Obavva crouched in the cold earth, her breath sharp and silent. The chamber ahead flickered with torchlight, casting distorted shadows on the cracked stone walls. She remained cloaked in the blackness just beyond the torch's reach, pestle clenched tight in her hand.
In that low-vaulted room beneath Chitradurga Fort, treachery whispered like poison in the dark.
"…Tonight, the palace gates will open," the Mysorean officer hissed, his beard slick with sweat. "Hyder Ali waits. The moment the watch weakens, we'll strike."
The traitor in royal livery—a man Obavva recognized—stepped forward. Karivardhana, the palace treasurer. Known for his silk robes and soft hands, not for war. Yet here he was, plotting the death of a kingdom.
"Our signal will be the fire atop the western tower," he muttered. "At midnight. The queen's court will still be in session. No one will see it coming."
Obavva's blood turned to ice. The Queen. The royal children. The guards. All to be slaughtered like lambs.
And it would all begin… from within.
A third figure—a lean, nervous soldier in Chitradurga armor—paced restlessly. "This woman—Obavva—she killed twelve of our men tonight. Twelve! That tunnel should've given us the upper hand!"
"She was lucky," Karivardhana sneered.
"No," the Mysorean said darkly. "She was listening. And she'll do it again."
Obavva's grip on the pestle tightened. If they feared her, they were right to.
Suddenly, Karivardhana drew a dagger from his cloak and turned toward the tunnel. "Then we'll silence her before she speaks."
Obavva moved.
She shot from the darkness like a spear loosed from the gods. Her pestle swung low, smashing into the Mysorean's shin with a crack. He howled and fell. Before Karivardhana could turn, she buried the onake deep into his gut, twisting it until he collapsed, choking on his own betrayal.
The third man—wide-eyed—fumbled for his blade, but Obavva was faster. She ducked his slash, swept his legs from beneath him with a kick, and drove the pestle down onto his chest with such force his ribs shattered like dry wood.
Silence fell again in the chamber.
Three bodies.
Three secrets.
One woman standing amid them all, blood-soaked and unbroken.
By the time Kalanayak returned with the commander, Obavva had dragged the corpses into a pile near the tunnel mouth. The commander—a tall, grim-eyed man named Dheeran—stared at the scene in mute disbelief.
"This… this is treason," he whispered.
"Worse," Obavva muttered. "It's rot. From the roots of our own court."
Dheeran knelt beside Karivardhana's corpse. "He was entrusted with the treasury. With the fort's seals. If he opened even one inner gate…"
"They would've bled us from within," Kalanayak said.
Obavva looked up, eyes burning. "They still might."
Dheeran's face darkened. "I'll alert the Maharaja."
"No," Obavva said.
They turned to her, surprised.
"If word spreads that the treasury's involved, the panic will be worse than the invasion."
"So what do you suggest?" Dheeran asked.
"We let them think the plan is still alive," she said coldly. "We light the tower flame. We open the gates. We let Hyder Ali believe his rats succeeded."
Kalanayak blinked. "That's suicide."
"No," Obavva said. "It's bait."
That night, while Chitradurga slept under veils of starlight, a small fire flickered atop the western tower. Soldiers hidden in shadows whispered rumors of betrayal and locked gates, but no official orders changed. No bells rang. The palace held its breath.
From the hills beyond, Hyder Ali's army stirred. In the black belly of night, a thousand feet moved like one—a silent siege, marching toward what they believed was a conquered city.
Inside the fort, Obavva and Dheeran stood atop the battlements, watching them come. Hidden troops lined the inner chambers. Archers waited behind murder-holes. Boiling oil simmered quietly in blackened cauldrons.
The trap was ready.
And Obavva? She stood at the gate, pestle in hand, like a sentinel of vengeance.
At the gate, Hyder Ali's commander approached first—riding beneath a flag of false surrender, eyes glinting with smug certainty.
"Open the gates!" he called in polished Kannada. "The fort has fallen. Your masters are dead. Surrender, and your lives may be spared!"
Obavva stepped forward from the shadows, pestle across her shoulder, blood still drying on her tunic.
"Tell your general," she said softly, "the only thing that's fallen… is his plan."
The man frowned. "Who are you?"
"Just a woman pounding grain," she said.
Before he could respond, the gates swung open—and Chitradurga roared to life.
From above, arrows flew in black arcs. Spears lunged. Soldiers erupted from behind stone columns like thunder. The Mysorean vanguard was cut down within seconds, their ranks torn apart by the trap they had marched into.
Obavva moved through the chaos like a spirit, her pestle smashing into skulls and armor alike. She didn't shout. She didn't hesitate. She struck, and struck again, as if vengeance itself had taken form in her arms.
All around her, the enemy broke ranks, screaming, bleeding, fleeing. The plan had backfired.
And Chitradurga—against all odds—stood unbroken.
Later, in the hush after battle, the Maharaja stood beside Obavva at the fort's northern rampart, staring out into the still-smoking valley.
"You saved us," he said, voice heavy with gratitude. "Not with a sword. But with your ears. Your instinct. Your fury."
Obavva didn't bow. She simply nodded. "A kingdom should never fall because men sleep too soundly."
The Maharaja smiled faintly. "I want to honor you. A statue. Gold. Song."
Obavva's voice cut through him like the wind. "No statues."
He frowned.
"No songs," she said. "They forget. Always. They carve the story, not the blood."
"Then what do you want?" he asked.
She looked out over the silent stones of Chitradurga.
"Let the next traitor remember my name," she said.
End of Chapter Two