Twilight settled over the grove near Hastinapura, its tall trees casting long shadows as faint runes glowed on their trunks, pulsing with a soft golden light. The air hummed with a strange, electric warmth, and minor astras—small divine sparks—flickered like fireflies, drifting through the branches. Leaves rustled gently in the evening breeze, their edges shimmering with the grove's newfound magic, while the scent of earth and sap mingled with an otherworldly tang. The clearing stretched wide and sacred, a stage trembling with power, ready to test the princes with blades kissed by the divine.
Drona stood at the grove's heart, his lean frame steady in the dim light, his tattered white robes glowing faintly as he traced a rune with his fingers. His gray hair was tied back tight, and his dark eyes gleamed with a mystical, strict fire as he faced the Kuru princes. In one hand, he held his staff, its tip planted firm in the moss; the other rested on a pile of steel swords, their blades now etched with glowing sigils that hummed softly. The princes gathered around him, their tunics streaked with the day's dust, their breaths catching in the charged air as they stared at the weapons, awe flickering in their widened eyes.
Bhima rocked on his heels, his massive frame rustling the grass, his broad grin flashing wide as he clapped his hands with a loud thud that sent a spark skittering. "Magic swords, guru?" he said, his voice booming through the grove, loud enough to rustle the leaves. "This is mad! We swinging light now?"
Drona turned to him, his expression calm but unyielding, his voice weaving through the twilight with steady force. "Not swinging, Bhima," he said, his tone deep and firm, hushing the air for a moment. "Wielding. These are minor astras, bound to steel. They glow and hum with power. Spar with them, but learn restraint. Pair up, take one. Begin when I call."
Bhima's grin stretched wider, his eyes lighting up as he laughed, the sound rumbling over the trees. "Restraint, huh?" he said, his tone bright and eager, grabbing a sword with a grunt. The blade flared gold in his grip, humming loud, and he swung it once, the air crackling. "I'll wield this like a storm! Let's go, guru!"
"Storm less, guide more," Drona replied, his voice dry and patient, lifting a hand to steady him. "Five strikes each. Control the power."
Arjuna stepped up beside him, his lean form quiet and still, his sandals silent on the moss as he studied the glowing blades. His tunic shimmered with sweat, his breath even, and his dark eyes traced the sigils with a steady focus. "This is alive," he said, his voice soft but clear, glancing at Drona with a nod. "It's strong, guru. How do we hold it?"
"Hold it light," Drona said, his gaze settling on Arjuna with a flicker of warmth, his tone firm. "Feel the hum, let it flow. You'll master it."
Duryodhana strode forward, his chin high, his dark hair glinting in the rune-light as he gripped a sword tight. The blade sparked gold, humming low, and he smirked. "Feel the hum?" he said, his voice low and edged with a growl, his brow lifting slightly. "I'll make it sing. No one's outdoing me. Guru, I'm set."
"Sing less, wield true," Drona said, his tone stern and sharp, meeting Duryodhana's smirk with a nod. "Step up. Show me."
The princes moved to the clearing, their footsteps soft on the moss, the grove thrumming with the hum of steel as they paired off. Bhima lumbered toward Arjuna, his sword raised, its golden glow flaring bright as he laughed loud. "Here we go!" he shouted, his voice ringing through the trees, swinging the blade with a grunt. The astra crackled, a streak of light slashing toward Arjuna, but the force tipped him off balance, and the strike veered wide, singeing a tree's bark with a sharp hiss.
"Ha!" Bhima said, his tone bright and unbothered, steadying himself as smoke curled up. "That's a blast! Nearly took the grove down!"
Drona stepped closer, his voice steady and firm as he called over the hum. "Nearly's not the goal, Bhima!" he said, his tone warm with patience, pointing at the charred bark. "Guide it, not unleash it. Again!"
"Guide it?" Bhima said, chuckling as he swung again, the blade flaring wild as it sliced air. "I'm guiding a thunderbolt!" The glow flared brighter, humming loud, and he laughed, his chest heaving as he aimed for Arjuna.
