A moment of silence passed as he let his words hang heavily in the air.
"That's the genesis of change," he asserted, his voice steady. "Change doesn't come waving a sword; it tiptoes in cloaked in doubt."
The woman opened her mouth, still wearing a skeptical expression.
"And what's your plan once you uncover the truth? Expose the traitor to whom? Those very ministers who have been compromised? The people who are wary of you?"
Veer's smile returned, but this time it harbored a spark of mischief that bordered on dangerous.
"Oh, I won't merely expose him. My approach will be much more entertaining. I'll turn his own web of deceit against him. The upcoming festival — a gathering where every courtier, merchant, and foreign envoy will grace us with their presence — that's where I'll set my stage."
He tossed a small pebble into the fire, watching as it disappeared into the flames, pulsing with heat.
"I'll plant subtle whispers, artfully maneuver the players against one another. At the pivotal moment, I'll send an unsuspecting young boy to ask the wrong question of a crucial man, all at just the right time."
His eyes glimmered with a determined intensity as he laid out his strategy.
"By the time the pieces are in place and they catch wind of what's unfolding, that traitor will find himself ensnared in his own lies, compelled to reveal himself just to escape the walls that are caving in around him."
The woman blinked slowly, processing his intricate plan. She stared at him, weighing his words, searching for any trace of falsehood.
And after an eternity of silence, she finally uttered:
"You're not just a boy."
Veer's smile faded instantly, the gravity of her observation hitting him with the force of a thunderclap.
"Correct," he replied, the conviction returning to his voice.
"I am the unexpected mirror they never saw coming. But for that, I need to know every single detail about my enemy," he clarified, eyes narrowing in determination.
"Speak," he commanded. "Not as if you were a lover divulging secrets, but as a spy revealing intel."
She nodded, accepting the weight of his request.
"The Sultan of Delhi," she revealed, her tone grave. "He was not born with a silver spoon in hand; he has shed blood for that throne — and he continues to bleed, though concealed behind locked doors."
ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn, Sultan of Delhi, was no idle figure lounging in luxury. He was a man wrapped in iron, disguised beneath a veil of velvet, with sharp, obsidian-like eyes that captivated and unnerved in equal measure. This was a monarch who walked these corridors unaccompanied, defying the customary protection of guards, not because of bravery but rather out of sheer arrogance. His court had taken to referencing him as Raakshasa in Robes, likening him to a demon swathed in royal silk.
"Yet even demons have a rhythm," she concluded, her voice whispering through the flickering shadows of the fire, hinting at the complexity of a mind that could navigate such treachery.
Veer felt the weight of her words settle around them. The game had just begun, and every player on this board would soon realize that in the world of power, nothing was as it seemed.
Veer… so you seek to unravel the mysteries surrounding the enigmatic Sultan of Delhi?
Then heed my words closely, for his shadow possesses an ear sharper than that of most men.
At the break of dawn, before the first rays of sunlight streak across the horizon, when even the usually restless jackals are lulled into silence, the Sultan awakens — but he wakes alone, Veer, utterly solitary in a world that teems with people. Not even the softest murmur of a servant's breath graces his chambers. He plunges into his morning ritual, letting icy water wash over him, a temperature so frigid it could bite to the bone. Until he whispers a sacred mantra — a solitary utterance bestowed upon him by a monk whose life flickered out just moments after imparting his wisdom — no one dares enter his presence. In his heart, he carries the unwavering belief that this whisper serves as an invisible shield, the lone barrier between him and an assassin's blade lurking in the shadows.
As the dawn nascently paints the sky in hues of gold and crimson, he does not offer prayers or indulge in grand speeches. Instead, he embraces stillness, sitting cross-legged with a single, gleaming sword resting across his knees. His eyes are tightly shut, not a single sound escaping his lips, not even to his trusted hawk perched nearby.
Come midmorning, the palace buzzes with chaos, a tempest of troubles and a quagmire of disputes. The Sultan enters the court like a scythe cutting through ripe wheat, swiftly addressing land disputes, trials for spies caught in treachery, and the grievances of disgruntled princes — each matter resolved in mere minutes. His hawk, a creature with an uncanny ability to perceive deceit, rides proudly upon his shoulder. I have witnessed this spectacle firsthand; with just a twitch of its talon, the accused is summoned to their fate.
When midday arrives, the Sultan becomes a mere shadow within the opulent walls of his palace. He convenes in secret councils, conferring with war generals and gathering whispers from foreign spies lurking just beyond his reach. But, Veer, here is the twist: more often than not, it is not the Sultan himself to whom they speak. They address his carefully orchestrated decoys while he remains concealed behind intricately carved latticework, ever the observant ghost.
As the sun shifts towards the west, evening finds him in the labyrinthine depths of the Room of Iron, a place buried beneath the earth itself, illuminated only by an eerie green flame that flickers ominously. Here, he pours over maps unseen by any other eyes, lethal poisons whose scents are undetectable to the human nose, and ancient war texts steeped in the lore of a kingdom that has endured through centuries.
When darkness envelops the world, he vanishes without a trace. The man does not confine himself to a consistent bed; some nights, he lies within the royal chamber, others he seeks refuge in the dungeons, and occasionally, he dresses as a commoner, finding a place among the city's impoverished. He harbors a chilling belief — that sleep is akin to death. Thus, he naps with the agility and vigilance of a serpent, ever watchful.
And let us not forget his army, Veer… for it is not a legion of mere men; it is an army of phantoms.
Picture this: fourteen thousand fierce riders clad in black armor, each one trained to charge through flames unscathed. Then, there are seventy thousand infantry, a veritable melting pot of Sindhi, Kabuli, and Bengali blood, each soldier wielding curved blades and poison darts. High above them, archers take their positions on rooftops, their arrows tipped with venom derived from the blue krait, poised to strike without remorse. His war elephants, fifty-two in total, have their tusks sharpened to a deadly point, trained mercilessly to crush dissent in public squares. And lurking in the shadows, there exists the Shadow Hand — his personal assassins, a cadre of nameless men who have given up their very identities. One is said to have severed his own eyelids to rid himself of the need for sleep, forever in service to the Sultan.