Dawn broke over a grove near Hastinapura, its first golden rays filtering through ancient trees etched with glowing runes. The air hummed with a faint, otherworldly energy, the carvings pulsing softly along gnarled trunks, while dew glistened on the mossy earth, reflecting the light in tiny prisms. A circle of wooden targets stood at the grove's heart—discs painted red, steady and silent—waiting to test the princes' connection to new power. The scent of sap and earth mingled with a subtle tang of magic, a sacred hush wrapping the scene in intimacy, ready to forge bonds between soul and bow.
Drona stood at the circle's center, his lean frame bathed in the dawn glow, his tattered white robes shimmering faintly with the runes' light. His gray hair was tied back, and his dark eyes gleamed with a sage-like intensity as he faced the Kuru princes. In one hand, he held his staff, its tip resting on the moss; the other cradled a bundle of bows—each unique, carved with runes that pulsed with latent power. The princes gathered around him, their tunics damp with morning mist, their breaths puffing in the cool air as they stared at the glowing weapons, curiosity flickering in their eyes.
Bhima rocked on his heels, his massive frame rustling the underbrush, his broad grin flashing wide as he clapped his hands together with a loud thud. "Magic bows, guru?" he said, his voice booming through the quiet, startling a bird into flight. "This is a treat! We smashing with power now?"
Drona turned to him, his expression calm but unyielding, his voice weaving through the grove with steady force. "Not smashing, Bhima," he said, his tone deep and firm, hushing the air for a moment. "Bonding. I've crafted these bows with enchantment—each attuned to your spirit. Take one, feel it, shoot with it. It'll answer to you alone."
Bhima's grin widened, his eyes glinting with delight as he laughed loud, the sound echoing off the trees. "Answering to me?" he said, his tone bright and eager, reaching for the largest bow—a thick, rugged thing that groaned faintly under his touch. "This one's mine! It's got my heft! Let's see it roar, guru!"
"Feel it first," Drona replied, his voice dry and patient, handing him the bow as it creaked. "Five targets out there. Sync with it. Start when I say."
Arjuna stepped closer, his lean form quiet and still, his sandals silent on the moss as he studied the bows with a calm wonder. His tunic caught the dawn's glow, his breath steady, and his dark eyes locked on a slender bow that shimmered gold under Drona's hand. "Attuned to us," he said, his voice soft but thrilled, glancing at Drona. "That's deep, guru. How do we bond?"
"Breathe with it," Drona said, his gaze settling on Arjuna with a flicker of warmth, his tone firm. "Hold it, let it know you. It'll show your soul."
Duryodhana strode forward, his chin high, his dark hair glinting in the light as he eyed the bows with a sharp gleam. "Mine better be strong," he said, his voice low and edged with a grumble, his brow lifting slightly. "I'm not here for weak toys. Which one's for me?"
"This," Drona said, his tone stern and steady, lifting a sleek bow that flickered with a dark, restless red under his touch. "Take it. Control it. It's yours."
The princes spread out, their footsteps soft on the moss, the grove humming with the faint pulse of magic as they took their bows. Bhima gripped his, the wood groaning loud as he flexed it, its runes flaring a deep, earthy bronze that matched his bulk. "Ha!" he shouted, his voice ringing through the trees, nocking an arrow with a grunt. "This thing's alive! Let's smash those targets, guru!"
"Bond, then shoot," Drona called, his voice steady and firm, stepping back. "Begin."
Bhima drew the bow, his muscles bulging, and the wood groaned louder, syncing with his breath in a low, rumbling hum. He aimed at a disc, his grin wide, and fired with a roar. The arrow streaked bronze through the air, thudding into a tree a foot wide, and he laughed, shaking his head. "Missed!" he said, his tone bright and unbothered, flexing the bow again. "But it's got my punch! Feel that groan!"
"Groan's not a hit," Drona said, his tone dry but kind, stepping closer. "Tune it, Bhima. It's bold like you."
"Bold?" Bhima said, chuckling as he nocked another, the bow creaking under his grip. "It's a beast! Watch this!" He fired again, the arrow veering off into the moss, and he flopped onto a stump, laughing loud. "This thing's stubborn! I like it!"
"Stubborn needs aim," Drona said, his tone patient and amused, shaking his head. "Sit there."
