Chandela Palace, Kalinjar Fort – 1545 CE
The storm came dressed in silk.
Golden torches lined the sandstone walls of Kalinjar Fort, casting shifting shadows on the faces of kings, generals, and tribal chieftains gathered under the jeweled canopy. Drums echoed through the dusk like distant thunder—slow, heavy, ancient. But beneath the scent of rosewater and sandalwood lingered something metallic… sharp… waiting.
Rani Durgavati stood tall in her warrior-groomed bridal robes. The vermilion glinting on her forehead didn't soften her expression. Her eyes were not of a bride. They were of a commander. And though her bangles jingled like a queen's, her right hand instinctively brushed against the invisible hilt of her dagger with every step.
Beside her stood Dalpat Shah, crown prince of the Gond dynasty—broad-shouldered, noble-eyed, and quietly watchful. His kingdom of Gondwana was vast, tribal, and strategic—a forest-wrapped realm seated between gold mines and trade routes. But tonight, he was just a groom watching the future queen of his people as if he already feared her legend would outgrow his.
The priests began their chants.
Durgavati's father, Raja Keerat Rai, ruler of the Chandelas of Mahoba, nodded solemnly, pride and caution dancing on his brow. He knew this alliance was more than matrimonial—it was political steelwork. The Gond king needed legitimacy. The Chandelas needed protection. And together, they needed a shield against the rising Mughal tide.
The sacred fire rose higher.
But in the crowd, beneath the silks and perfumes, a shadow moved.
Hours Earlier — Eastern Rampart
The Bhil scout named Vira crouched low behind the bastion stones, his fingers sticky with dried mud and his lungs burning from the climb. His tribe had served the Chandelas for generations—hunters, informants, invisible blades in the jungle. But today, his face was pale.
He had seen something.
A rider cloaked in black had passed through the eastern forest—too close, too fast. His horse wore no crest. His saddle had no bells. And the arrow quiver on his back bore a mark—
A snake wrapped around a crescent moon.
The seal of the Kalakuta—the Cobra Guild.
An assassin's order.
Wedding Hour – Inner Courtyard
As the final chant reached its crescendo, a sudden wind sliced through the canopy, blowing out two torches. The flames hissed. Durgavati's hand paused mid-ritual. Her instincts screamed. The priest stuttered in Sanskrit.
Something was wrong.
And then—A shriek.
A Chandela guard collapsed at the base of the lotus fountain, blood pooling beneath his armor. A second arrow flew—fast, silent, precise—piercing another in the throat. Chaos erupted.
"Protect the Rani!" a guard roared.
But Durgavati had already drawn her hidden blade.
A hooded figure sprang from the rooftop above, descending like a hawk. In one breathless blur, the assassin flipped mid-air, twin daggers glinting. He struck for Dalpat Shah's heart.
CLANG!
Steel met steel.
Durgavati had intercepted the blow, her dagger locking with the assassin's twin blades. The momentum threw her backward, but she landed on one knee, teeth gritted.
Dalpat fumbled for his sword.
The assassin circled, fluid and silent like a cobra. His eyes glowed under the hood—pale green, reptilian. His next lunge came with impossible speed.
But Durgavati was faster.
She ducked, twisted, and slashed his thigh. Blood sprayed. He hissed. Their blades danced again—a flurry of steel, sweat, and fury. Guests scattered, some weeping, some running, none brave enough to help.
Durgavati's bangles shattered as she punched his face.
Dalpat finally drew his sword and charged. But the assassin threw a blinding powder from his belt—ash mixed with crushed pepper—and vanished into the courtyard shadows.
The silence afterward was loud.
Hours Later – Royal War Room
Durgavati stood over the assassin's bloodstained scarf, examining the embroidery: black thread twisted into the sigil of Kalakuta.
Dalpat nursed a cut across his shoulder. His face was pale, not from pain but disbelief.
"They sent him to kill me," he muttered.
Durgavati shook her head. "No," she said coldly. "He came for me."
Dalpat blinked. "You think someone—?"
"I humiliated the Mughal envoy three weeks ago," she said. "I refused a tribute demand. I sent them back with empty hands and an arrow stuck in their camel's saddle."
Her father, Keerat Rai, entered with grim news.
"We captured a Kalakuta messenger near the southern gate. He confessed under fire branding. The order came from Asaf Khan, governor of the Mughal eastern command."
Dalpat stood. "But Asaf Khan serves under Akbar."
Keerat Rai's voice was tight. "Then let Akbar know this—if his men send assassins to our weddings, we'll send fire to their palaces."
Durgavati spoke without emotion. "Prepare the Bhil watchmen. No royal carriage leaves the walls tonight. And I want double guards on every healer, servant, and stableboy."
"But the wedding—" Dalpat began.
"It is done," she said. "The blood has already been exchanged."
Later That Night – Atop the Fort Wall
Durgavati sat alone under the stars, her blade resting across her lap. The scent of jasmine from her bridal veil clung faintly to the steel.
Dalpat approached her silently. For a moment, neither spoke.
"You moved like you'd trained with assassins," he said quietly.
"I trained with panthers," she replied. "They don't ask questions before they kill."
He smiled slightly. "Why didn't you run?"
She turned her gaze to the dark horizon. "Because if I ran tonight… they'd never stop chasing me."
She looked at him then—eyes fierce, unflinching.
"But if I fight… they will bleed before I do."
In the Shadows – Unknown Location
Far away, in a tent lit by a single oil lamp, Asaf Khan sat before a black scroll. A servant brought news.
"The assassin failed. She lives."
Asaf Khan clenched his jaw. "Then we tighten the noose."
He rolled out a map of Gondwana. Points were marked in red: salt routes, hill passes, Bhil villages.
"Send word to Delhi," he muttered. "The Hawk has taken flight. It's time to clip her wings."
End of Chapter Two