Chapter 116: The Intrigue

The arena's edge churned with a restless heat, its packed earth scarred from the swayamvara's test, dust swirling in thick, gritty clouds under the late afternoon sun.

The wooden wheel stood still, its splintered fish dangling, the pierced eye a silent testament to Pandu's shot, glinting faintly as the light shifted.

Banners of blue and gold hung limp above the tiers, their sun-and-spear sigils faded in the haze, the crowd's roar simmering to a tense, buzzing murmur.

Blades flashed in the distance—rival retinues jostling, their steel clinking as tempers flared, the air thick with sweat, dust, and the sharp tang of defiance.

Pandu stood near the dais, his pale hands steady, his patched tunic streaked with dirt, the bow slung across his back, the sword at his hip gleaming.

Twenty summers strong, his dark hair clung to his brow, damp with sweat, his eyes bright but calm, tracing the crowd as the triumph settled in his chest.

Kunti waited atop the dais, her saffron sari shimmering, a garland of jasmine and marigold swaying in her hands, its scent sweet against the dust.

Her dark hair tumbled free, her piercing brown eyes fixed on the arena, fierce and resolute, the dagger at her waist a quiet promise of her will.

Kuntibhoja stood beside her, his graying beard catching the sun, his hands clasped, his gaze shifting between pride and unease as the tension thickened.

A rival prince stormed forward—Shalva, broad and hulking, clad in black silks, his spear discarded, a curved sword swinging heavy in his grip.

His face twisted with fury, his dark eyes blazing, his southern retinue trailing behind, their axes and shields clanging, their voices a low growl of support.

"He rigged it!" Shalva bellowed, his voice angry, cutting through the murmurs, his sword stabbing the air toward Pandu, dust kicking up around his boots.

The crowd gasped, heads turning, and a ripple of shock spread—nobles leaning forward, commoners shouting, the arena's edge a cauldron of sudden chaos.

Pandu's gaze flicked to Shalva, steady and unshaken, and he stepped forward, his boots scuffing the earth, his hand resting light on the sword's hilt.

"Prove it with steel," he said, his voice firm, a quiet challenge ringing clear, his calm a blade against Shalva's rage.

Shalva's lips curled, a snarl breaking free, and he raised his sword, its edge glinting wickedly, his voice a roar, "I'll gut you, Kuru pup—cheat!"

The crowd surged, benches creaking, and Kuntibhoja raised a hand, his voice sharp, "Hold—let him speak his claim!"—but Shalva charged, heedless.

Pandu drew his sword—Bhishma's gift—its scarred blade flashing as he parried, steel meeting steel with a bone-jarring clang, sparks spitting into the dust.

The arena erupted, cheers and jeers clashing, and Shalva swung again, a wild arc aimed at Pandu's chest, his strength a battering ram of fury.

Pandu ducked, the blade whistling past, slicing a tear in his tunic, and pivoted, his sword slashing low, grazing Shalva's thigh with a sharp hiss.

Blood bloomed, dark against the black silk, and Shalva roared, staggering but unbowed, his sword arcing high, a killing blow aimed at Pandu's neck.

Pandu parried, the clash ringing out, and twisted, his blade darting fast, striking Shalva's wrist—the curved sword flew, thudding into the dirt.

Shalva stumbled, his breath ragged, and lunged with bare hands, a bellow of rage, but Pandu sidestepped, his sword flashing once more, a clean strike.

The flat of the blade slammed Shalva's temple, a dull crack, and the prince crumpled, knees hitting the earth, his eyes rolling as he fell face-first into the dust.

Silence fell, sharp and sudden, the crowd frozen, then exploded—cheers thundering, "Kuru! Kuru!"—benches shaking, banners waving wild in the wind.

Pandu stood tall, his chest heaving, the sword steady in his grip, dust swirling around him, blood flecking his hands from Shalva's wound.

Shalva's retinue rushed forward, axes raised, but Kuntibhoja's guards surged, spears leveled, their voices barking, "Back—stand down!"

The southern warriors hesitated, their glares hot, then retreated, dragging Shalva's limp form away, his sword left abandoned in the dirt.

Kunti stepped to the dais's edge, her garland swaying, and her eyes locked with Pandu's, fierce and clear, a storm of resolve in their depths.

"I choose him," she said, her voice clear, cutting through the crowd's roar, a declaration that stilled the arena, her hands steady on the flowers.

The crowd gasped, then cheered louder, a tidal wave of sound, and Kuntibhoja's smile broke wide, his hand clapping the railing, his pride a beacon.

Pandu sheathed his sword, his breath slowing, and approached the dais, his boots steady, the dust settling as he stopped before her, head bowed.

Kunti descended, her sari rustling, the garland fragrant in her grip, and stood before him, her gaze fierce yet soft, searching his face.

She raised the garland, its petals brushing his shoulders, and placed it around his neck, her touch steady, warm against his sweat-damp skin.

Pandu's heart raced, a fierce thudding in his chest, and he met her eyes, the pull between them a live wire, her fire a match to his own.

The crowd roared, "Kunti's choice! Kuru's prince!"—their voices shaking the arena, nobles pounding fists, commoners leaping, dust rising high.

A noble in blue shouted, "A king's match!"—and laughter rolled, bright and bold, the tension shattering under the weight of their triumph.

Shalva's retinue muttered, their glares dark, but the guards held firm, spears glinting, and the southern prince stirred, groaning, his protest lost.

Kuntibhoja stepped forward, his voice booming, "Pandu of Kuru—worthy by skill, chosen by my flame—Kuntibhoja welcomes you!"

Pandu bowed again, the garland heavy, its scent grounding him, and straightened, his voice steady, "For Kuru and Kuntibhoja—I'll honor this."

Kunti's lips curved, a faint, knowing smile, and she murmured, her voice low, meant for him, "You fight like the plains—wild, yet true."

Pandu's grin flashed, warm and bold, and he nodded, his heart still racing, her words a spark that lit something deeper, unvoiced but felt.

The herald climbed the platform, his horn raised, and blew a long, triumphant note, its wail soaring over the arena, sealing the moment.

Pandu laughed, a sharp, free sound, and turned to Kunti, her presence steady beside him, the garland a bond forged in dust and steel.

The sun dipped lower, painting the sky red, and the arena glowed—blades still, dust settling, Kunti's choice a flame that burned bright.