandhari moved closer, her hand resting lightly on his arm, her soft voice gentle. "They'll see what's real soon, my lord—our sons will make sure of it." Her blindfold hid her eyes, her words a quiet promise against his brooding storm. The sapphire noble shrugged, his sly tone needling. "Sons? We've heard that before—Pandu's queens are quiet too, and they're still betting on him!" The murmurs turned into low laughs, the nobles shifting, the air thick with a restless, doubting buzz.
Satyavati's sharp eyes flashed, her low voice firm. "Betting on nothing—Gandhari's your bet, Dhritarashtra. Show them a line, and they'll stop guessing." She stood tall, her silks a steady mark, her plan a solid weight beside Vidura's words. The emerald noble leaned forward, his bold voice quieter now, probing. "Guessing's all they've got—he's not back, no kids, no word. What's he doing out there?" The crowd's chatter swelled, a mix of curiosity and scorn, the torches flaring as Dhritarashtra's staff tapped a slow, menacing rhythm.
Vidura's voice cut through, firm and steady, a lifeline in the growing doubt. "What he's doing doesn't change this court, my lord—hold it firm, and their questions die out." His dark eyes stayed calm, his words lingering, a fragile grip on the room's fraying edges. Dhritarashtra didn't snap back, his fierce voice low and cold, almost to himself. "Die out? They'll never stop—he's got them, silent or dead, and I'm left picking up the pieces." His blind eyes glinted, his envy a heavy weight, his staff stilling as he brooded, the court's unrest simmering around him.
The throne room's doors swung open with a crash, a scout stumbling in, his tunic patched with dust, his breath short and sharp as he dropped to one knee. "My lord—no word from Pandu's camp!" he panted, his voice rough from the road. "Riders went west, came back empty—nothing, just silence!" Dhritarashtra's scowl tightened, his staff thumping once, his fierce voice a low growl. "Nothing? He's out there, playing them all, and I'm stuck with this!" Vidura's hand lifted, his dark eyes steady as he turned to the scout, his calm holding while the room's murmurs exploded into wilder whispers, the court's unease deepening under the shadow of Pandu's absence.