Shakuni folded his hands politely, but his tone carried theatrical sweetness.
"Just like a great archer is one who can strike multiple targets with a single arrow, a great king is someone who can fulfill multiple objectives through a single event."
Bhishma's brows furrowed deeper.
"Be clear, Gandhara Naresh," Bhishma said, his voice stern.
Shakuni turned his head slightly toward Bhishma, as if acknowledging him, yet his expression did not change. He looked back toward Dhritarashtra.
"Maharaj," Shakuni said, "It is already known that we have sent an invitation to Dakshina Kalinga. We intended to use this event to form a friendship treaty with Maharaj Karna and to bring him closer to Hastinapura. That is indeed a wise moe..."
Dhritarashtra's smile widened with a nod.
Shakuni's eyes glinted as he took a pause and asked, "But why stop with fulfilling two objectives when we fulfill three objectives instead?"
The words fell softly, yet they made the hall colder.
Bhishma leaned forward slightly, already sensing poison in the honey.
Dritarashtra asked, "Three objectives."
Shakuni lifted his hand as if he were merely presenting an idea. "I propose… instead of calling it a tournament that basically meant only to display skills… we should make the princes compete for something. Something that the princes wanted. Something that our public wanted."
A quiet tension spread across the hall.
Drona frowned immediately.
Bhishma's jaw tightened. "What is it?" He asked.
Shakuni answered with a crooked smile, "Let them compete against one another and let the strongest emerge before the eyes of the people. And the final winner..."
Shakuni gave a deliberate pause, glancing at everyone, one by one, and said, "He should be crowned as the Crown Prince, the heir to the throne."
The words hit the court like a spark landing on dry grass.
Bhishma stood up instantly.
"No," Bhishma said sternly. "Such a prize will only breed violent rivalry among brothers."
His gaze burned into Shakuni.
"This event is meant to display unity," Bhishma continued. "To show Hastinapura's strength. To show that we have one hundred and five pillars holding the Kuru kingdom to the sky."
Shakuni's smile did not fade.
He spread his hands innocently. "I am merely giving a suggestion, Mahamahim." After a pause, he innocently asked, "And why do you assume sparring against one another sends a wrong message?"
He took a step forward, his tone growing more persuasive.
"Instead of us choosing a Crown Prince later and allowing the public to question his worth, allowing factions to form and rumors to grow… isn't it better to make it a straightforward competition?"
His gaze swept across the hall.
"Let the citizens see," Shakuni said. "Let them witness the true might of their future king with their own eyes."
Drona's frown deepened.
Bhishma's eyes narrowed further, but Shakuni did not stop. He was a man who knew how to push a blade deeper while smiling.
Shakuni turned slightly toward Bhishma again, his smile still calm. "And if Mahamahim fears it may send the wrong message, then he can simply make rules. Rules that prevent the princes from giving a wrong message to the citizens."
The silence in the throne hall thickened after Shakuni's proposal, as if the air itself had become heavier.
Bhishma's face hardened, his jaw tightening with restrained anger. His fingers curled slightly at his side, the way they always did when he sensed adharma being dressed up as wisdom.
He was about to speak.
But before Bhishma could release the words he had been holding back, Dhritarashtra's voice cut through the hall.
"Shakuni," the blind king said, his tone pleased, almost approving, "your suggestion is actually very good."
Bhishma's gaze snapped toward the throne.
Dhritarashtra leaned forward slightly, the golden ornaments on his robes clinking softly. "This is the best opportunity for both us and the public. The people will see the true strength of our princes. They will feel secure. And the kingdom will finally have clarity."
His smile widened as if he were already imagining the cheers of Hastinapura's citizens echoing through the streets.
Then Dhritarashtra turned his head slightly toward Bhishma, his voice taking on the warmth of familiarity.
"Uncle, as Shakuni has said… why not place rules for this competition? Rules that prevent our princes from giving a wrong message to our citizens?"
Bhishma's expression did not soften.
Instead, his eyes narrowed even further.
He took a slow breath, as if steadying himself, then spoke in a voice that carried both respect and warning.
