The battlefield lay still.

Kurukshetra — once alive with the roar of conches, the thunder of hooves, the clash of steel — now slept under a silence heavier than death. It was not the peace of rest, but the choking stillness that follows after screams. The earth, blackened and torn, had drunk deep from the veins of kings and children alike. The air stank of burnt flesh and rusted iron; vultures circled low, wings dark against a sagging sky. Clouds pressed heavy, swollen with grief, as though even the heavens mourned.