Late morning sunlight streamed through the arched windows of Hastinapura's throne room, bathing the polished marble floors in a warm, golden glow. The throne gleamed at the center, its carved arms catching the light, while servants moved quietly along the edges, their cloths swishing as they buffed the stone to a shine. Dhritarashtra sat tall on the throne, his dark tunic crisp and freshly pressed, his broad hands gripping a staff that tapped the floor in a steady, impatient rhythm. His blind eyes twitched beneath heavy brows, his voice booming as he leaned forward, addressing a cluster of courtiers who stood before him, their silk robes rustling as they nodded. The Ganga's distant roar hummed through the walls, a faint echo beneath his words.
"A hundred sons!" Dhritarashtra said, his staff tapping harder as his grin widened, his chest puffing out with pride. "Pandu's five can't match my legion! They're out there, scrabbling in the woods, while my boys fill this palace—strong, fierce, unbeatable!"
A courtier with a gray beard stepped forward, bowing low, his voice smooth and eager. "A marvel, my king! A hundred warriors born to rule—Hastinapura's never seen such might!"
Dhritarashtra laughed, a deep, rolling sound that bounced off the marble, and he tapped his staff again, his voice rising. "Might, yes! Gandhari's given me an army already—Pandu's widow can't dream of this. Five against a hundred? They'll be dust under our feet!"
Before the courtier could reply, a clatter broke through the room, and Duryodhana tumbled in, his dark tunic dusty and torn, wrestling a stick from Duhshasana's small hands. The younger boy yelped, his tiny frame stumbling as he swung back, his stick cracking against Duryodhana's arm. The other ninety-eight brothers trailed behind, a chaotic swarm of toddlers, their tunics streaked with dirt as they toddled and crawled across the floor. One knocked over a vase near the throne, its crash ringing out as water splashed across the marble, and the servants froze, their cloths dripping as they stared.
Duryodhana shoved Duhshasana again, his voice loud and sharp. "Mine! I'm strongest—you follow me!" He swung his stick, his dark curls bouncing as he glared at his brother, his small boots stomping the floor.
Duhshasana scrambled up, grabbing another stick from the mess, his voice fierce and eager. "I follow! Hit them, brother—make them listen!" He swung wildly, nearly clipping a toddling boy who wailed and fell, his cry joining the growing din.
Vidura stood by a pillar, his plain tunic dusty from a morning in the archives, his arms crossed as he frowned, his dark eyes counting the chaos. He stepped forward, his sandals quiet on the marble, and his voice cut through the noise, stern and steady. "Numbers mean nothing if they're wild, brother. Look at them—crashing about like a storm with no reins."
Dhritarashtra's grin faltered, his staff pausing mid-tap as he turned his head toward Vidura, his voice gruff but dismissive. "Wild? They're strong, Vidura—that's what matters! A hundred strong boys—Pandu's five can't touch that, wild or not!"
Vidura's frown deepened, his hands clasping behind his back as he glanced at Duryodhana, who shoved another brother into line, his stick jabbing the air. "Strength's no good without order. They're a mob, not an army. You boast, but who'll lead them if they won't listen?"
Duryodhana spun toward Vidura, his stick raised, his voice defiant and shrill. "I lead! Me! They listen to me—not you!" He stomped closer, his small chest heaving as he glared up at the man, his dark eyes blazing.
Duhshasana ran to his side, swinging his stick, his voice loud and fierce. "Brother leads! I help! We're best!" He jabbed at the air, his small feet tripping over a fallen toy as he grinned, wild and eager.
Before Dhritarashtra could respond, the throne room doors swung open, and Bhishma strode in, his silver armor clanking with each step, his gray hair tied back, his staff cracking against the marble like a thunderclap. His sharp eyes swept the room, narrowing at the sprawl of boys, and his voice barked out, gruff and commanding. "Enough noise! Form ranks, now, or you'll feel my hand! Move!"
The courtiers flinched, stepping back as Bhishma marched forward, his staff cracking again, and the servants scurried to the walls, their cloths clutched tight. Duryodhana froze, his stick lowering slightly, his voice stubborn but wavering. "I lead, not you! I'm strongest!"
Bhishma stopped in front of him, towering over the boy, his voice low and hard. "You lead when I say you lead, boy. Line up—now—or I'll put you there myself." He cracked his staff once more, the sound sharp and final, and Duryodhana's jaw tightened, his feet shuffling as he stepped back.
