Dusk settled over the lands beyond Hastinapura, turning the sky a bruised purple that hung heavy above a rain-soaked meadow. The grass bent low under a lashing wind, its blades glistening with water, while gnarled trees swayed and groaned, their branches nearly snapping in the gale. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a deep growl that rolled closer with each breath, and flashes of lightning split the clouds, casting jagged white streaks across the darkening world. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and ozone, sharp and wild, as the storm gathered its strength, a beast awakening from slumber.
Drona led the Kuru princes into this chaos, his lean figure cutting through the wind like a blade. His tattered white robes clung to him, drenched and heavy, but his resolve stood unshaken, his gray hair plastered to his scalp in wet strands. He carried his staff in one hand, its tip sinking slightly into the muddy ground with each step, and in the other, he held a bundle of archery targets—simple wooden discs painted with red circles. His dark eyes gleamed with a fierce determination as he stopped in the meadow's heart, turning to face the princes who trailed behind, their tunics already sodden, their faces a mix of dread and defiance.
Bhima trudged forward, his massive frame hunched against the wind, water streaming from his broad shoulders. His voice boomed over the storm's roar, gruff but tinged with a laugh. "This is madness, guru! Training in a downpour? I can barely see my own hands!"
Drona planted his staff with a firm thud, his tone loud and unyielding. "Nature bends no man, prince. You bend to it, or you fail. That's today's lesson." He thrust the targets into the ground, their wooden stakes sinking deep, and stepped back as the wind caught them, setting them swaying like pendulums in the gale. "Archery. Hit the mark. Now."
Arjuna followed close, his lean form steady despite the rain pelting his face. His bow hung across his back, its string taut and glistening, and his dark eyes narrowed as he studied the swaying targets. "I see them, guru," he said, his voice steady and calm, a beacon amid the chaos. "Wind or not, I'll hit them."
Drona nodded, a flicker of approval in his gaze. "Good. Begin."
Duryodhana stomped up beside Arjuna, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his fine tunic soaked through. He gripped his bow with a fierce intensity, his jaw clenched tight. "I'll hit it yet," he said, his voice fierce and low. "Watch me."
Yudhishthira approached more slowly, his neat tunic clinging to his slighter frame, his calm face creased with concern. "This is a test, isn't it?" he said, his tone warm but cautious. "Not just of skill, but of spirit."
"Spirit's part of it," Drona replied, his voice cutting through the wind. "Skill's the rest. Take your place."
Nakula and Sahadeva darted in last, their lithe forms hunched against the storm, their twin faces alight with a mix of excitement and strain. Nakula shook water from his eyes, grinning at his brother. "Think we can dodge the rain too?" he said, his voice quick and light.
Sahadeva laughed, a short, bright sound swallowed by the thunder. "Dodge it? We'll dance through it. Let's show him!"
The princes lined up, their sandals sinking into the muddy earth, their bows trembling in the wind as they notched their arrows. Bhima went first, his massive hands fumbling with the string, his broad grin fading into a scowl. "Stupid storm," he muttered, drawing back and loosing an arrow. It veered wide, whipped away by a gust, and thudded into the grass far beyond the target. He growled, his frustration a raw edge in his voice. "Arrows can't fight this!"
"They can," Drona said, stepping closer, his robes flapping like a banner. "You're not fighting the storm, Bhima. You're working with it. Try again."
Bhima snatched another arrow, his movements sharp and impatient. "Fine," he said, drawing once more. The wind howled, tugging at his arm, and the arrow sailed off again, missing by a wider margin. He hurled the bow to the ground with a roar, the wood splashing into a puddle. "This is pointless!"
Drona's eyes narrowed, his voice a whipcrack over the thunder. "Pick it up," he said. "You don't quit because it's hard. That's failure."
Bhima glared, his chest heaving, but he bent and retrieved the bow, wiping mud from its curve. "Hard's one thing," he grumbled. "This is torture."
"Torture builds strength," Drona replied, turning to Arjuna. "Your turn."
Arjuna stepped forward, his sandals steady in the muck, his bow rising with a quiet grace. He notched an arrow, his breath slowing as he studied the swaying target. The wind lashed his face, rain streaking his cheeks, but his focus was a beacon, unshaken. He loosed the arrow, its flight a soft whistle against the storm's roar, and it pierced the target's heart with a solid thud, quivering as the wood rocked in the gale. The princes murmured, a ripple of awe cutting through the rain.
Drona nodded, his voice loud but approving. "That's it," he said. "You see the mark, not the storm. Well done."
Arjuna smiled faintly, brushing wet hair from his eyes. "I just watched it," he said. "The wind moves it, but it's still there."
Duryodhana pushed past, his bow already drawn, his eyes blazing with stubborn pride. "I'll do better," he said, his tone fierce. He fired, the arrow snapping in the wind, its shaft splintering as it grazed the target's edge and spun into the grass. He snarled, notching another, and loosed again. This one veered high, lost to the storm. Again and again he shot, his quiver emptying, each miss fueling his anger until his last arrow thudded uselessly into the mud.
