The fort of Ahmednagar had grown restless, as though its ancient stones had absorbed the whispers of betrayal creeping through its corridors. Chand Bibi knew it well—betrayal was never loud; it slithered softly, wearing the mask of loyalty.
The night carried a strange weight. The moon hung veiled behind smoky clouds, casting an eerie twilight over the battlements. Chand Bibi stood on the high parapet, her armor catching the weak glow, her eyes sharper than the blades she carried. Every gust of wind felt like a warning, every flicker of torchlight threatened to reveal some lurking shadow.
Earlier that evening, her spies had returned breathless with grim tidings. "My Queen," one had whispered, his voice shaking, "there are men within the fort who bow to you in daylight… but in darkness, they pledge to the enemy."
Chand Bibi's jaw tightened. Treachery within walls was deadlier than an army outside them. The Mughals pressed harder each day, their encampments swelling like a black tide against her gates, but what gnawed at her was the creeping rot within—the serpents feeding them secrets.
She summoned her closest council in the dimly lit hall. The flicker of oil lamps cast monstrous shadows against the walls as each advisor stepped forward. Some faces bore the lines of loyalty, etched deep by years of service; others… masks too smooth, too carefully calm.
Her gaze moved across the room like a blade."There is poison among us," Chand Bibi declared, her voice low but unyielding. "Someone feeds our enemy. Tonight, we shall drag the serpent into the light."
A silence fell so heavy that even the crackle of flames seemed hesitant.
Suddenly, a sound echoed from beyond the chamber—steel clashing, followed by a muffled cry. Chand Bibi motioned swiftly, and her guards burst into action. She strode behind them, cloak sweeping like a storm, her instincts screaming that the enemy's hand had already moved.
They found the source in one of the narrow stone corridors that led to the storerooms beneath the fort. A soldier lay dead, throat slit clean, his lifeless hand still clutching a rolled parchment. Chand Bibi bent, unrolling the blood-stained paper.
It was a message. Written hastily, in trembling script:"The eastern gate will be left unguarded. Strike at dawn."
Her blood boiled. Someone was preparing to sell Ahmednagar's lifeblood for silver.
From the darkness, her captain murmured, "My Queen… only one with access to the watch rotations could have written this."
Chand Bibi's eyes narrowed, the storm within her rising. The eastern gate—the lifeline of the fort. To betray it was to slaughter every soul inside.
She rose slowly, her sword unsheathed with a hiss that silenced even the wind."We find the traitor tonight," she said, her voice like steel scraping stone.
The hunt began.
Chand Bibi moved through the fort like a phantom, her senses sharpened, her mind weaving through possibilities. The council had been small, trusted. Too small for the betrayal to hide for long. Every torch she passed flickered as though bowing to her fury, every soldier straightened at the fire in her stride.
At the barracks, she questioned the captains, eyes scanning their faces for cracks. Some avoided her gaze; others looked on with raw fear. When one stammered too long at her question, she pressed her blade to his throat.
"You tremble like a liar," she hissed."N-no, my Queen," he stuttered. "Only fear of failing you."
Her blade lingered at his skin a heartbeat longer before she pulled it back. Not him. Not yet.
Then—another sound. Footsteps, light and hurried, echoing in a passage few dared to tread at night. Chand Bibi's instincts ignited. She signaled her guards to fan out but pressed forward alone.
The corridor opened into an abandoned chamber, its walls carved with fading inscriptions of ancient rulers. In its center stood one of her own councilmen—Mir Yusuf, the silver-tongued advisor whose smiles always seemed too polished. His back was turned, whispering into the crack of a hidden passage in the wall.
Chand Bibi didn't hesitate."Turn, traitor," she commanded, her voice filling the chamber like thunder.
Mir Yusuf spun, his eyes widening, caught between fear and defiance. For a moment, the mask slipped, revealing the serpent's smile beneath."My Queen," he said softly, too softly, "you should not be here."
Her sword gleamed in the half-light. "And yet I am. Explain yourself before this blade drinks your blood."
He laughed, low and bitter. "You fight shadows, Chand Bibi. You war against destiny itself. The Mughals will crush this fort, whether by their cannons outside or by the truth inside."
"Truth?" she spat, stepping closer, blade raised.
"That your fight is already lost," he hissed. "That Ahmednagar will burn, and those who bow early will live to see its ashes. I only chose survival."
Chand Bibi's rage burned cold."Survival bought with betrayal is no life at all. It is rot, crawling on its belly."
Before he could answer, she struck—not to kill, but to silence. Her blade sliced across his arm, and he fell, shrieking. Guards poured into the chamber, weapons drawn.
"Bind him," Chand Bibi ordered, her voice carrying the weight of judgment. "Let the people see what becomes of serpents."
At dawn, the fort gathered in the courtyard. Chand Bibi stood tall, armor gleaming in the rising sun, her presence unshaken though shadows of exhaustion haunted her. Before the assembled soldiers and citizens, Mir Yusuf was dragged forward, bound and broken, his serpent's tongue still spitting venom.
"This man," Chand Bibi declared, her voice echoing off the stone, "chose silver over blood, survival over honor. He would have opened our gates to slaughter you in your sleep. Let his fate remind you all—Ahmednagar will not fall to treachery."
The crowd roared with fury, their chants rising like fire. Mir Yusuf's end was swift, his body cast beyond the fort walls as a gift to the vultures circling overhead.
Yet even as Chand Bibi looked upon the faces of her people, fire blazing in their eyes, a shadow lingered in her heart. If one serpent had slithered into her council, others could be coiled in silence still.
And beyond the walls, the Mughal army waited—vast, patient, relentless.
The serpent had been cut, but the storm was still coming.
To be continued.......