Duhshasana dropped his stick, his hands clapping as he ran to Duryodhana, his voice shrill and excited. "Line up! Brother says—we're best in line!" He tugged at a toddling boy, pulling him into place, his grin wide and fierce.
Dhritarashtra shifted on the throne, his staff tapping again as he leaned forward, his voice gruff but pleased. "See, Vidura? They're learning already—Bhishma'll shape them. A hundred sons, disciplined and strong—Pandu's brood's nothing to this!"
Vidura shook his head, his voice stern and quiet as he watched Bhishma herd the boys, his hands still clasped. "Discipline takes more than a staff, brother. They're wild yet—look at them stumble. And I've heard whispers—Pandu's sons aren't nothing. One's an archer, they say. Skill like that's no small thing."
Dhritarashtra's staff paused, his blind eyes twitching faster as he turned toward Vidura, his voice sharp and uneasy. "An archer? A forest brat? What's a bow against my hundred? Nonsense—rumors to spoil my day!"
Bhishma barked again, his staff pointing as he shoved a toddling boy into line, his voice rough and steady. "Straighten up! Shoulders back—move, or I'll move you!" He grabbed Duryodhana's arm, pulling him to the front, and the boy scowled, his stick dragging as he stood, his defiance simmering but held.
Duryodhana crossed his arms, his voice loud but sulky. "I'm front! Best place—mine! They follow me!" He kicked at the marble, his dark curls bouncing as he glared at Bhishma, his small frame tense.
Duhshasana clapped, jumping beside him, his voice eager and wild. "Front with brother! We lead—best ever!" He swung his arms, nearly hitting another boy, who wailed and toddled back into line.
The courtiers murmured, their silk robes rustling as they watched, one whispering to another, his voice low and torn. "A hundred's grand, but wild as wolves. That archer tale—could it mean something?"
Bhishma turned, his armor glinting as he faced the boys, his voice sharp and unyielding. "Quiet! Step together—left, right, left! You're not a pack—you're soldiers, or you will be!" He cracked his staff again, and the boys stumbled forward, some giggling, some crying, their line ragged but forming.
Vidura stepped closer to the throne, his voice low and firm as he leaned toward Dhritarashtra, his eyes on the chaos. "Listen, brother. Numbers are pride, but skill's a threat. That archer's young, they say—four, maybe five. Shooting leaves out of the air. That's not wildness—that's danger."
Dhritarashtra's grin faded, his staff tapping slower as he shifted, his voice gruff but shaken. "Leaves? A child's game! My hundred'll crush that—Bhishma'll see to it. Right, Bhishma?"
Bhishma didn't turn, his staff guiding a toddling boy back into place, his voice steady and hard. "I'll train them, yes. But they're raw—untamed. Potential's there, but Vidura's not wrong. Wildness wins nothing if it's not shaped."
Duryodhana swung his stick again, his voice loud and defiant as he broke from the line, his small boots stomping. "I shape them! Me! I'm strongest—don't need your staff!" He jabbed at the air, his dark eyes flashing as he glared at Bhishma.
Duhshasana ran after him, his voice shrill and eager. "Brother's right! We're strong—best ever!" He tripped, landing hard, but scrambled up, his grin fierce as he swung his arms, mimicking Duryodhana.
Bhishma grabbed Duryodhana's shoulder, pulling him back, his voice low and gruff. "Back in line, boy. You'll lead when you learn—until then, you march. Move!" He shoved him forward, his staff tapping as the line lurched, the boys stumbling through the drill.
Dhritarashtra tapped his staff once more, his voice booming over the noise, his pride clawing back. "They'll march, Vidura! A hundred strong—Pandu's archer's nothing! A hundred against five—let him shoot his leaves!"
Vidura sighed, his hands dropping to his sides as he watched Bhishma, his voice quiet but firm. "Leaves today, brother. Arrows tomorrow. Pride's loud, but caution's wise. You'll see."
The throne room buzzed, the sunlight shifting as clouds drifted outside, the marble gleaming beneath the boys' chaos. Bhishma drilled on, his staff cracking, his resolve hardening as he shaped the wild pack, while Dhritarashtra's boast echoed, Vidura's warning a shadow beneath it, the courtiers torn between awe and doubt.