"Enough," Drona called, stepping in. "You're forcing it, prince. Adapt, don't fight."
Duryodhana lowered his bow, his hands clenching around it, his voice a growl. "I'll hit it yet," he said. "I don't give up."
"Stubbornness isn't strength," Drona replied, his tone cool. "Learn the difference."
Nakula and Sahadeva stepped up together, their bows slick with rain, their grins undimmed. Nakula wiped water from his brow, panting as he aimed. "It's moving too fast, Sahadeva," he said. "Aim higher!"
"Got it," Sahadeva replied, his voice quick and steady. They fired in unison, their arrows cutting through the wind. Nakula's grazed the target's edge, splintering wood, while Sahadeva's landed just below, rocking the disc. They laughed, a bright sound against the storm's fury, and turned to Drona.
"Close!" Nakula said, shaking rain from his hair. "We'll get it next time."
"Close is a start," Drona said, his tone firm but not harsh. "Adjust. Feel the wind, not just the bow."
Yudhishthira took his place, his hands steady despite the chill seeping through his tunic. "I'll try," he said, his voice warm and resolute. He drew back, his arrow trembling in the gusts, and loosed it. It struck the target's outer ring, a soft thud swallowed by the storm, and he nodded. "Not perfect," he said, "but I see what you mean."
"You'll find it," Drona replied, his gaze softening. "Patience, prince. It's there."
A crack of lightning split the sky, its white flash searing the meadow, and thunder roared close, shaking the ground. A nearby tree splintered, its trunk cracking with a sound like breaking bone, and flames flickered briefly before the rain snuffed them out. The princes flinched, Bhima cursing under his breath, but Drona turned, pointing to the smoldering stump.
"New target," he said, his voice loud and commanding. "Hit it. Now."
Arjuna stepped up first, his bow rising without hesitation. Rain streamed down his face, but his eyes locked on the stump, its charred edges glowing faintly. He loosed an arrow, its shaft sizzling as it cut through the wet air, and it buried itself in the wood with a sharp crack. The princes cheered, their voices rising over the fading thunder, and Arjuna stepped back, his breath steady.
Drona clapped his shoulder, water dripping from his hand. "Perfect," he said. "That's adaptation."
Bhima grabbed his bow again, his frustration boiling over. "I'll try it," he said, his tone gruff. He fired, the arrow veering wide into the grass, and he kicked the mud with a growl. "This storm's got it in for me!"
"It's not the storm," Drona said, his voice cutting through. "It's you. Focus, not fury."
Duryodhana notched another arrow, his quiver refilled from a servant's bundle, his jaw set tight. "I'll get it," he said, firing again. The arrow struck the stump's edge, splintering bark, and he smirked, though his hands shook with the effort. "There," he said. "Good enough."
"Better," Drona replied, "but not enough. Keep at it."
Nakula and Sahadeva tried again, their shots quick and paired. Nakula's landed low, Sahadeva's grazed the top, and they grinned through the rain. "Getting there," Nakula said, panting.
"Almost," Sahadeva added, shaking water from his bow. "We'll nail it soon."
The storm began to subside, the wind easing, the rain softening to a drizzle. The sky lightened, its purple bruise fading to gray, and the meadow grew still, the targets swaying gently now. The princes stood soaked and shivering, their hair plastered to their skulls, their bows dripping in their hands. Drona faced them, his robes heavy with water, his staff planted firm.
"You've felt it now," he said, his voice steady and loud. "Nature's not your enemy. It's your teacher. Adapt to it, and you'll conquer anything. That's etched in your bones today."
Bhima shook water from his arms, his grin returning despite his misses. "Bones, eh? They're aching, but I'll take it. Storm's a beast, though!"
Arjuna brushed rain from his eyes, his voice calm. "It's just another test," he said. "I'll keep seeing the mark."
Duryodhana slung his bow over his shoulder, his tone fierce but tired. "I'll master it," he said. "Storm or no storm."
Yudhishthira smiled faintly, wringing out his tunic. "It's a lesson worth learning," he said. "Hard, but true."
Nakula stretched, flicking water at Sahadeva. "We danced with it," he said, laughing. "Not bad for a first go."
"Next time we'll lead," Sahadeva replied, flicking water back. "Watch us."
Drona watched them trudge back toward the palace, their voices mingling with the last rumbles of thunder—Bhima's gruff humor, Arjuna's steady resolve, Duryodhana's tenacious edge, Yudhishthira's warm reflection, Nakula and Sahadeva's light banter. The meadow lay quiet, its grass flattened, its trees scarred, but the storm had forged something in them—a raw, unshaken strength, tempered by Drona's relentless presence, a steady anchor in the chaos.