Sunlight slanted through the high windows of Hastinapura's throne room, spilling golden bars across the marble floor, where the throne's shadow stretched long and dark. Late afternoon had settled in, warm and heavy, and the courtiers in their silk robes shifted on wooden benches, their whispers rustling like leaves in a breeze. Kunti stood before the throne, her crimson sari catching the light, its faded folds swaying slightly as she planted her feet firm. Sahadeva peeked from her left side, his small hands tugging at her hem, while Nakula clung to her right, his fair curls brushing her arm as he stared at the crowd. Yudhishthira stood just behind, his tunic patched but neat, his hands clasped, his dark eyes steady as he watched the room. Bhima loomed at her shoulder, his broad frame casting a shadow, his boots scuffing the marble as he crossed his arms, grinning faintly. Arjuna balanced on his toes beside him, his bow slung low, his fingers tapping the quiver at his back, his sharp gaze darting over the benches.
Dhritarashtra sat rigid on the throne, his dark tunic stiff across his chest, his staff tapping a slow, uneven beat against the floor. His blind eyes twitched beneath heavy brows, and his lips pressed tight, his silence a weight that pressed down on the room. The courtiers' whispers grew louder, their voices tangling in a rising argument, until a gray-bearded man in green silk stood, his tally stick waving as he snapped, his tone sharp and loud. "Forest brats! Where's their claim? Pandu's dead—his widow drags in strays, and we're to bow?"
Kunti's head turned, her voice slicing through the air, cool and steady. "Strays, is it? Nothing raised us strong, courtier. Watch your tongue." She shifted Sahadeva higher, her grip tightening on Nakula's hand, her dark eyes narrowing as she faced the man.
Vidura stepped from a pillar's shadow, his plain tunic stark against the sea of silk, his sandals quiet on the marble as he raised a hand. The whispers faltered, and his voice cut through, stern and clear, filling the room like a bell. "Enough of that. Pandu's blood runs in them, born of boons from the gods themselves. They're Kuru sons, lawful as any here." He lowered his hand, his dark eyes sweeping the benches, his jaw set as he waited.
The gray-bearded courtier snorted, his tally stick jabbing the air, his voice sharp and quick. "Boons? Tales from a widow! Where's proof? They've got no palace stamp—wild boys, that's all!" He sat with a huff, his silk robe rustling, and a few heads nodded, their murmurs buzzing again.
Bhima laughed, a big, booming sound that bounced off the walls, and he stepped forward, his arms uncrossing as he grinned, his voice loud and bold. "Wild? Good! I'll show you wild—smash that stick if you keep talking!" He cracked his knuckles, his dark curls bouncing, and a few courtiers flinched, their benches creaking as they leaned back.
Arjuna grinned, stepping beside him, his voice quick and sharp as he tapped his bow. "Smash it? I'd shoot it first—right out of his hand! Wild's fine by me." He mimed an arrow flying, his small frame buzzing with energy, his eyes glinting at the courtier.
Yudhishthira raised a hand, his voice calm and steady as he glanced at his brothers, his tunic swaying slightly. "No smashing, Bhima. No shooting, Arjuna. Words settle this, not fists or arrows. Let Vidura speak." He turned to Vidura, his dark eyes meeting the man's, a quiet nod passing between them.
Vidura stepped closer, his hands clasping behind his back, his voice firm and even as he faced the benches again. "Words, yes. Listen, then. Kunti fled with Pandu's heirs when he fell—raised them in exile, through hunger and storms. The gods blessed her with these five. Yudhishthira, born of Dharma's truth. Bhima, Vayu's strength. Arjuna, Indra's aim. Nakula and Sahadeva, the Ashvins' grace. That's proof enough—divine and lawful." He paused, his gaze lingering on the gray-bearded man, who shifted, his tally stick dropping to his lap.
A woman in blue silk stood, her bangles clinking as she tilted her head, her voice softer but pointed. "Divine, maybe. But lawful? Pandu left the throne—Dhritarashtra rules. Why bring them now? Trouble, that's what I see." She sat, her hands folding, and the whispers swelled, heads turning to the throne.
Dhritarashtra's staff tapped once, then stilled, his voice gruff and low as he leaned forward, his smile tight. "Trouble? No trouble here. Pandu's boys are welcome—family, after all. Let them stay, prove themselves. My hundred hold this court." He waved a hand, his fingers stiff, and the staff stayed quiet, his blind eyes twitching faster.
Duryodhana slouched on a bench near the wall, his dark tunic dusty from the courtyard, his small fists clenching as he glared across the room. Duhshasana sat beside him, mimicking his scowl, his fair hair tangled as he kicked the bench's edge. Duryodhana growled, his voice low and fierce, barely reaching the center. "Lawful? They're nothing! Look at 'em—big oaf, bow-boy, and those runts! My brothers are better!" He leaned forward, his dark eyes burning, his fingers digging into his knees.
