"यदा राज्ञा धृतं सम्यक् धर्मं, लिङ्गं दत्तं च नारीम्।
तदा न खलु मृत्युः राज्ञे—परं समृद्धे कालादेशे च॥"
"When a king holds firm to dharma and gives honor to women's dignity,
Death bears him no dominion—his glory shall endure beyond ages."
A Throne Awaiting Dawn
Hastinapur lay silent beneath a sky trembling between night and dawn. In the royal chamber, pale candlelight danced in bronze sconces, casting gold halos upon the walls. Tapestries of past emperors draped the sanctuary; each figure stood tall—made of silk and memory, yet distant echoes.
In the center of the hall knelt a young man—Shantanu, soon to wear the crown of this empire. Sleep had fled him; the tension of tomorrow's duty knotted his chest. He sat with his arms crossed, the folds of his mantle rumpled like waves after a storm.
He repeated the words of his father, Chakravarti Bharat—recently reminded: "Rule well. Be powerful. But above all—honor the dignity of women. Without that, no empire endures."
Shantanu pressed his fingertips to his forehead, searching for clarity he could not grasp.
A rustle stirred at the chamber door—so subtle it might have been the wind grazing ancient stone. Yet it was no wind. A presence entered, not with the stomp of mortal footfall, but with the soft inevitability of time itself. The scent of sandalwood preceded him, mingled with something older—like pages of a scripture never opened, yet always known.
Shantanu looked up, startled. His heartbeat faltered, not from fear, but from an awe he could neither name nor resist.
There, standing just beyond the archway, cloaked in shadows that did not belong to night, was a figure of impossible stillness. His eyes shimmered like distant constellations, ancient and unwavering. He was neither young nor old, neither guest nor intruder—he was simply there, as if the world had been holding its breath for him all along.
Kakbhushundi.
The sage whose name fluttered like forgotten verses in the winds of time.
"How do you walk these walls unseen?" Shantanu asked quietly, his voice trembling like a candle before a gust.
The sage did not answer immediately. Instead, he gazed toward the coronation crown that lay waiting atop its velvet pedestal, its metal catching the flamelight in dull glints—more burden than ornament.
"I walk unseen," Kakbhushundi replied at last, his voice neither deep nor soft, but eternal, "where destiny trembles."
Shantanu stood slowly, the weight of his robes forgotten in that moment. He felt like a boy again, standing before his father, caught between the pride of inheritance and the terror of not being enough.
He gestured faintly toward the crown, then toward his own chest. "Tomorrow I sit upon that throne. My father's words ring in my bones. But I see no road to walk—only burden. Only shadow. What devastation could come to an empire so vast, so firm beneath the sun?"
Kakbhushundi stepped closer, yet his feet made no sound upon the marble. He did not carry time—he was time, folded into the frame of a man.
"Power," he said, "without principle is a river without banks. It floods not only the enemy's fields—but one's own soul."
Then, turning his gaze toward the windows where the moonlight tried to enter and failed, he spoke again.
"There will come a time when the walls of this empire do not fall from arrows or flames—but from within. When brothers, born of the same blood, raise steel against each other. When love becomes rivalry. And dharma is traded for ambition."
Shantanu's breath hitched.
"Our bonds are strong," he said, more to himself than to the sage. "Our warriors are loyal. Our throne—unshakable."
But the sage's eyes gleamed, catching every flicker of doubt in the air.
"It is not enemy blades that break a kingdom," Kakbhushundi whispered, "but broken promises. Especially those made to women—promises that, when shattered, echo not just through households, but through time itself."
The young prince's eyes widened. His thoughts darted to tales his father once half-spoke, to lineages shattered by pride, to vows turned bitter.
"My father," he said quietly, "warned me never to dishonor a woman. That the fall of kings begins with forgotten dignity."
"Not forgotten," the sage corrected, "forsaken."
A long silence passed between them. The flickering flame cast one shadow long and one short. One eternal, one human.
Then Kakbhushundi turned, walking slowly toward the unlit brazier near the dais, his fingers lightly brushing the edge of the crown's velvet casing.
