The dawn was no relief. It came bruised in reds and greys, dragging with it the scent of charred bodies and broken oaths. Chitradurga stood—but its silence was uneasy. Not the silence of peace, but of a wound stitched shut too quickly.
Obavva stood in the royal archives, her pestle left at the door like a warning. Her eyes scanned the stone scroll vaults, each bearing centuries of blood-bound secrets.
The attack had failed. But something gnawed at her. Why had Karivardhana, the royal treasurer, risked everything? Why betray not just a kingdom—but the Queen herself, to whom he once swore eternal allegiance?
She wasn't here for scrolls. She was here for one thing.
The Queen's ciphered seal.
Hidden behind a slab in the archive wall, accessible only to members of the royal court, the seal was more than a signature. It was a device—ancient, mechanical, and said to be crafted by the Tuluva dynasty's last warrior-monk. It unlocked not only documents but the encoded truths behind them.
Obavva twisted the worn brass dial in a sequence she'd seen only once, years ago, when she served water to the Queen during the Treaty of Sonda.
Click.
The slab shifted. Dust spiraled into the air like ghosts whispering warnings. Behind it, housed in a small alcove of obsidian and ivory, lay the seal.
Obavva reached in, heart pounding.
The seal was heavy. Cold. A black orb ringed with intricate spokes of gold and red sandalwood. At its base—barely visible—was a folded document sealed in crimson wax.
She broke it.
Inside, the parchment trembled in her grip, not from her hands, but as if it were alive with suppressed fire.
To Queen Mallamma Devi,If this letter finds you not by my hand, then know your court has been breached. Karivardhana is not the root. He is the branch. The rot lies deeper—beneath the throne, beside the veena that never sings.—S.G.
"S.G.," Obavva whispered. "Sannakka Gowda…"
Her mind reeled. Sannakka Gowda, the Queen's chief codekeeper, had been declared missing three fortnights ago—vanished during a ceremonial procession in the eastern quarter. They said he had drowned in the Tungabhadra. But his body was never found.
And now—his last message lay in her hands.
Obavva turned to leave, only to find a shadow blocking the exit.
General Dheeran stood there, arms crossed, eyes like granite.
"You weren't assigned to the vault," he said.
"No," she replied. "But neither was Karivardhana—yet his blood stained these stones."
Dheeran stepped closer. "What did you find?"
She hesitated.
Then handed him the letter.
He read in silence. His jaw tightened. "You know what this means?"
"That the treachery isn't over," she said. "And someone inside the Queen's court is orchestrating it."
Dheeran's eyes flicked toward the slab. "Beneath the throne… beside the veena."
Obavva's voice dropped to a whisper. "The Queen's music chamber."
That night, Obavva entered the Queen's private hall through a servant's passage known only to the old guards. A single lamp flickered in the center of the vast chamber. Silks of crimson and ivory danced like flames in the windless air.
At the far end sat the veena—untouched, its strings dusty with disuse.
She stepped toward it, her every breath echoing like a betrayal.
The throne above her creaked. A hollow sound. Obavva dropped to her knees and ran her fingers along the veena stand.
There—beneath the lowest curve—was a panel. A different kind of wood. Newer. Unworn.
She pushed it.
A sharp click echoed in the chamber. A segment of the marble floor near the Queen's throne cracked open slightly. Obavva pried it wider, revealing a descending passage of black stone, slick with condensation and shadow.
She didn't hesitate.
The tunnel smelled of sandal rot and old secrets. Torches flickered to life one by one as she moved deeper, as if summoned by her presence. Walls narrowed. The ceiling lowered. And at the end of the descent, a door stood—embossed with the emblem of the Mysorean falcon.
Obavva's heart thundered.
She drew the small dagger from her sash, then reached for the latch.
The door creaked open.
And what she saw turned her spine to ice.
Maps. Scrolls. Weapons. Letters in Persian and Kannada. And at the center—standing with his back to her—was Minister Jaisingh, chief advisor to the Queen.
He turned slowly, eyes calm, hands behind his back.
"I wondered how long it would take you," he said. "You're far more perceptive than the rest."
"You were the one," she said. "You planted Karivardhana. Killed Sannakka. Fed the plans to Hyder Ali."
He smiled. "Do you know what it's like… to serve a kingdom that refuses to evolve? A Queen who clings to honor while the world sharpens knives?"
Obavva stepped forward, pestle now in hand.
Jaisingh laughed. "You think you can kill me, and all this will end?"
"I think," she said, voice steady, "that if I don't… it won't."
He moved—fast. A curved blade flashed from beneath his cloak, arcing toward her ribs. But Obavva had faced death before. She ducked, swept low, and struck his knee. He buckled, howled.
The pestle came down hard.
Once. Twice.
Then silence.
Jaisingh gasped on the floor, blood pooling beneath him.
"Go ahead," he hissed. "Kill me. But it won't matter. The next breach is already coming. This kingdom is already dead."
Obavva leaned in close.
"Then I'll bury it with my hands," she whispered.
She returned to the throne room before sunrise, the letter from Sannakka now replaced by a new one—bearing the full evidence she had retrieved. Maps. Dates. Names.
And blood.
She handed it to the Queen personally.
Queen Mallamma Devi read in silence. Then looked up, eyes sharp, face pale.
"You've done what no man in my court dared," the Queen said softly.
Obavva stood silent.
"I give you command," the Queen said. "Over the Watch. Over the Gate. Over the secrets buried in my house."
Obavva nodded. "Then we fight not just enemies at the gate, my Queen… but ghosts within our own walls."
End of Chapter Three