Arjuna lifted his sword, its golden light steady, his breath slow and even as he braced in the twilight. "Easy," he murmured, his voice soft and lost to the hum, parrying Bhima's strike with a smooth twist. The blades clashed, sparks flying as he redirected the energy skyward, a streak of gold shooting up to fade among the stars. He stepped back, nodding. "One," he said, his tone calm and sure, the blade humming low in his grip.
Drona's eyes widened, his voice warm with awe as he stepped forward. "One?" he said, his tone lifting slightly, steady despite the glow. "Controlled and clean, Arjuna! That's it! More!"
Bhima laughed, his voice loud and cheerful as he swung again, the blade crackling with power. "Controlled?" he said, his tone bright and teasing, the strike veering toward Arjuna's shoulder. "I'm controlling chaos!" Arjuna parried once more, the light flaring as he turned it aside, tapping Bhima's arm with a soft thud.
"Two," Arjuna said, his voice soft and steady, stepping back as the grove shimmered around them.
The air pulsed with their efforts, the grove alive with golden streaks and the hum of steel—Bhima's reckless swings, Arjuna's careful parries, Duryodhana's fierce strikes against Nakula. Bhima lunged again, his sword blazing, and Arjuna countered, redirecting three more blows with precise twists, each tap landing clean on Bhima's chest, arm, and leg. "Five," he said, his voice soft but sure, lowering his blade as the glow dimmed.
Drona stepped forward, his voice warm with pride as he nodded at Arjuna. "Five?" he said, his tone ringing clear, his eyes gleaming. "Mastered, Arjuna. That's restraint."
Bhima lowered his sword, his chest heaving, his grin wide as he wiped sweat from his brow. "Mastered?" he said, his voice loud and teasing, laughing through the twilight. "He's a wizard! I'm still sparking trees! Look at that smoke, huh?"
"Smoke's not victory," Drona said, his tone dry but fond, pointing at the singed bark. "Power's nothing without control, Bhima."
"Control's tricky!" Bhima said, his tone bright and honest, swinging his sword once more, the glow flaring as he laughed. "I got two hits! That's my storm!"
"Two's a start," Drona replied, his tone amused but firm, waving him to stop. "Rest it."
Duryodhana faced Nakula, his blade humming low, his strikes sharp and tight as he landed three taps—arm, chest, shoulder. "Three," he said, his voice low and sharp, stepping back with a smirk. "I've got it, guru."
"Three's strong," Drona said, his tone stern and approving, nodding at him. "Steady, Duryodhana. You're learning."
Arjuna set his sword down, its glow fading, his breath steady as he brushed moss from his hands. "That was deep, guru," he said, his voice soft and honest, flexing his wrists. "It pulls at you."
"Pulls and tempts," Drona replied, his pride clear, nodding at him through the dusk. "You held it, Arjuna. That's your strength."
Bhima lumbered over, his laugh booming as he clapped Arjuna's back with a thud. "Strength?" he said, his voice loud and teasing, grinning wide. "You're a light-tamer! I'm a fire-starter! We're a team, huh?"
"Thanks, Bhima," Arjuna said, his voice calm and friendly, smiling back. "Your fire's fierce."
"Fierce and wild!" Bhima said, chuckling as he waved his sword, the glow flaring briefly. "I'll tame it someday!"
"Tame it soon," Drona said, his tone dry but kind, shaking his head as twilight deepened. "Enough. Arjuna, five strikes, wise and sure. Bhima, two, bold and raw. Duryodhana, three, fierce and tight."
Bhima laughed, setting his sword down, his chest heaving as he stretched his arms. "Two's my spark!" he said, his voice loud and cheerful, grinning wide. "I'll light the sky next time! This grove's alive, huh?"
"Alive and scorched," Drona said, his tone amused but firm, glancing at the singed tree. "Restraint, Bhima. You'll find it."
Duryodhana crossed his arms, his scowl faint but his smirk holding as he stared at Arjuna. "Five's a fluke," he said, his voice low and sharp, kicking at the moss. "I'll match it soon. Watch me."
"Three's no fluke," Arjuna said, his voice soft and steady, turning to him with a nod. "You're solid, Duryodhana."
"Solid's not enough," Duryodhana replied, his smirk sharpening, his tone sly and edged as he turned away. "I'll shine brighter."