"When kinship turns to calculation, when a woman's cry is silenced for the sake of legacy—then even the proudest lineage begins to unravel. And when the unraveling comes, the empire shall tremble—not by the weight of enemies, but under the silence of guilt."
Shantanu stared at him.
His voice, when it came, was bare. "What must I do, then? Tell me."
And the sage answered, not with command but clarity. "Guard promises with greater care than you guard the throne. See the first crack before it spreads. Wear the crown not with pride, but with awareness. Love justice more than victory, and honor more than law."
Then Kakbhushundi's eyes lifted, as though peering beyond the ceiling into skies only he could see.
"There will be a war," he said, "but it shall not be named in your time. It will be born of choice and pride, and end an age. And in it, your bloodline will become a question. A cry. A storm."
The silence deepened, as if the walls themselves were listening.
Kakbhushundi remained by the unlit brazier, his fingers no longer touching the crown, but hovering above it—like a shadow that refused to settle. Shantanu, still by the window, felt the air grow denser around him, not from fear, but from revelation.
The sage turned his face slowly toward the prince, and his gaze was distant—so distant it felt as though he was not seeing Shantanu at all, but something far beyond him. A battlefield that had not yet been born. A war not yet sung in the Vedas. A silence before the shatter.
"There will come a day," Kakbhushundi began, voice hushed like a forest before lightning, "when this very soil shall drink the blood of its noblest sons."
Shantanu's breath caught, his eyes narrowing. "You speak in riddles, sage."
"No," Kakbhushundi murmured, "I speak in mercy. For riddles protect truth until the listener is ready."
He stepped closer, and the air seemed to move around him in subtle ripples, as if time bent gently to avoid his touch.
"An age shall rise after you," he said, "when a mighty throne—your throne—shall host not harmony, but seeds of division. A queen's cry will go unheard. A game of dice will decide fates. And warriors born to preserve will choose destruction as their answer."
Shantanu felt the weight of those words settle like mist upon his chest.
"Who…?" he whispered, then faltered. "Why would such men—such sons of this empire—choose to unmake it?"
The sage did not answer. Instead, he looked out the same window through which the prince had watched the city slumbering peacefully.
"Because the foundation of ruin is often poured in silence, not malice," he said. "And when men choose silence in the face of injustice, the heavens choose fire."
Shantanu stared into the moonlight, trying to pierce through the sage's veiled vision. His thoughts raced—trying to see the future through the fog of the present, but all he could grasp were shadows: hints of fallen standards, whispers of brother against brother, kingdoms burnt in righteousness that forgot compassion.
He turned abruptly.
"But surely," he said, louder now, "this fate is not fixed. If I rule justly, if I keep dharma at the core of my reign—then this war you speak of can be turned away."
Kakbhushundi's expression softened, a faint sadness in his smile.
"No fate is fixed, child. But dharma… dharma is fragile. Like the thread between stars. It must be carried by every generation. One slip—one moment of pride, or fear, or broken word—and even kings fall like leaves in the wind."
Shantanu lowered his gaze. The flames in the chamber guttered, casting shadows that flickered like warnings.
He thought of his lineage. Of the kings whose names still rang in prayers. Of Bharat, the mighty sovereign whose glory shimmered across the lands of Aryavarta like sunlight on water.
And yet, even that legacy, it seemed, could fracture.
The sage spoke once more.
"When that war comes," he said, "you shall not walk this earth. But from the halls of Swarga, you shall see it unfold. You shall weep for sons not born of your womb, yet born of your blood. You shall watch the tide of an age pulled apart by duty misused and dharma misunderstood."
The silence between them stretched now—not empty, but full. Full of futures not yet written. Full of names not yet uttered. Full of fire.
Shantanu drew a breath. "What do I do now, then?"
Kakbhushundi's eyes met his—calm, infinite.
"Build your reign with truth," he said. "And when you must choose between law and compassion—choose compassion. Let no woman leave your court unheard. Let no child bear the weight of your silence. Protect love, even when it comes cloaked in strangeness. And above all… never sacrifice the innocent for the sake of lineage."
The chamber flickered, and for a moment, the sage's shadow lengthened, impossibly vast—stretching across the throne room like a crow's wing across the sun.
Shantanu blinked.
Kakbhushundi was gone.