Stone benches sat cold under thin cushions in a stark antechamber off the throne room, their edges worn smooth by years of restless shifting. Midmorning sunlight slanted through a high slit in the wall, its beam cutting across the gray floor, dust motes swirling where it landed. The air hung heavy and still, tinged with the faint scent of polished wood and old stone, and the distant hum of the palace corridors buzzed beyond the thick walls. Bhishma stood at the chamber's center, his armor dull and scratched, his gray hair loose over his shoulders, his staff tapping a slow, steady beat against the floor. His broad frame loomed, casting a shadow that stretched toward the benches, his presence a weight in the quiet.
Bhima slouched near the door, his broad hands brushing dirt from his vest, the patched fabric flapping as he shifted, his dark curls still tangled from the thicket. Arjuna leaned against a bench, his bow resting beside him, his tunic rippling as he crossed his arms, his dark eyes flicking between the others. Duryodhana slumped on a bench near the wall, his dark tunic tight and smudged, his small boots scuffing the stone as he kicked at a cushion, his jaw clenched. Dhritarashtra sat by the slit, his dark robe stiff, his staff trembling in his hands, his blind face creased as he tilted his head, his breath uneven. Duhshasana perched beside him, his fair hair wild, his small tunic creased as he fidgeted, his fingers tapping the bench.
Bhishma's staff thudded harder, his voice growling, stern and low as he pointed at them, his gray eyes narrowing. "Cease this nonsense, all of you! Kin's too near for these games. I've heard enough!" He swung his staff toward Bhima, then Duryodhana, his armor creaking, and his broad shoulders squared, his authority a thunder in the chamber.
Bhima's hands paused, his voice bold and loud as he straightened, his vest swaying. "Games? He set boars on us! Check him, grandsire! That's no hunt!" He jabbed a thick finger at Duryodhana, his dark curls bouncing, and his grin flashed, fierce and wide, his strength a challenge in his stance.
Arjuna's arms unfolded, his voice crisp and sharp as he stepped forward, his bow tapping the bench. "No hunt, true. A trap, and he knows it. Tell him, Bhishma!" He tilted his head, his dark eyes glinting, and his small frame buzzed, his vigilance a steady edge cutting through.
Duryodhana's boots stopped scuffing, his voice snapping, loud and fierce as he shot up, his small fists clenching. "Check me? Check you lot! I'm free to hunt how I like!" He kicked the cushion aside, its thin fabric skidding across the stone, and his dark tunic stretched, his defiance a blaze in his glare.
Dhritarashtra's staff trembled, his voice mumbling, weak and low as he shifted, his blind face twitching. "Free, yes. But calm, son. No need for this noise." He waved a hand, his dark robe rustling, and his breath huffed out, his indecision a crack in the tension, his head tilting toward Bhishma.
Bhishma's staff tapped faster, his voice gruff and steady as he pointed at Duryodhana, his gray hair swaying. "Calm? Traps aren't hunts, boy! Boars on your cousins? Restraint, now! Swear it!" He stepped closer, his armor glinting faintly, and his broad hands gripped the staff, his frustration mounting, a storm behind his growl.
Bhima's laugh rumbled, his voice bold and gruff as he dusted his hands, his broad frame towering. "Swear? He'll swear nothing! Little prince wants us gone! Say it, Duryodhana!" He cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp, and his dark eyes glinted, his triumph from the thicket a fire in his words.
Arjuna's bow lifted slightly, his voice crisp and quick as he nodded, his small hands steady. "Gone, yes. Boars don't charge by chance. Speak up, grandsire! He won't listen!" He stepped beside Bhima, his tunic settling, and his dark eyes flicked to Duryodhana, his restraint tight but sharp.
Duryodhana's voice rose, fierce and wild as he strode forward, his small boots thudding. "Listen? To you? I'm free, old man! No restraint for me!" He kicked another cushion, its threads tearing as it hit the wall, and his dark tunic creased, his rebellion surging, a storm breaking loose.
Duhshasana jumped up, his voice shrill and quick as he clapped his hands, his fair hair bouncing. "Free! Tell 'em, brother! No stopping us! Smash 'em instead!" He punched the air, his small tunic flapping, and his giggle cut through, wild and high, his loyalty a spark beside Duryodhana.
Dhritarashtra's staff tapped weakly, his voice soft and faltering as he leaned forward, his blind face creasing deeper. "Smash? No, no. Calm down, both sides. Peace, maybe?" He waved again, his dark robe shifting, and his mutter trailed off, his conflict a tangle in the air, his hands trembling.
Bhishma's staff slammed down, his voice stern and loud as he turned to Dhritarashtra, his gray eyes blazing. "Peace? With this? He defies me, your son! Order him, Dhritarashtra!" He pointed at Duryodhana, his armor creaking, and his broad frame stiffened, his authority fraying, a rope stretched thin.
Bhima's voice boomed, gruff and bold as he stepped closer, his vest flapping. "Order? He won't! Little prince runs wild! Boars today, what's tomorrow?" He crossed his arms, his dark curls shaking, and his grin faded, his strength a wall pressing the tension.
Arjuna's voice followed, sharp and clear as he gripped his bow, his small frame tense. "Tomorrow? Worse, if he's free. Stop him, grandsire! We're kin, not prey!" He tilted his head, his dark eyes steady, and his words cut, his vigilance a shield beside Bhima.
Duryodhana's laugh barked, his voice fierce and bitter as he spun toward the door, his small fists tight. "Prey? You're pests! I'll do worse, old man! Watch me!" He strode out, his dark tunic a blur, and his footsteps echoed sharp, his rejection shattering Bhishma's demand, a crack in the chamber's weight.
Duhshasana darted after him, his voice shrill and wild as he waved a fist, his fair hair bouncing. "Worse! Smash 'em good, brother! No stopping!" He giggled, his small tunic tearing at the hem, and his shout faded down the corridor, his loyalty a shadow trailing Duryodhana.
Dhritarashtra's staff slipped, his voice weak and low as he slumped back, his blind face twitching. "Worse? No, calm. He's young, Bhishma. Boys fight." He rubbed his brow, his dark robe sagging, and his faltering words drifted, his indecision a fog over the benches.
Bhishma's staff tapped slower, his voice gruff and tired as he turned, his gray hair falling forward. "Boys? This is blood, Dhritarashtra. You falter, and it grows. Mark me." He stepped to the slit, his armor dull in the light, and his broad hands tightened, his frustration a weight sinking deep.
Bhima's voice rumbled, bold and low as he brushed more dirt from his vest, his broad frame shifting. "Grows? Let it! I'll smash his next trick too! Ready, Arjuna?" He grinned again, his dark curls bouncing, and his strength surged, a fire unshaken by the rift.
Arjuna's bow settled, his voice crisp and steady as he nodded, his small hands calm. "Ready, always. He's free till he's not. We'll see, grandsire." He stepped to Bhima, his tunic rippling, and his dark eyes flicked to the door, his restraint holding firm, a blade in the tension.
The antechamber fell quiet, the sunlight slanting thinner, and the stone benches gleamed cold under their cushions. Bhishma's staff tapped once more, his voice low and stern as he faced the slit, his gray eyes distant. "See, yes. Too late, maybe. Kin's breaking." He stood still, his broad frame a shadow, and the rift yawned wider, the chamber a fraying rope over their boiling feud.