Arjuna lifted his bow, its golden glow flaring bright as he held it, the runes pulsing in time with his steady breath. He drew an arrow, his fingers light, and the wood hummed a soft, pure note, warm and alive. "With me," he murmured, his voice soft and lost to the grove, aiming at a disc. He fired, the arrow blazing gold through the dawn, striking the target with a clean thud, its light lingering. He smiled faintly, nocking another, and fired again, hitting true. "Two," he said, his tone soft and calm, turning to Drona's shadow.
Drona's eyes widened, his voice warm with awe as he stepped forward. "Two?" he said, his tone lifting slightly, a rare spark in his calm. "That glow's pure, Arjuna. It's your spirit. More."
Duryodhana gripped his bow, its dark red flicker restless under his touch, the runes pulsing jagged and fierce as he drew it tight. "Mine," he muttered, his voice a growl, nocking an arrow with force. The wood thrummed a sharp, unsteady note, bending to his will, and he aimed at a disc, his jaw clenched. He fired, the arrow streaking crimson through the air, grazing a target's edge before thudding into the earth. He scowled, nocking another, and fired again, this one hitting shallow, its glow flaring briefly. "One," he said, his tone low and sharp, glaring at the bow.
"Strong," Drona said, his tone stern and steady, stepping toward him. "But wild, Duryodhana. Master it."
"Wild?" Duryodhana said, his smirk faint but fierce, his voice sharp as he drew again. "It's power. Watch." He fired once more, the arrow hitting a second disc, its dark light pulsing with his will.
The grove pulsed with their efforts, the air alive with the hum of magic—Bhima's groaning misses, Arjuna's golden strikes, Duryodhana's restless hits. Bhima sprawled on his stump, his chest heaving, his laugh echoing as he flexed his bow. "Nothing yet, guru!" he said, his voice loud and cheerful, the wood creaking in his hands. "But this thing's my match! It's groaning like me!"
"Groaning's not winning," Drona said, his tone dry but fond, stepping over. "Targets are. Watch now."
Arjuna struck three more discs, his arrows blazing bright, their light dazzling as they pinned each mark with a clean thud. "Five," he said, his voice soft and sure, stepping back to Drona with a nod. "It's part of me."
"Part?" Drona said, his awe clear, his staff tapping the moss as he met him. "It's your soul, Arjuna. Golden and true."
Duryodhana hit two more, his shots flickering dark red, sticking shallow in the discs, and he trudged back, his scowl deep. "Three," he said, his voice low and sharp, gripping the bow tighter. "It's mine now."
"Yours, but restless," Drona replied, his tone stern and firm, meeting Duryodhana's glare. "Control it, Duryodhana. It's your will."
The dawn light grew, the grove glowing with its warmth, the runes pulsing softer as the trial stretched on. Bhima sat up, his grin wide as he waved his groaning bow. "No hits!" he said, his voice loud and teasing, laughing through the mist. "But this thing's my brother! Feel that rumble!"
"Rumble's not a prize," Drona said, his tone patient and amused, shaking his head. "Skill is. Rest now."
Drona called them in, his voice ringing clear through the grove, his staff tapping once, twice. "Enough," he said, his tone warm and final, the magic settling. "Arjuna, five, pure and bright. Duryodhana, three, fierce and wild. Bhima, none."
Bhima laughed, hauling himself up, his chest heaving as he brushed moss from his tunic. "None's my tally!" he said, his voice loud and cheerful, grinning wide. "But I've got the loudest bow! That's my win, huh?"
"Loud's not winning," Drona said, his tone dry but fond, shaking his head. "Hits are. You'll sync yet."
Arjuna set his bow down, its golden glow fading, his breath steady, his smile warm and quiet. "It's alive, guru," he said, his voice soft and honest, running his fingers along the wood. "Felt like it knew me."
"It does," Drona replied, his pride clear, clapping Arjuna's shoulder. "That's your bond, Arjuna. Sacred."
Duryodhana crossed his arms, his bow flickering dark, his voice low and sharp. "Three's good," he said, glaring at Arjuna's targets. "This thing's got my fire. That's enough."
"Fire needs reign," Drona said, his tone stern and firm, meeting Duryodhana's glare. "Yours burns wild. Tame it."
Bhima flexed his bow again, its groan loud as he stretched his arms. "Wild, huh?" he said, his voice loud and teasing, laughing through the dawn. "Mine's wild and bold! We're a pair!"
"Bold needs aim," Drona said, his tone patient and amused, gesturing them in. "You'll find it."