Rain lashed the training yard in Hastinapura, a relentless downpour drumming the earth into a slick, muddy mire. Dark clouds churned overhead, their gray bulk blotting out the sun, while water streamed in rivulets across the ground, pooling around wooden targets—red-painted discs on sodden poles—that trembled in the storm. The air was cold and heavy, thick with the scent of wet soil and straw, a gritty chaos roaring with the patter of drops and the squelch of boots, ready to test the princes' grit against the elements.
Drona stood at the yard's edge, his lean frame steady under the deluge, his tattered white robes clinging to his skin, darkened by the rain. His gray hair was plastered to his head, and his dark eyes gleamed with a stern, unyielding fire as he faced the Kuru princes. In one hand, he held his staff, its tip sinking into the mud; the other wiped water from his face, steady and calm. The princes gathered around him, their tunics soaked through, their hair dripping as they gripped their bows, squinting through the sheets of rain at the blurred targets.
Bhima rocked on his heels, his massive frame slick with mud, his broad grin flashing wide as he shook water from his arms like a dog. "Rain today, guru?" he said, his voice booming over the storm, laughing loud as a drop splattered his nose. "This is a mess! We swimming or shooting?"
Drona turned to him, his expression calm but unyielding, his voice cutting through the downpour with steady force. "Shooting, Bhima," he said, his tone deep and firm, steadying the chaos for a moment. "Through the rain. Hit those targets clean. The storm tests you now. Adapt."
Bhima's grin widened, his eyes glinting with glee as he laughed again, the sound swallowed by the rain. "Adapt?" he said, his tone bright and eager, grabbing his bow with a squelch. "I'll blast through this muck! These targets are mine, storm or not!"
"Blast less, stand firm," Drona replied, his voice dry and patient, pointing at the muddy ground. "One shot each turn. Start when I call."
Arjuna stepped up beside him, his lean form hunched slightly against the rain, his sandals sinking into the mire as he steadied his bow. His tunic clung to his skin, water streaming from his hair, and his dark eyes narrowed at the targets through the blur. "Rain changes it," he said, his voice soft but clear, shouting just enough to carry over the patter. "This is real, guru. How many?"
"Five," Drona said, his gaze settling on Arjuna with a flicker of warmth, his tone firm. "Scattered wide. Cut through the wet."
Yudhishthira moved closer, his neat tunic sodden and heavy, his face warm with curiosity despite the downpour as he wiped rain from his eyes. "A storm test," he said, his voice gentle and thoughtful, steadying his stance in the mud. "Good one, guru. We'll need footing."
"Footing and focus," Drona replied, his tone stern and steady, nodding at him through the rain. "Begin."
The princes spread out, their boots slipping in the muck, the yard a sloshing battlefield as they braced against the storm. Bhima stomped forward, his massive frame sinking ankle-deep, his laugh booming as he drew his bow. "Here we go!" he shouted, his voice ringing loud, the rain pelting his face. He aimed at a disc blurred by the downpour, his muscles bulging, and fired with a grunt. The arrow veered sharp, skidding into the mud, and he slipped, flailing with a loud splash. "Ha!" he said, his tone bright and unbothered, scrambling up with a grin. "This muck's fighting back! I'll get it next!"
"Plant your feet, Bhima!" Drona called, his voice steady and firm, stepping closer through the rain. "Stand before you shoot!"
"Plant?" Bhima said, chuckling as he wiped mud from his face, his tunic plastered with sludge. "I'm planting my whole self!" He fired again, slipping once more as the arrow sailed wide, and he laughed loud, sprawling in the mire. "This is a wrestle now! Rain's winning!"
"Rain's not the target," Drona said, his tone dry but kind, shaking his head as water streamed from his hair. "Get up. Watch."
Arjuna braced his legs, his bow drawn, his breath slow and even as he squinted through the rain. The storm lashed at him, but he shifted his stance, rooting himself in the mud. "Adjust," he murmured, his voice soft and lost to the patter, aiming at a disc rocking in the wind. He fired, the arrow cutting through the wet with a clean thud, pinning the target, and he smiled faintly, nocking another. His next shot hit true, slicing the rain, and he called back, "Two," his tone calm and steady, his focus unshaken.
Drona's eyes gleamed, his voice warm with pride as he shouted over the storm. "Two?" he said, his tone lifting slightly, steady despite the deluge. "Through that mess? Strong, Arjuna! More!"
Yudhishthira planted his feet, his bow steady, his brow furrowed in thought as he wiped water from his face. "Steady," he murmured, his voice gentle and low, aiming through the blur. He fired, his arrow slicing the rain to hit a disc with a soft thud, its light steady and sure. He smiled faintly, nocking another, and fired again, striking true. "Two," he said, his tone warm and calm, brushing mud from his hands.
"Good," Drona said, his pride clear, nodding at him through the downpour. "That's calm, Yudhishthira. Solid work."
The yard churned with their efforts, the rain a relentless foe—Bhima's wild slips, Arjuna's steady hits, Yudhishthira's quiet strikes. Bhima hauled himself up, his tunic caked with mud, his laugh echoing as he waved his bow. "Nothing yet, guru!" he shouted, his voice loud and cheerful, slipping again with a splash. "This mud's got me! I'll wrestle it down next time!"
"Bows, Bhima," Drona said, his tone dry but patient, shouting over the storm. "Not wrestling. Sit there."
"Sit?" Bhima said, grinning as he flopped onto a soggy bench, his chest heaving. "I'll sit and cheer! This rain's a beast!" He roared a mock curse, laughing loud as it vanished into the patter.
Arjuna struck three more discs, his arrows cutting through the rain with clean thuds, his stance unshaken in the muck. "Five," he said, his voice soft but firm, trudging back to Drona with a nod. "It's about the shift."
"Shift?" Drona said, his awe clear, his staff sinking deeper as he met him. "You've mastered it, Arjuna. Chaos bows to you."
Yudhishthira hit two more, his shots steady and sure, their thuds quiet but firm through the storm. "Four," he said, his voice gentle and pleased, lowering his bow as rain streamed from his hair. "It's holding firm."
"Firm it is," Drona said, his tone warm and approving, smiling at him through the wet. "Your calm cuts through."
The rain pounded harder, the yard a muddy swamp, and Drona called them in, his voice ringing clear over the storm, his staff tapping once, twice. "Enough," he said, his tone warm and final, the deluge unrelenting. "Arjuna, five hits, clean and true. Yudhishthira, four, steady shots. Bhima, none."
Bhima laughed, hauling himself up, his chest heaving as he shook mud from his arms. "None's my mark!" he said, his voice loud and cheerful, grinning wide through the rain. "But I've got the best splash! This storm knows me now!"
"Knows you and laughs," Drona said, his tone dry but fond, shaking his head as water dripped from his face. "Skill wins it, Bhima. You'll learn."
Arjuna set his bow down, his breath steady, his smile warm and quiet despite the wet. "It's alive in this, guru," he said, his voice soft and honest, wiping rain from his eyes. "Had to move with it."
"You did," Drona replied, his pride clear, clapping Arjuna's shoulder through the storm. "That's mastery, Arjuna. Pure and resolute."
Yudhishthira brushed mud from his hands, his expression warm and thoughtful despite the downpour. "Four's good," he said, his voice gentle and steady, nodding at Arjuna. "Yours ruled the chaos."
"Yours held it," Arjuna said, his tone calm and friendly, smiling back through the rain. "Steady's strength."