Late morning sun blazed over a rugged hillside just beyond Hastinapura's walls, its golden light glinting off jagged rocks that jutted from the earth like the bones of some ancient beast. Uneven slopes stretched wide, their surfaces littered with stones and patches of prickly scrub, baked dry by the heat. The air was sharp with the scent of dust and sun-warmed soil, a dry tang that clung to the back of the throat. The hillside slanted and dipped, its terrain a deliberate challenge, and the wind carried faint echoes of the city below—a distant hum of life beneath the stillness of the wild.
Drona stood at the crest of the slope, his lean frame steady against the uneven ground, his tattered white robes fluttering faintly in the breeze. His gray hair was tied back, as always, and his dark eyes gleamed with a quiet intensity as he surveyed the land. In one hand, he held his staff, its tip resting lightly on a flat stone; in the other, he gripped a wooden mace, its surface worn smooth but sturdy. The Kuru princes gathered around him, their tunics already dusted with earth from the climb, their faces flushed with the morning's exertion and the promise of something new.
Bhima bounced on his heels, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallowed the scrub at his feet. His broad grin flashed white in the sunlight, and his hands flexed eagerly, itching for action. "Maces today, eh, guru?" he said, his voice booming across the hillside. "Now that's more my speed! Bows are fine, but I like something I can feel!"
Drona's gaze flicked to him, crisp and unyielding. "Feel it all you want," he said, his tone firm but measured. "But wield it right. This isn't flat ground. The hill tests you. Balance matters here." He tossed the mace to Bhima, its weight thudding into his hands, and pointed to a pile of wooden maces nearby—rough-hewn but solid, stacked beside a cluster of boulders. "Take one. Show me what you've got."
Bhima caught the mace with a laugh, twirling it once with a flourish that sent dust swirling. "Show you?" he said, his voice bold and bright. "I'll shatter the whole hill! Watch this!" He strode to a boulder the size of a small table, its surface cracked and gray, and swung the mace high. The wood crashed down with a booming crack, splintering the stone into chunks that tumbled down the slope. His grin widened, triumphant, until his sandal slipped on a loose rock, and he stumbled, catching himself with a grunt.
Drona stepped closer, his staff tapping the ground. "Balance, Bhima," he said, his voice sharp. "Hit the mark, not the hill. Steady it!"
Bhima straightened, brushing dust from his tunic, his grin unshaken. "Marks shatter either way," he said, bold as ever. "Look at that! Who needs steady when you've got this?"
"Strength's nothing without footing," Drona replied, his tone crisp. "You'll learn that." He turned to Duryodhana, nodding at the pile. "Your turn. Show me control."
Duryodhana stepped forward, his chin lifting, his dark hair glinting in the sun. His fine tunic was smudged with earth, but his stance was confident, his hands steady as he picked up a mace. "I don't miss, oaf," he said, his voice smug as he glanced at Bhima. "Watch this." He moved to a smaller rock, its surface smooth and round, and swung with a controlled, precise strike. The mace landed with a sharp thud, shattering the stone into neat fragments, and he stepped back, his smirk firm until Bhima's laugh echoed across the slope.
"Neat little bits!" Bhima said, clapping his hands with a sound like thunder. "Mine was bigger, though. Missed that, did you?"
Duryodhana's smirk faltered, his jaw tightening. "Size isn't skill," he snapped, gripping the mace tighter. "I hit what I aimed for."
"And stumbled less," Drona said, his tone dry but approving. "Control's there, prince. Build on it." He turned to Arjuna, gesturing with his staff. "You now. Try it."
Arjuna approached, his lean frame lighter than the others, his bow slung across his back as always. He picked up a mace, testing its weight with a thoughtful frown, his hands adjusting to its heft. "It's heavier than a bow," he said, his voice soft and panting slightly as he hefted it. "But I'll learn." He moved to a medium-sized rock, its edges jagged, and swung with a careful, measured arc. The mace struck, cracking the stone with a dull thud, but his lighter frame wobbled, and he danced back with quick footwork to keep his balance.
Drona nodded, stepping closer. "Good start," he said. "You're adapting. Keep your feet under you, and it'll come."
Arjuna smiled faintly, wiping sweat from his brow. "It's a challenge," he said. "I'll get it, guru."
Nakula and Sahadeva slipped forward together, their lithe forms nimble on the uneven ground, their twin grins flashing as they grabbed maces. "Our go?" Nakula said, his voice quick and playful. "Let's spar instead!"
"Better than rocks," Sahadeva agreed, twirling his mace with a flick of his wrist. "Come on!"
Drona waved a hand, his tone firm but indulgent. "Fine," he said. "Pair off. But watch the ground."