"Maharaj," Bhishma said, "such rules may give relief to the citizens. But they will not give relief to us."
Dhritarashtra's smile faltered slightly.
Bhishma's voice became heavier, more serious. "There is a reason why we sent away the one hundred and five princes to the gurukul instead of educating them here within the palace."
His gaze swept across the hall, briefly resting on Vidura, then Drona, and finally Shakuni, who sat with a faint smile like a man watching a play unfold exactly as he desired.
"Before they left," Bhishma said, "there was hatred growing between the sons of Maharaj Pandu and the sons of Maharaj."
The hall became even quieter.
Bhishma's voice remained steady, but there was pain hidden beneath it.
"Out of the palace's influence," he continued, "they grew into fine warriors. They studied together. They trained together. They ate under the same roof. They learned discipline, restraint, and brotherhood. And now they return as young men. Not into the world of childhood, but into the world of politics."
The word politics itself felt poisonous in the air.
Bhishma's voice dropped lower, more grave.
"If we turn this event into a competition with such a grand prize," he said, "the most important position in our kingdom… it may awaken old rivalries."
He took another breath, his chest rising slowly.
"And if blood spills between brothers," Bhishma continued, "then instead of rising to the sky, our Kuru dynasty will fall into Naraka. It will burn in the flames of hell."
The words landed like a curse.
Even Drona's expression darkened.
Vidura's eyes lowered, as if Bhishma had spoken the very fear sitting in his own heart.
But Shakuni's smile only grew.
He leaned forward slightly, his posture relaxed, as if Bhishma had merely spoken an unnecessary worry.
"Mahamahim," Shakuni said smoothly, "whatever enmity they had… was the ignorance of childhood. They have grown now. They studied together for a decade. They trained together. They lived as brothers."
His eyes gleamed as he turned his head toward Drona.
Then Shakuni's tone sharpened, slipping from polite suggestion into deliberate provocation.
"To say that a mere competition, or a few blood injuries, will generate hatred… is the same as saying Guru Drona has failed in his teaching."
The air changed instantly.
Drona's eyes narrowed, his lips tightening.
Bhishma's gaze hardened.
Vidura's expression became cold.
But Shakuni continued, his smile widening as if he enjoyed the tension he was creating.
"That is a great insult to Dronacharya," he added.
Drona's fingers clenched at his side. His pride, like a sleeping beast, had been poked awake.
Shakuni then turned fully toward Drona, voice polite but dripping with manipulation.
"Acharya, you have watched them for a decade in your ashram. If they truly had such hatred," Shakuni continued by spreading his arms with almost a victorious grin, "surely you would have seen fights between them. Surely you would have seen bloodshed as they grew."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Did such things happen?"
Drona's jaw tightened. For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to reject the entire conversation.
But he could not deny the truth.
He shook his head.
"No," Drona replied firmly.
Shakuni's smile grew brighter, like a man who had just won a small battle.
He turned toward Bhishma again.
"See?" Shakuni said. "What are you so worried about, Mahamahim?"
Bhishma's eyes remained cold, but Shakuni did not stop. He pressed further, his voice now almost mocking.
"Moreover," Shakuni continued, "our princes will fight wars in the future. They will face enemies. They will spill blood on battlefields."
He shrugged again.
"What is a little fighting among brothers?" he asked. "What is a little blood injury?"
Then Shakuni's gaze sharpened, his voice lowering slightly, becoming more dangerous.
"Or perhaps," he said, "you do not trust them at all?"
Bhishma's face darkened.
Shakuni leaned back slightly, his smile turning crueler.
"Or perhaps," he continued, "the great Mahamahim does not want a strong king on the throne."
The words struck like a slap.
Vidura's eyes widened slightly.
Drona stiffened.
Bhishma's fists clenched.
Shakuni's voice remained soft, but every word was a blade.
"Perhaps you wish to continue guarding the throne… for another ten generations."
Bhishma's eyes burned with fury, his voice rising like thunder at those last set of words.
"Gandhara Naresh…!"