Morning broke over Chitradurga like a blade's glint—sharp, deceptive, full of perilous promise.
From the ramparts of the northern gate, drums rolled. Banners bearing the Queen's sigil—the twin lions entwined around a lotus—flapped in the hot wind. A procession emerged from the eastern palace wing, cloaked in solemnity.
At its center walked a veiled figure in crimson: Queen Mallamma.
Or so the traitors believed.
Hidden behind a lattice screen in the temple tower, Obavva watched her own funeral unfold.
The Queen's plan was now in motion. Kethana, disguised as Obavva, would lead the march through the vulnerable gate. According to the decrypted parchment, the conspirators intended to strike here, in full daylight, sending a message: Even the fiercest woman of Chitradurga can bleed.
The enemy would think the rebellion had begun.
But Obavva had sown her own deception.
The first hour of daylight passed in tense silence. Civilians lined the inner balconies, murmuring about the unusual procession. Rumors had already begun to spread—some said a treaty was being signed, others whispered of a Queen stepping down.
The conspirators, hiding as fort guards and loyal courtiers, waited for the signal.
Then it came.
A falcon cry from the battlements.
Three arrows loosed from different directions. The first sliced through the hem of the crimson veil. The second pierced the air just beside Kethana's shoulder. The third—dipped in poison—found its mark in her thigh.
The figure fell to the ground.
Gasps. Screams. Chaos bloomed like wildfire.
From the shadows, cloaked men rushed forward, weapons drawn, shouting:
"The Queen is dead! Chitradurga belongs to Hyder now!"
A rebel voice called, "Seize the banner!"
But just as the traitors moved to take control, the air cracked.
Obavva leapt from the upper wall, landing in the center of the courtyard with a thunderous thud. Her pestle was raised high. Her blade gleamed red in the sunlight.
The people froze.
The traitors did too.
She ripped off her hood. Her eyes were not of the fallen. They were aflame.
"So you wanted to kill the Queen's shadow," she roared. "But the fire still burns."
The crowd erupted. Panic among the enemy spread. They were exposed. No longer hidden among the loyal.
Obavva charged first.
Her pestle smashed into the skull of the man who had fired the poisoned arrow. Bone splintered. Blood fanned across the sandstone.
Two more lunged at her with scimitars. She ducked, spun, and slashed low with her dagger, severing tendons. They screamed and fell.
From behind, a traitor aimed a musket—one of the new French guns Hyder's men had smuggled in.
Obavva's hand shot out. She threw a jagged piece of broken tile straight into his eye.
He fired wide. The musket misfired, exploding in his hand.
Then came the Queen's soldiers.
Hidden in wait beneath false market stalls, they surged forward—swords drawn, eyes blazing with loyalty. The ambush reversed.
The traitors, believing themselves hunters, now found themselves prey.
Kethana, still breathing despite the poisoned dart, was whisked away into the healer's chambers.
Queen Mallamma appeared atop the temple balcony, flanked by her elite guards.
Her voice cut through the din like lightning: "Let this day be carved into stone. We are not a kingdom of cowards. We do not die by shadows. We kill them."
The roar of the people echoed against the fort walls.
One by one, the remaining traitors dropped their weapons. Some tried to flee but found every exit manned by women warriors—spies and kitchen aides who had trained in secret, now shedding their roles for swords.
That night, Obavva walked through the silent fortress.
Blood had been scrubbed from the stone. The wounded were being treated. The Queen sat in the War Hall, her face hard as obsidian.
"You did more than survive," she told Obavva. "You rewrote the legend."
Obavva replied, "It was never about my legend. It was about making sure theirs never took root."
Queen Mallamma stepped forward and placed a black seal ring in her palm.
"The Council of Flame," she said. "You'll lead it now. From this day, no secret passes through Chitradurga that you do not see first."
Obavva stared at the ring.
It bore no sigil. Only a single dot—like an eye that never closes.
But far beneath the fort, in a long-forgotten tunnel, someone was watching.
A messenger crawled through the darkness, passing a scroll to a waiting shadow.
The figure—face obscured by a crescent-shaped mask—unfurled it under dim torchlight.
His eyes gleamed.
"She lives," he murmured. "Good. Then the real gate will open."
And behind him, the tunnel wall bore a strange symbol—an onake, carved upside down.
End of Chapter Five