The dawn was still veiled in a haze of copper when Chand Bibi rose from her seat at the great marble window of Ahmednagar's fortress. She had not slept. The endless lines of torches from enemy camps below had kept her eyes awake through the night like a constellation inverted on earth. From every crack of the fortress walls, she could feel the tension of hundreds who looked to her for survival.
The whispers of betrayal had multiplied. Too many footsteps in the corridors. Too many hushed voices just beyond closed doors. In war, the enemy at the gates was not always the deadliest—sometimes it wore the garb of loyalty within.
The heavy silence was broken by the sound of the muezzin's call from a nearby minaret. The sacred cry stretched through the fog of uncertainty. Chand Bibi straightened, her hand instinctively brushing against the hilt of her sword that lay beside her.
Moments later, a servant rushed in, his face pale, eyes darting around the chamber."My Queen—" he whispered, "there are movements within the eastern bastion. Some men say the gates were tampered with in the night."
Chand Bibi's eyes sharpened. Betrayal confirmed.
She ordered her guards to double the watch and made her way swiftly down the stone steps. The air grew colder as she descended. Every step echoed against the walls as if the fortress itself were warning her of a hidden hand tightening around its throat.
In the torchlit hall of the eastern bastion, she found the guards arguing. One swore he saw shadows move near the gatehouse. Another insisted it was only a trick of firelight. But then, there it was—the iron chains securing the smaller gate bore fresh scratches, as though someone had tried to force them in silence.
She bent down, fingers brushing against the iron. Cold. Freshly disturbed.Her suspicions turned into certainty: there was a traitor among them.
"Seal this bastion," she commanded. "And no one—no one—leaves this quarter without my word."
Her voice rang like steel. Yet deep inside, she knew the enemy's game was far more complex than a single attempt. Someone within Ahmednagar's walls was feeding the Mughals, trying to carve an opening from within.
By afternoon, she summoned her council. The ministers gathered in the hall of carved arches, their jeweled robes glimmering beneath the muted sunlight. Yet she could read their unease in every glance, every twitch of the hand.
"Last night," Chand Bibi began, her tone heavy with measured gravity, "a hand sought to undo our defenses from within. You all know what this means. The walls may stand, but loyalty within them cracks."
Her words fell like thunder. The hall grew restless. Some lowered their eyes, some exchanged furtive glances.
Her gaze lingered on two men in particular—Shah Quli and Mirza Hussain, both seasoned in courtly intrigues, both ambitious. Too ambitious.
"Do not think I am blind," she said suddenly, her voice cutting the silence. "I have seen the way whispers grow like weeds. I will root them out—one by one, if I must."
The men stiffened. The air grew sharp with unspoken accusations.
Before anyone could respond, a messenger burst into the chamber, his garments torn, his breath ragged."My Queen! A spy was caught near the northern tower!"
The hall erupted into murmurs. Chand Bibi's jaw tightened. She motioned for the spy to be brought in.
The prisoner, dragged forward by two guards, was a gaunt man with bloodied lips. His eyes darted between the ministers and Chand Bibi, settling finally on her with a smirk of defiance.
"Who sent you?" she demanded.
The man spat blood and whispered, "The fortress will fall not by cannon, not by sword, but by the hand you trust most."
His words fell like poison. The hall gasped.
Before she could extract more, one of the ministers shouted, "He lies! This is nothing but fearmongering."
But Chand Bibi noticed something—the way Shah Quli's hand trembled slightly, the way his eyes avoided the spy.
The prisoner was dragged away, but his words lingered like a shadow creeping across the fortress walls.
That night, Chand Bibi walked the battlements alone. Below, the Mughal fires blazed like an ocean of embers. The fortress loomed above them like a defiant flame against the tide, but she knew how fragile the flame could be if the wind turned from within.
As she walked, she felt eyes watching her from the shadows of the ramparts. She drew her sword in one swift motion."Come out," she said, voice calm but edged with fire.
From the darkness, a figure emerged—not a soldier, but a boy, no more than sixteen. He dropped to his knees."My Queen," he whispered, "they plan to open the gates at dawn. Shah Quli… he has already sworn loyalty to the Mughal commander."
The boy's voice trembled, but the truth within it was clear.
Chand Bibi's blood ran cold. The betrayal had a name now.
She placed her hand on the boy's shoulder. "You have done your duty. Leave the rest to me."
As the boy vanished into the shadows, she turned her gaze once more to the endless fires below.
The fortress of Ahmednagar stood tall in the night, but the real war would erupt not at the gates, but in the chambers of those sworn to her.
Her sword gleamed in the moonlight as she whispered into the night:"If shadows must be slain to keep this flame alive… then let me be the hand that cuts."
And with that, Chand Bibi prepared for a dawn not of battle alone, but of reckoning.
🔥 Chapter 7 ends.