Across the battlefield, beneath banners that bore the ancient insignia of Hastinapur, sat a man who looked like time itself had chosen to rest upon his shoulders.
He sat upon a high-backed chair forged of gold and iron, unmoving.
Bhishma.
The grandsire of the Kuru dynasty.
Supreme Commander of the Kaurava army.
Son of the river Ganga and King Shantanu.
The man whom even death obeyed.
His body was old—but not frail. His arms were thick like iron pillars, veined and scarred by centuries of battle. His presence radiated a divine austerity, a power earned not through conquest, but through discipline so severe it bordered on cruelty to the self.
Yet his eyes—
His eyes were hollow.
Not weak.
Not fearful.
Hollow with grief.
Grief that no wound could bleed out. Grief that no victory could silence.
To his right stood Acharya Dronacharya, guru of the Kuru lineage. His hair had whitened, but his posture remained sharp, disciplined. The same hands that once corrected a child's grip on a bow now trembled—only slightly.
To Bhishma's left stood Kripacharya, learned, restrained, his eyes constantly searching for a path that no longer seemed to exist.
Silence ruled between them.
Then Drona spoke.
"Grandsire," he said quietly, "tomorrow the rules of this war will be laid down. You must meet Dhrishtadyumna, supreme commander of the Pandava forces."
Bhishma did not move.
"I know," he replied.
His voice was steady, but carried a depth that felt like stone sinking into water.
"This war will bring only destruction," Bhishma continued. "Not only to Hastinapur—but to mankind itself."
He closed his eyes.
"And I," he said, "will bear the greatest sin."
Drona lowered his head.
"You are not alone in that," Drona said. "We too are culprits… in some measure."
Kripacharya exhaled slowly.
"There is still time," he said cautiously. "Perhaps we should go once more—beg Prince Duryodhana to stop this madness. Return Indraprastha to the Pandavas. End this before the earth is drowned in blood."
Drona's lips tightened.
"We have tried," he said. "Many times."
He looked away.
"His ears are sealed by Shakuni's poison and his brothers' flattery. He does not see the fire ahead—only the throne behind it."
Kripacharya hesitated.
"Then perhaps we should speak to Dhritarashtra," he said. "He is still the king."
Bhishma's eyes snapped open.
Anger—rare and terrifying—flared within them.
"Dhritarashtra?" Bhishma thundered.
The air itself stiffened.
"He is blind not by fate anymore—but by attachment."
Bhishma rose slowly from his seat. When he stood, it felt as though a mountain had shifted.
"He knows," Bhishma said. "He knows what his son has done to Hastinapur. And yet he chooses silence."
His fists clenched.
"Do you all forget," Bhishma continued, "the day Krishna himself came to Hastinapur as a peace envoy?"
Drona and Kripa said nothing.
"Five villages," Bhishma said bitterly. "Not Indraprastha. Not the kingdom. Just five villages—for peace."
His voice hardened.
"And what did Duryodhana say?"
Bhishma laughed once—dry, joyless.
"He said he would not give land enough to fit the tip of a needle."
The words fell like a curse.
"That," Bhishma said, "was the day destruction became inevitable."
He turned away, gazing toward the Pandava camp in the distance.
"His mind is corrupted. His path has narrowed to one direction only."
Bhishma's voice dropped, heavy with certainty.
"Destruction."
Silence consumed the tent.
Drona's shoulders sagged.
Kripacharya closed his eyes.
After a long moment, Bhishma spoke again—his tone no longer angry, but weary.
"What is done," he said, "is done."
He looked at both of them.
"We can only move forward now."
Drona met his gaze.
"And destiny?" Drona asked quietly.
Bhishma did not hesitate.
"Destiny," he said, "stands with the Pandavas."
The words struck harder than any weapon.
Kripacharya looked up sharply.
"How can you be so certain?" he asked.
Bhishma's eyes burned—not with rage, but with terrible clarity.
"Because," he said, "where Dharma resides—Narayana resides."
He turned fully toward the battlefield.
"And where Narayana resides," Bhishma continued, "there resides victory."
Drona's breath caught.
"You mean Krishna," he whispered.
Bhishma nodded.
"I have lived long enough to know this truth," Bhishma said. "Weapons do not decide wars. Numbers do not decide wars."
He paused.
"Alignment does."
A shadow crossed his face.
"That is why," Bhishma said, "I know I will fall."
Drona's eyes widened. "Grandsire—"
Bhishma raised a hand.
"I am not afraid," he said. "I was never meant to be."
He looked upward, toward the dark sky.
"My life was a vow," he said softly. "But a vow without resistance to injustice becomes a prison."
Kripacharya swallowed.
"Then why fight at all?" he asked.
Bhishma's answer was immediate.
"Because," he said, "this too is my chosen consequence."
He straightened his back.
"I will uphold the rules of war," Bhishma declared. "Even if others break them."
His voice hardened into command.
"And I will give the Pandavas every chance to defeat me—without dishonor."
Drona understood then.
Bhishma was not fighting for victory.
He was fighting for closure.
The night outside deepened.
Far away, unseen, Krishna watched the same moon from the opposite camp.
Two men—bound by destiny—standing on opposite sides of a truth they both understood.
The war had not yet begun.
But in Bhishma's heart, it had already ended.