Chapter 131: The Hunt Begins

The forest near Hastinapura stretched like a realm of shadowed jade, its canopy a vault of ancient boughs, leaves rustling in a chorus stirred by dawn's first breath.

Sunlight pierced the branches in slender spears, gilding the mossy earth below, where roots twisted like the veins of some slumbering giant beneath the soil.

The air hung cool and sharp, laced with the scent of damp bark and wild mint, a promise of clarity whispering through the stillness as mist curled low.

Birds trilled high, their calls threading through the trees, a fleeting hymn against the Ganga's distant hum, its waters a silver thread beyond the wooded edge.

Pandu led the way, twenty-four summers taut in his frame, his crimson tunic swapped for a hunter's green, its hem brushing the dew-soaked ground.

His dark hair was tied back, his eyes narrowed with a restless edge, his bow slung across his shoulder, a man seeking solace in the wild's embrace.

Kunti followed close, her crimson sari muted under a shawl of gray, its silver threads dim in the dawn, her dark hair loose, her steps measured.

Her piercing brown eyes flickered with unease, her bangles muffled by the cloth, a queen watching her king with a heart heavy yet silent.

Madri trailed beside her, her indigo sari tucked for the trek, its silver weave catching faint light, her midnight hair bound in a practical knot.

Her green eyes scanned the trees, her poise graceful but alert, a desert flower adapting to the forest's quiet menace, her breath steady in the chill.

A small retinue lingered behind—two warriors with spears, their leather gear creaking, and a servant with a pack of water and bread, their presence a soft echo.

Pandu paused by a gnarled oak, his fingers tracing its bark, and slung his bow free, his voice tense, "The woods will steady me, I need this."

Kunti stepped nearer, her hand hovering near his arm, "Be careful, my king," she said, her tone soft but firm, "the forest hides more than peace."

Madri nodded, her gaze on the shadows, "She's right, Pandu, it's a break, not a battlefield, don't push too hard out here."

Pandu's grin was tight, "Battlefield's in my head, Madri, Kunti, I've got arrows for that, a good hunt'll shake it loose, you'll see."

He nocked an arrow, the bowstring creaking as he pulled it taut, his stance steady, his eyes tracing a rustle in the undergrowth—a deer, perhaps, or a ghost.

Kunti watched, her brow creasing, "Shake it if you must, Pandu, but stay sharp, the wild doesn't care for a king's burdens."

Madri's hand brushed Kunti's, "He's stubborn, Kunti, but we're here, he won't stray too far with us watching, will he?"

Pandu glanced back, his tension easing briefly, "Not with you two hounding me, queens, I'm hunting game, not running off, relax."

The warrior Keshav, wiry and sharp-eyed, hefted his spear, "Game's plenty, prince, saw tracks by the stream, you'll have your shot."

Ravi, gruff and broad, grunted, "Shot's fine, Keshav, long as he doesn't chase it past the ridge, forest gets thick there."

Pandu waved a hand, "Ridge'll wait, Ravi, I'm not diving into the deep end yet, just need the air, the pull, something alive."

Back at Hastinapura's gates, Bhishma stood with arms crossed, his dark tunic crisp against the dawn, his silver hair glinting as he watched them depart.

His gray eyes narrowed, his voice a low rumble to Vidura beside him, "He's restless, Vidura, the hunt's a balm, but he shouldn't stray far."

Vidura adjusted a scroll under his arm, "Restless indeed, Bhishma, campaigns drained him, childless or not, the woods might clear his spirit."

Bhishma's nod was slow, "Might, but I'd rather he rested in the halls, I'll warn him yet, don't stray, Pandu, the wild's a fickle friend."

Dhritarashtra lingered near, his staff planted firm, his head tilting at their words, a smirk curling his lips, "He runs from failure, that's all."

Vidura turned, his tone even, "Runs to clarity, Dhritarashtra, not from it, his triumphs stand, he seeks balance, not escape."

Dhritarashtra's laugh was low, bitter, "Balance without sons, Vidura, triumphs fade, he hunts shadows while I wait, let him roam."

Bhishma's gaze hardened, "Wait for what, Dhritarashtra? Kuru's his burden, not yours yet, smirk less, support more, he's still king."

Dhritarashtra's staff tapped once, "King of empty cradles," he muttered, turning away, the dawn's light a faint gleam against his shadowed form.

In the forest, Pandu moved deeper, his bow tight in his grip, the arrow's fletching brushing his cheek as he tracked a flicker of movement—a stag, antlers high.

He exhaled, the string taut, "There," he whispered, his voice a thread of focus, "that's it, something real, something I can touch."

Kunti's eyes followed his aim, her unease growing, "Pandu, it's enough to walk, you don't need to prove this, not here."

Madri's hand rested on a tree, "She's got a point, Pandu, the stag's yours if you want it, but the woods feel… heavy today."

Pandu's jaw tightened, "Heavy's what I'm shaking, Madri, Kunti, I've got this, one shot, then we'll head back, trust me."

The bowstring hummed, his fingers poised, and the forest stilled, leaves rustling soft, the air cool with dawn's promise, his escape a thread unraveling.