Chapter 2: The First Sacrifice

Shantanu trudged back from the Ganga's banks, his steps sluggish under the weight of the night's revelations. Ganga's final words, "Our union will birth greatness, and sorrow beyond your imagining", echoed in his ears, sinking into him like stones into deep water. The river's shimmer faded behind him, swallowed by the darkness, but her voice lingered, a haunting thread woven into his thoughts. He had made his choice by the water's edge, binding himself to her with a vow he barely grasped, and now he had to live with it. The palace of Hastinapura loomed ahead, its torchlit spires cutting through the gloom, a beacon that offered no comfort to the unease gnawing at his chest.

The next morning broke with a flurry of activity. Shantanu had barely slept, his mind tangled in Ganga's cryptic promise, but he rose with resolve. She had vowed to come to the palace, and he would meet her as a king should. He summoned his advisors, his voice steady despite the tremor in his soul. "Prepare the grand hall," he commanded. "Today, I take a bride."

The court buzzed with astonishment, then sprang into motion. Servants dashed through the corridors, their arms laden with silks and garlands, while priests gathered at the palace shrine, murmuring prayers to bless the union. The grand hall, a cavernous chamber of polished stone and towering pillars, was transformed with relentless speed. Crimson banners unfurled from the rafters, their golden embroidery glinting in the sunlight that streamed through arched windows. Long tables groaned under the weight of silver platters, piled high with fruits, roasted meats, and steaming bread fresh from the ovens. Incense burners sent tendrils of sandalwood smoke curling upward, mingling with the sharp tang of turmeric and saffron.

By midday, the city had caught wind of the news, and Hastinapura pulsed with excitement. Merchants abandoned their stalls, farmers left their fields, and children raced through the streets, shouting tales of their king's mysterious bride. The palace gates swung wide, and a throng gathered in the courtyard, their voices rising in a chaotic chorus of curiosity and cheer.

Ganga arrived as the sun reached its zenith, her presence silencing the clamor like a blade through cloth. She stepped from the riverbank path, alone, her bare feet leaving no trace on the dusty road. Her robe was a cascade of silver silk, stitched with threads that caught the light and shimmered like water in motion. Pearls gleamed at her throat and wrists, each one a tiny moon, and her hair flowed unbound, dark and endless as the Ganga itself. The crowd parted before her, their gasps swallowed by awe, and Shantanu stood at the hall's entrance, his breath stolen by her beauty.

The wedding began with the tolling of a bronze bell, its deep clang reverberating through the palace. Priests in saffron robes encircled a fire pit at the hall's center, its flames crackling as they tossed ghee-soaked wood into the blaze. Shantanu stepped forward, clad in royal crimson, a golden crown resting heavy on his brow. Ganga joined him, her movements fluid, her gaze fixed on the fire with an intensity that unsettled him. The head priest, a wiry man with a voice like thunder, raised his hands and began the chants, ancient Vedic hymns that called upon Agni, the fire god, to witness and sanctify their bond.

"Om agnaye svaha," the priest intoned, pouring a ladle of ghee into the flames. The fire roared higher, its heat washing over the gathered nobles, who stood in a tight ring around the ritual space. Shantanu and Ganga circled the pit seven times, each step sealing their union, their hands bound by a silk cord dyed red with turmeric. With every circle, the crowd murmured louder, their excitement swelling, some cheered for their king's fortune, others whispered of the strange woman who bore no attendants, no lineage they could name.

Shantanu's heart thudded as he stole glances at Ganga. Her face remained serene, but there was a shadow in her eyes, a flicker of something he couldn't place, sorrow, perhaps, or resolve. The priest handed them a garland of marigolds, and Shantanu draped it over her shoulders, his fingers brushing her skin, cool and smooth as riverstone. She returned the gesture, her touch light, and the hall erupted in applause, cymbals clashing and drums pounding a triumphant beat.

The feast followed, a spectacle of excess that spilled into the evening. Tables stretched the length of the hall, laden with roasted pheasant, spiced lentils, and honey-drizzled sweets. Wine flowed from clay jugs, its rich aroma blending with the scent of jasmine garlands strung across the pillars. Dancers twirled in a blur of silk and anklets, their movements a hypnotic rhythm that drew cheers from the nobles. Shantanu sat at the high table, Ganga beside him, her presence a quiet anchor amid the chaos. He raised a goblet to her, his voice carrying over the din: "To my queen, and to the sons she will bear." The court roared its approval, but Ganga's smile was faint, her eyes distant, as if she saw beyond the revelry to a truth he couldn't yet grasp.

A year passed in the wake of that day, the palace settling into a rhythm of cautious hope. Ganga moved through its halls with an air of command, her every glance a mystery that kept the courtiers at bay. Shantanu clung to her promise, sons, heirs, a legacy, and buried the unease her warning had sown, though it lingered like a splinter beneath his skin.

Then, one evening, as dusk painted the sky in shades of amber and violet, the palace stirred with sudden life. Ganga bore a son. Shantanu rushed to her chambers, his heart hammering as he pushed past the midwives. There, in her arms, lay a child of radiant strength, his skin glowed with a faint sheen, his tiny fists clenched as if grasping for destiny itself. His first cry cut through the air, sharp and bold, echoing off the stone walls and igniting a fire in Shantanu's chest.

But as dusk deepened, Ganga rose from her bed, the infant cradled in her arms. Shantanu watched, half-dozing, as she stepped toward the door, her face serene yet distant, her gaze fixed on some unseen horizon. He followed her in silence, his heart pounding with an unspoken fear. Down the palace corridors, past the torchlit halls, and out into the cool night air, he trailed her to the river's edge.

The Ganga stretched before them, its waters glinting under the moonlight. Ganga stepped forward, her arms tightening around the child. Then, without a word, she lowered the infant into the water. The river swallowed him whole, the ripples vanishing as if he had never existed.

Shantanu staggered, his breath stolen, his soul torn between grief and the vow that sealed his lips. His son, gone. His heart screamed, but he remained silent, bound by the promise he had made.

Ganga turned, her eyes locking with his. "One debt paid," she murmured. "Seven remain."