The twins faced each other, their maces clashing with light, ringing thuds as they danced across the slope. Nakula swung low, Sahadeva dodged high, their laughter bright amid the strain. Bhima lumbered closer, his mace raised, and swung at them with a playful roar. "Duck, Sahadeva!" Nakula shouted, quick and sharp, as he leapt aside. Sahadeva rolled, the mace missing by a hair, and sprang up, grinning.
"Too slow, Bhima!" Sahadeva said, his voice light. "You're a mountain, not a hawk!"
Bhima laughed, swinging again, the mace whistling through the air. "Mountains crush hawks!" he said, his exuberance shaking the scrub.
Drona stepped in, his staff tapping sharply. "Enough," he said, his voice cutting through. "Focus, not games." He moved to a boulder twice the size of Bhima's, its surface rough and unyielding, and raised his mace. "Watch this," he said, his tone steady. He swung once—a single, perfect strike—and the wood met stone with a resounding crack. The boulder split clean in two, its halves falling apart like a book opened wide, their edges smooth as if carved. The princes stared, their breaths catching, the hillside falling silent.
"That's the way," Drona said, lowering his mace, his gaze sweeping over them. "Power needs balance. Precision needs strength. You'll forge that here."
Bhima whistled, his grin returning. "That's a beauty!" he said. "I'll split one like that, guru. Just give me time!"
"You'll need more than time," Drona replied, his tone crisp. "Practice. Start now."
Duryodhana hefted his mace again, his smirk creeping back. "I'll match that," he said, moving to another rock. He swung, the strike controlled and sharp, cracking the stone into uneven chunks. "See? I've got it."
"Close," Drona said, "but not clean. Aim truer."
Arjuna tried again, his mace lighter in his hands now, his footwork quicker. He struck a smaller rock, splitting it with a solid thud, and stepped back, panting. "Better," he said, his voice determined. "I'll keep at it."
"You will," Drona agreed, his gaze softening. "You're finding the rhythm."
Nakula and Sahadeva paired off again, their maces clashing as they dodged Bhima's playful swings. "Keep up, big brother!" Nakula called, ducking low.
"Or get out of the way!" Sahadeva added, leaping aside with a grin.
Bhima laughed, swinging wide, his mace splintering a nearby scrub bush. "I'll catch you yet!" he said, his joy a force as wild as the wind.
Duryodhana watched, his smirk fading into a scowl, and turned to Bhima with his mace raised. "Enough games," he said, his voice smug but edged. "Face me instead."
Bhima's eyes lit up, his grin sharpening. "Oh, now that's a challenge!" he said, stepping forward. Their maces met with a thunderous crack, the force shaking the ground. Bhima pushed hard, his strength a flood, while Duryodhana countered with tight, controlled swings, their rivalry flaring bright. Rocks scattered under their feet, the slope trembling, until Drona strode between them, his staff slamming down with a sharp thud.
"Stop it," he said, his voice firm, his patience thinning. "This isn't a brawl. It's training. Save your fire for the lesson."
Bhima stepped back, his chest heaving, his grin unshaken. "Fair enough, guru," he said. "But that was fun!"
Duryodhana lowered his mace, his jaw tight, his tone low. "I'd have had him," he said, brushing dust from his tunic. "Next time."
Drona planted his staff, his gaze sweeping over them all—Bhima's exuberant bulk, Duryodhana's confident stance, Arjuna's quiet effort, Nakula and Sahadeva's playful dance. "You've got the spark," he said, his voice steady and clear. "But it's raw. Uneven. I'll forge it smooth—power with balance. Go back now. Rest your arms. Tomorrow's another day."
Bhima slung his mace over his shoulder, clapping Arjuna on the back. "Smooth, eh?" he said, laughing. "I'm more a jagged edge, but I'll try!"
Arjuna smiled, his breath steadying. "I'll find the balance," he said. "It's worth it."
Duryodhana turned away, his mace dragging slightly, his voice smug. "I'll be the best," he said. "Smooth or not."
Yudhishthira, who'd watched from the slope's edge, stepped forward, his tone warm. "You're forging us well, guru," he said. "We'll carry it."
Nakula stretched, grinning at Sahadeva. "Good day for a scrap," he said. "Think we're getting the hang of it?"
"Close enough," Sahadeva replied, twirling his mace. "Let's keep swinging!"
The princes trudged down the hillside, their voices echoing over the rocks—Bhima's bold laughter, Arjuna's quiet resolve, Duryodhana's confident boast, Yudhishthira's steady warmth, Nakula and Sahadeva's light chatter. The sun climbed higher, its heat baking the uneven forge, and Drona watched them go, his staff still in hand, his discipline a steady light amid their chaos, shaping them step by rugged step.