The air over Chitradurga Fort had grown still unnaturally still. No birds cried. No wind whispered. The silence was too thick, too final.
Inside the fort, Obavva paced along the stone corridor of the northern wall. Her eyes, sharp as shattered obsidian, scanned every crevice, every crack, every blind corner of the aged fortress. Her grip tightened around her onake the long wooden pestle that had long ceased to be a household tool and had instead become a symbol of justice. Blood had dried along its grain, remnants of silent battles she had fought in the shadows.
She wasn't just a guard anymore. She was a legend forming in real time.
But legends bleed.
And tonight, something felt wrong.
A pale flicker caught her eye from the far towers. Torches swaying. Not theirs. Flickering in unfamiliar rhythms—coded signals in the dark.
Obavva ducked behind a bastion wall. Her breath was calm, but her muscles were taut. From the shadows, a low whistle echoed—a hawk's cry, the sign of an ally in the sentry system. She waited.
But no response came back.
Instead, a scream split the air. Short. Abrupt. Smothered.
Her blood chilled.
Obavva rose and moved fast through the corridors, her footsteps silent against the ancient stone. At the west rampart, the sentry post was deserted. The smell of iron filled the air.
Blood.
A narrow sliver of rope dangled down the fort wall like a serpent—almost invisible against the stone.
They were inside.
She sprinted. The drum tower had to be warned. But the path was blocked. Three dark figures leapt out of the corridor ahead, cloaked and masked, their swords unsheathed and gleaming.
Obavva didn't hesitate. She lunged first.
The onake swung in a devastating arc. The first attacker's skull cracked with a sound that echoed off the walls like a war horn. She ducked a sword thrust from the second, driving her pestle straight into his gut and then whipping it across his neck as he keeled. The third tried to run.
Obavva tackled him. His mask slipped. A face she recognized.
Chikka Rahim, the one who had vanished during the early spy interrogations. A traitor.
"Who sent you?" she growled, tightening her grip on his collar.
"You've already lost," he hissed. "She let us in."
Obavva froze.
She?
Before she could speak, Chikka bit into a capsule. His body jerked. Foam at the mouth. Dead.
Poison.
She stood, the fortress spinning around her. Betrayal. From inside.
She knew only one place left to run—the Hall of War Plans. If the queen or the generals were still alive, they had to be warned now. The siege wasn't coming. It had already begun.
As she ran through the maze-like corridors, a familiar figure stepped out from the shadows.
Meenakshi.
But her eyes were… wrong. Too calm. Too knowing.
"Where have you been?" Obavva demanded.
"I was looking for you," Meenakshi replied, her voice smooth as silk, too smooth.
Obavva stepped closer, eyeing the way Meenakshi's hands rested just near her sash—where a blade could easily be hidden.
"Why is Chikka Rahim inside the fort?" Obavva asked quietly.
Meenakshi didn't answer. Just smiled.
Obavva's heart sank.
Then Meenakshi lunged.
A dagger flashed, but Obavva was quicker. She dodged, grabbed Meenakshi's wrist mid-swing, twisted, and slammed her against the wall.
"Who are you working for?"
"You wouldn't believe me," Meenakshi rasped.
Obavva pushed harder. "Try me."
"The Sultan of Sira is dead," she whispered. "The real war isn't over territory. It's over knowledge. Something buried beneath this fort."
"What knowledge?"
Meenakshi smiled, blood trickling from her lips. "You'll find out. If you live through the next hour."
A shriek split the air—the war drums, finally beaten.
But too late.
Explosions rocked the eastern towers. Fire burst through the black sky like falling comets. Chaos erupted.
Obavva let Meenakshi collapse unconscious, then turned and ran through the inner sanctum. Smoke bled through the walls. Screams rose from every corner. The battle had begun in full.
But she had one mission now—get to the royal vaults. Whatever this "knowledge" was, the traitors wanted it.
She descended deep beneath the stone floors—into tunnels only a handful of the royal family knew existed. The ground trembled above as cannon fire struck the upper walls.
In the depths, cold air wrapped around her. Ancient carvings glowed faintly on the stone—symbols she'd never seen. Languages older than the fort itself.
Then she saw it.
A vault door, sealed by mechanisms unlike anything she'd seen. Rotating dials, not locks. A single glowing orb embedded in the center.
She stepped closer.
The orb blinked once.
Then spoke.
"You are not the heir."
Obavva jumped back.
The voice was feminine, echoing from within the orb—neither alive nor machine. A whisper caught between centuries.
"I seek the defender," it said again. "Only she may open the vault."
Obavva stood frozen. Who was the defender? The queen?
Or…
The orb flickered. The carvings around it began to shift.
Above, the screams of soldiers grew louder. The floor shook violently. Dust fell from the ceiling.
"Who are you?" Obavva whispered to the orb.
"I am the Memory of Chitradurga," it said. "And you… are the last."
Suddenly, the orb glowed bright blue. The dials spun. The stone cracked.
And the vault door began to open.
Obavva raised her onake, bracing for what was behind it.
The light was blinding.
End of Chapter 20