The earth trembled before dawn.
A thousand drums thundered beyond Nandigram's walls, beating in unison with the march of an army vast enough to darken the horizon. Torches flickered like an ocean of fireflies, stretching as far as the eye could see. From the ramparts, the people of Nandigram watched in fear and awe.
The siege of Vishragarh had begun.
From atop the eastern gatehouse, Shaurya gazed across the plains. His cloak snapped in the wind, his eyes calm, unshaken. Beside him, commanders shifted nervously, and below, soldiers tightened their grips on spear and bow.
Prince Samrat rode out in gleaming armor, a vision of golden steel, his banner of the lion crest fluttering high. He raised his sword toward the coming storm, his voice booming:
"Today, Nandigram rises! Let Vishragarh learn that no flame can burn our pride!"
The soldiers roared with him, the sound echoing like a wave crashing against stone. Yet Shaurya noted the cracks in their formation, the unease in their eyes. Fine words could not steady trembling hands.
Then the first war horns of Vishragarh split the air.
From the enemy lines surged monstrous fire wagons—massive wooden engines plated with iron, spewing gouts of flame that licked the grasslands, setting them ablaze. Behind them lumbered armored war elephants, tusks capped with steel, their hides painted with Vishragarh's black-and-gold sigils.
Arrows rained down from the sky, blotting out the pale dawn.
"Shields!" Shaurya commanded, his voice cutting across the chaos.
His trained militias moved first—the farmers he had forged into soldiers. With disciplined precision, they locked their shields in overlapping walls, absorbing the rain of death. The nobles' soldiers, slower, scattered and stumbled—but soon fell into line, forced by Shaurya's men's example.
The first clash came like thunder.
Vishragarh's war elephants charged the gates, fire wagons spewing inferno. The wooden barricades shuddered under the assault, flames crawling up their sides. Screams filled the air as men burned, arrows struck, and the elephants' trumpeting shook the walls.
Samrat rode into the fray like a golden spear, cutting down soldiers with precision, his blade flashing arcs of steel. Cheers followed him as he carved through the chaos.
But Shaurya did not move. Not yet.
He waited until the fire wagons pressed closer, until the elephants' trunks smashed against the walls. Then, with a single gesture, he raised his hand.
"Now."
From hidden trenches just beyond the gates, oil-soaked nets ignited, hurled by catapults Shaurya had secretly prepared. They descended upon the fire wagons and elephants like burning webs. The beasts shrieked, panicked, trampling their own ranks, while the wagons turned into furnaces of their own making.
The battlefield erupted in chaos—not Nandigram's, but Vishragarh's.
Samrat, bloodied but unbroken, turned to see the fires tearing through the enemy front lines. For a moment, disbelief flickered in his eyes. Then his jaw clenched. He raised his sword higher.
"Press them back! Drive them into their own flames!"
The soldiers surged forward with renewed vigor.
Yet Shaurya remained calm upon the walls, his gaze fixed not on the chaos below, but on the enemy's rear lines. He saw their true commander—an armored figure seated upon a chariot drawn by four black horses, unmoving amid the storm. The General of Vishragarh, a man draped in a cloak of crimson ash. His eyes locked with Shaurya's across the distance, and in that silent exchange, Shaurya felt the chill of recognition.
This was no ordinary war.
The flames roared higher. The gates of Nandigram still held, but the battle was only beginning.
To be continued....