Duhshasana nodded, his voice shrill and quick as he nudged Duryodhana, his scowl deepening. "Better! We're a hundred—they're just five! Nothing, brother—nothing!" He kicked the bench again, its creak punctuating his shout, and a few courtiers glanced their way, their whispers hushing.
Kunti turned, her gaze locking on Duryodhana, her voice icy and steady as she stepped forward, Sahadeva shifting in her arms. "Nothing, boy? Nothing walked us through forests, fed us, kept us alive. Your hundred didn't do that. Mind your place." She tilted her chin, her dark hair falling over her shoulder, her words hanging sharp in the air.
Duryodhana leapt up, pointing at Bhima, his voice dripping scorn as he stomped a step closer, his tunic flapping. "Place? I've got a place—right here! That oaf's no prince—just a big lump! Prove it, forest trash!" He jabbed his finger, his small frame bristling, his glare fierce and wild.
Bhima grinned, stepping past Kunti, his voice loud and cheerful as he loomed over Duryodhana, his shadow stretching across the marble. "Prove it? I'll prove it—lift you up and toss you out! Want to try me, little king?" He flexed his arms, his dark curls bouncing, and the room stirred, a few gasps mixing with nervous laughs.
Vidura raised his hand again, his voice stern and clear as he moved between them, his tunic brushing the floor. "Sit down, Duryodhana. No tossing here. Bhima's strength is proof—born of Vayu, tested in the wild. You've seen him walk in. That's enough." He turned to the courtiers, his dark eyes steady, his words firm as stone.
Duryodhana dropped back to the bench, his fists clenching tighter, his voice a mutter as he glared at Vidura, his scorn simmering. "Enough? Never enough. They're dirt—my dirt to kick." Duhshasana nodded, his voice low and fierce, "Kick 'em, brother—hard!"
Arjuna laughed, a sharp, bright sound that cut through the tension, and he stepped forward, his bow tapping his shoulder as he grinned at Duryodhana. "Dirt? I'd shoot your stick before you kicked anything. Try me—I'm fast!" He flicked his fingers, his small hands ready, his eyes glinting with challenge.
Kunti's voice snapped, firm and cool as she turned to Arjuna, her sari swaying. "No shooting, Arjuna. Stand back. This isn't your fight—not yet." She glanced at Vidura, her nod slight, her grip on Nakula's hand tightening as she faced the throne again.
Nakula peeked out, his voice soft and curious as he tugged Kunti's sari, his fair curls bouncing. "Fight? Why's he mad? We're here now." Sahadeva nodded, his quieter voice adding, "Mad loud. Scary?"
Vidura knelt slightly, his voice gentle but firm as he smiled at the twins, his hand resting on his knee. "Not scary, little ones. Just noise. You're Kuru sons—here by right. No one changes that." He straightened, his gaze sweeping the room, his words steadying the air.
An elder with a white beard stood, his staff tapping the floor, his voice gruff but slow as he nodded, his silk robe rustling. "Right, maybe. Vidura speaks true—Pandu's blood's clear. But five against a hundred? Court's full already." He sat, his nod hesitant, and a few others murmured agreement, their heads dipping.
Vidura turned to him, his voice calm and reasoned, his hands clasping again. "Full, yes. But not closed. Five bring strength—different strength. Yudhishthira's mind, Bhima's might, Arjuna's aim, the twins' grace. Hastinapura grows with them, not shrinks." He paused, his dark eyes meeting Dhritarashtra's, waiting for a word.
Dhritarashtra's staff tapped once, then stilled, his voice gruff and low as he shifted on the throne, his smile tight. "Grows, does it? Fine. They stay—prove themselves, like I said. My boys hold strong. No need for fuss." He waved a hand, his fingers stiff, his blind eyes twitching as he leaned back.
Duryodhana muttered, his voice bitter and low as he slumped on the bench, his glare fixed on Bhima. "Prove nothing. They'll fall—watch me make 'em." Duhshasana grinned, his voice quick and fierce, "Fall hard, brother—real hard!"
The courtiers shifted, their whispers buzzing again, some nodding at Vidura's words, others glancing at Duryodhana's scowl, the room split by unease. Kunti stood tall, her sari catching the fading light, her resolve steady as she watched Dhritarashtra, Vidura's conviction a quiet anchor beside her. The tension simmered, unresolved, the Pandavas' legitimacy teetering as eyes darted between the brothers, the throne room thick with the weight of what was to come.