The moon clung faintly to the sky, its light smothered by rolling clouds that looked as if they had been painted in shades of ash. Ahmednagar fortress lay still, but its silence was deceptive. Behind its walls, whispers traveled faster than arrows, and every corner carried the weight of secrets. Chand Bibi stood at the bastion, her veil trailing in the wind, staring at the horizon where the distant glow of campfires marked the Mughal encampments. Their patience was legendary, their hunger insatiable.
But the true danger, she had begun to realize, was not only outside.
Inside her fortress walls, shadows had begun to move of their own will.
Reports of sabotage had reached her that morning. A granary, one of the largest within the fort, had mysteriously caught fire. The guards swore they had seen nothing—no torches, no sparks. Yet when she examined the blackened walls and the acrid stench of charred grain, Chand Bibi knew this was no accident. Someone within the fort had betrayed them. Someone with access, with cunning.
She closed her eyes briefly, letting the cold air whip against her face. The enemy is patient. But treachery is swift. And it walks beside me now.
That evening, she summoned her closest council to the candlelit war chamber. The room was thick with smoke from oil lamps, shadows swaying like conspirators against the walls. The council sat in a half-circle—loyal generals, scribes, and advisers. But loyalty, Chand Bibi knew, was a fragile shield.
Her eyes, sharp and unyielding, swept across the room. "One of you feeds the fire of the enemy," she declared, her voice low, steady, yet chilling. The flicker of flames in her eyes made men shift uncomfortably in their seats. "The Mughal camps grow bold because they know our food dwindles. They know before we act. I ask you—who among us dares play with such poison?"
No one spoke. The silence was too loud.
It was Khwaja Hyder, the trusted keeper of provisions, who finally lowered his head. "Begum, suspicion is dangerous. A fort already starving cannot afford to be torn apart from within. Perhaps… the fire was chance."
"Chance?" Chand Bibi leaned forward, her bangles clinking like chains. "There is no chance in war. Only intent." Her voice was soft, yet each word struck like a blade.
That night, she did not sleep.
Her instincts gnawed at her, telling her that the betrayal was closer than even the council walls. She walked the corridors of the fortress in silence, her footsteps echoing against the stone. Servants bowed quickly as she passed, their faces pale in torchlight. Beyond the kitchens, she found the womenfolk whispering in hurried tones. Their words scattered as soon as they saw her, but the unease lingered in the air.
The fortress, once alive with morale, now breathed fear.
By dawn, a soldier rushed to her chambers, his armor clattering, his face drenched in sweat. "Begum! The north wall—" He stopped, panting. "The guards were found dead. Poisoned."
Her blood turned to ice. She did not wait for the council. She stormed to the northern battlement, her soldiers parting for her like shadows fleeing the sun. The sight was worse than she had imagined: three of her men lay sprawled, foam at their lips, their lifeless eyes staring toward the sky. The barrels of water nearby were tainted, reeking of some unknown black substance.
A message, carved crudely into the wall with a dagger, read: Surrender is mercy. Resist, and rot from within.
The words were meant to break her, to carve despair into the hearts of her soldiers. But as Chand Bibi stared at the writing, her fury only burned brighter. She felt the fortress itself tremble—not from Mughal cannons, but from the weight of unseen treachery.
That evening, she gathered her personal guard. They stood in silence, armored shadows reflecting her own determination. "There is a serpent among us," she said. "One who slithers unseen, poisoning wells, burning grain, murdering our men. They want me broken. They want Ahmednagar to fall without a single cannon fired." Her hand tightened on the hilt of her sword. "But I will find the serpent. And when I do, I will make their betrayal a warning carved into the bones of history."
As she dismissed them, she caught sight of Hyder again—his face pale, his fingers trembling as he adjusted his cloak. Was it guilt, or merely fear? She could not tell. But something about his unease lingered.
Later that night, Chand Bibi ascended the watchtower. The air was colder there, sharp with the scent of rain. Lightning cracked across the horizon, illuminating the Mughal camps. Thousands of them, waiting like vultures. Yet she was not afraid of them. She was afraid of the silence behind her. The silence of daggers hiding in friendly hands.
The storm broke suddenly, rain lashing against the fortress, drowning the fires in the camps. But within the tower, Chand Bibi's mind grew sharper with every drop. She realized now: the war outside was predictable. Cannons, archers, cavalry—she could face them. It was the war inside, the war of shadows and whispers, that would test her spirit.
And somewhere within these walls, in the corridors where loyalty was only a mask, her enemy was already waiting for the moment to strike.
Ahmednagar was not just under siege from the Mughals.
It was under siege from itself.
To be continued.........