Chapter 59: The Young Prince

The sun blazed high over Hastinapura, its golden rays casting sharp shadows across the palace courtyard. The air smelled of sweat, dust, and the faint scent of oil from the weapons rack. The rhythmic clack of wooden swords echoed across the training grounds, punctuated by sharp grunts and hurried footsteps.

Chitrangada stood in the center, his breath heavy, his grip tight around the hilt of his practice sword. His tunic clung to his skin, damp from the relentless drills, but he ignored the heat, ignored the ache in his arms. All he saw was Bhishma.

His mentor stood before him, unarmed, his expression calm, impassive—the eye of a storm that refused to rage.

With a shout, Chitrangada lunged, swinging his sword high, aiming for Bhishma's shoulder.

A mistake.

Bhishma stepped aside with effortless grace, and before the boy could react, a gust of wind surged against his back, pushing him off balance. Chitrangada stumbled forward, barely managing to steady himself before turning with a scowl.

"You're playing with me," he growled.

Bhishma's lips curled in the faintest hint of a smirk. "You're playing with yourself. Your feet are too eager. Your hands are too slow."

Chitrangada's knuckles whitened around the hilt. He hated this feeling—this constant dance of frustration. He was no child anymore. He was a warrior. He had trained for years under Bhishma's watchful gaze. He had spent nights listening to stories of his father, of his grandfather before him. He would not be a weak king.

And yet, Bhishma never fought him properly.

The boy adjusted his stance, drawing in a slow breath. Focus, not fury. He could hear Bhishma's words in his head, as familiar as the beat of a war drum.

He exhaled, then moved.

His steps were more measured this time. He struck low, his blade angling for Bhishma's ribs. A feint. At the last moment, he twisted, aiming high instead.

Bhishma still did not move.

The wind shifted—a whisper, a breath, a nudge.

Chitrangada's own momentum turned against him, throwing his strike wide. He barely managed to recover before he felt the sharp tap of wood against his wrist.

His sword clattered to the ground.

Chitrangada sucked in a sharp breath. It was over. Again.

He glared at Bhishma. "You didn't even touch me."

Bhishma folded his arms. "Why should I?"

The boy's jaw clenched.

The courtyard was silent for a moment. Then, from the balcony above, a soft chuckle rang out.

Satyavati.

She leaned against the stone railing, watching the exchange with a knowing smile. The midday sun made the gold on her robes shimmer, her presence exuding quiet authority.

Beside her, one of her maids stood with a fan, but Satyavati barely noticed the heat. Her gaze was fixed on her son, her lips curving in satisfaction.

"He'll be a king to fear," she murmured to her maid.

The woman nodded in agreement. "He is strong."

Satyavati's fingers tapped lightly against the railing. "Not yet. But he will be."

Chitrangada, however, had no patience for his mother's approval. His frustration boiled beneath his skin. Bhishma was toying with him. Holding back.

He yanked his sword from the ground and turned sharply. "Enough of this."

Bhishma raised an eyebrow. "Running already?"

"I don't need to be taught like a child."

The boy strode across the courtyard, his steps brisk, his anger rolling off him in waves.

Bhishma watched him go, his expression unreadable.

The wind stirred, carrying the echoes of the boy's footsteps across the courtyard.

He runs too fast.

Bhishma had seen this before—a fire that burned too hot, too wild. He had known men like this, warriors who fought with their hearts instead of their minds. Brave, strong, but reckless.

Kshema had been one of them.

The memory was distant but sharp—a friend with laughter like thunder, who had always rushed into battle a step too soon. Bhishma had warned him. Had told him to wait, to listen.

But Kshema had never listened.

And now, Kshema was dead.

Bhishma exhaled, his gaze drifting toward the palace where Chitrangada had disappeared. Would this boy listen?

Or would history repeat itself?

Chitrangada stormed through the halls, his mind a tangle of frustration and stubborn pride. Servants stepped aside as he passed, their heads lowered. He ignored them.

He didn't understand. Why wouldn't Bhishma just fight him properly?

He was tired of being treated like a child. Tired of waiting. He was sixteen. He was old enough to rule, old enough to make decisions, old enough to lead an army.

But Bhishma still sees me as a boy.

He reached his chamber and pushed the heavy doors open, his breath still ragged from exertion. His pulse was loud in his ears, his muscles tense.

For a long moment, he simply stood there.

And then, with a sudden burst of fury, he hurled his sword across the room.

It struck a wooden pillar with a dull thud, then clattered to the floor.

The sound barely satisfied him.

He knew Bhishma meant well. He knew the old warrior had taken an oath to protect him, to guide him. But it didn't feel like guidance.

It felt like a chain.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

"Prince?"

He turned to see his mother's maid standing there, her expression careful.

Chitrangada's voice was sharp. "What?"

"The queen requests your presence."

He exhaled heavily. Of course she did.

Satyavati's chamber was cool, draped in soft silks and the scent of jasmine. She sat at a low table, sipping from a cup of spiced wine as Chitrangada entered.

She did not look up immediately. Instead, she let the silence stretch.

Chitrangada knew her games.

Finally, she set the cup down and smiled. "Are you sulking?"

He stiffened. "I do not sulk."

Satyavati tilted her head. "Then what do you call storming through the halls like an angry child?"

He scowled. "Bhishma treats me like one."

His mother's gaze sharpened. "Does he?"

"I fight. I train. But he never meets me as an equal." His fists clenched at his sides. "How am I to rule if I am never tested?"

Satyavati studied him. Then, slowly, she stood, moving toward him with measured grace.

"My son," she murmured, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from his forehead, "a king is not made in the courtyard."

Chitrangada held her gaze. "Then where?"

Her smile was unreadable. "Everywhere."

She stepped past him, toward the window, looking out over Hastinapura.

"Your time will come," she said softly. "But you must be ready. And readiness is not just strength of arm. It is strength of will."

Chitrangada exhaled sharply. "And Bhishma? Does he believe I will ever be ready?"

Satyavati's lips curled. "Bhishma believes in duty."

Chitrangada frowned. That was not an answer.

Satyavati turned back to him, her eyes gleaming. "One day, you will rule without him. And when that day comes, he will have no choice but to acknowledge your strength."

Chitrangada felt something stir in his chest.

Not relief.

Not understanding.

Something else.

A promise.

He bowed his head slightly, then turned and left the chamber.

Satyavati watched him go, a quiet smile playing on her lips.

He would be a king to fear.

And Bhishma?

Even he would have to see it.