The dawn came shrouded in crimson.From her balcony, Chand Bibi watched as the first rays sliced through the fortress towers, bleeding light across the battlements. The clouds above moved like a slow, deliberate army, carrying with them the weight of storms yet to break.
The air carried a peculiar stillness — not the peace before a celebration, but the hush before a blade is drawn.
She had not slept. The letter still burned in her memory: One among them will open your gates. Its ink was smudged, as though written in haste… or fear. But no seal marked it, and that was the part that unnerved her most. Whoever had sent it either wanted anonymity… or didn't live long enough to finish it properly.
The council meeting was set for midmorning. By then, decisions would be made about the fortress defenses, the state of the armory, and the rumored approach of the Mughal vanguard. And somewhere in that room, a man would be making his own plans — ones that did not end with her victory.
She dressed in her battle silks — black and gold, her shoulders squared beneath an embroidered shawl that concealed a thin, curved dagger. This was not an accident of attire. It was armor disguised as grace.
The Council Convenes
The council chamber lay deep within the heart of the palace, past heavy carved doors guarded by two sentinels in polished chainmail. Chand Bibi entered, her footfalls echoing in the vaulted hall.
Twelve men awaited her at the long teak table, their faces an assortment of lines, scars, and unreadable expressions. The room smelled faintly of rosewater… and something else.
The table itself was laid with rolled maps, ink jars, and crystal goblets filled with deep red pomegranate wine. A platter of figs and dates sat untouched at the center.
She scanned their faces:
General Mirza, tall and broad-shouldered, who had fought beside her years ago but whose ambition was as sharp as his sword.
Qasim the Treasurer, whose gold rings outnumbered his victories.
Idris the Keeper of Gates, who never smiled, even in triumph.
Ten others, each a possible friend, each a possible knife at her back.
"Your Regent welcomes you," she said, her voice a calm blade. "Let us speak quickly. The walls will not guard themselves."
The men murmured assent, and the meeting began.
The Uneasy Discussion
Mirza reported that scouts had spotted Mughal banners three days to the north.Qasim spoke of dwindling funds, hinting — perhaps too readily — that surrender might spare the city's coffers.Idris assured them the gates were secure, though his gaze never quite met hers.
Each word they spoke seemed to have two edges: one for truth, one for deceit. Chand Bibi listened carefully, her mind turning over the letter's warning like a coin between fingers. One among them will open your gates.
At a pause in the discussion, Mirza rose from his seat with the easy grace of a man who knew eyes followed him. He reached for the wine jug at the table's center.
"Courage, my Regent," he said, pouring a goblet and sliding it towards her. The crystal caught the light, sending tiny red stars dancing across the table. His smile lingered just a little too long.
The Scent of Almond
She lifted the goblet. Her years in battle had sharpened her senses — and even before the rim reached her lips, something pricked at her instincts.
A faint, bitter note threaded through the sweet scent of pomegranate. Almond. Subtle, almost masked. But she had smelled it before — in a tent outside Bijapur, years ago, when an envoy had died writhing after sipping from a "gift" of wine.
Her fingers tightened around the cup, but she did not drink. The room seemed suddenly smaller. The twelve men around her kept their faces composed, but she saw it now — the fractional stillness, the way one or two pairs of eyes darted to the goblet in her hand, then away.
She set the goblet back on the table, deliberately slow. "Strange," she said, her tone cool, "how this wine smells of almonds."
A ripple passed through the room, barely perceptible but unmistakable. Someone's breath caught. Another's hand twitched toward his sleeve. Mirza's smile faltered — not much, but enough.
The Dead Sparrow
Without another word, she stood, took the goblet in hand, and walked to the nearest open window. The courtyard below was bright with morning light.
She tipped the goblet, letting the deep red liquid spill over the marble ledge. The droplets caught the sun, sparkling for a heartbeat before falling.
A sparrow hopped near, drawn by curiosity or thirst. It pecked once, twice — then, in the span of a breath, its tiny body jerked and collapsed, wings twitching in silence.
The courtyard grew still.
Chand Bibi turned back to the table, her eyes cold as iron. "This," she said, placing the empty goblet back before Mirza, "is the last time a coward hides behind my cup."
No one spoke. The silence was a living thing.
A Room Without Trust
She let her gaze move from face to face, not accusing any one man, but weighing the flickers in their expressions. Mirza looked almost offended — almost. Qasim was staring at the dead bird outside with too much fascination. Idris's jaw was tight, his hands clasped in front of him as though restraining motion.
"I will not name the guilty," she continued, "because the guilty have already named themselves."
The words hung in the air.It was true — in their silence, in their stillness, in the minute betrayals of their own bodies, she had read them.
After the Council
The meeting dragged on, its rhythm broken. Discussions about troop movements were sharp, clipped, laced with unspoken tension. Every suggestion was weighed not just for strategy, but for possible sabotage.
When it finally ended, Chand Bibi dismissed them with a bow of her head, then remained seated until each man had left the chamber.
She heard their footsteps fading down the corridor — except for one pair. Idris lingered just a little longer than the rest. When he finally left, the heavy doors closed behind him with a thud that seemed too final.
Orders in the Shadows
As soon as she was alone, Chand Bibi summoned two of her most trusted guards, men who had fought with her in the bloodiest campaigns. She spoke low, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Double the watch at the palace gates. No one passes in or out without my seal."
They nodded, but she wasn't finished.
"And… watch the watchers. The traitor is patient. Tonight, he will try again."
Nightfall
The palace slept uneasily that night. Outside, the wind moaned through the arrow slits, rattling the shutters. Rain began to fall — not a gentle rain, but a cold, sharp drizzle that coated the stones in a silver sheen.
In her private chambers, Chand Bibi sat by a single lamp, sharpening her dagger with slow, deliberate strokes. The letter lay on the table beside her, its words stark against the parchment.
She thought of the council, of the way Mirza's hand had hovered just slightly too long over the jug. Of Qasim's watchful eyes. Of Idris's lingering presence.
It could be any of them. Or worse — it could be all three.
A Visitor in the Rain
The knock came at midnight — three slow raps against the heavy wooden door.
She rose silently, dagger in hand, and moved to the side of the doorway. The rain hissed against the stone outside, masking other sounds.
"Who seeks the Regent at this hour?" she called.
A voice answered — low, almost urgent. "Idris, Keeper of Gates. I bring news from the watch."
Her mind moved quickly. Idris. At midnight. In the rain.If the letter was true, the man before her might be the very hand that would open the fortress to the enemy.
She slid the bolt back, but kept her blade ready. The door opened to reveal Idris, cloaked and dripping, his face shadowed by the hood.
"Speak," she said.
His eyes met hers — calm, too calm. "We have caught a messenger," he said. "Carrying orders from within these walls… to the Mughals outside."
Her grip on the dagger tightened. "And where is this messenger now?"
A slow smile spread across Idris's lips. "Waiting for you. In the courtyard."
But in that smile, she saw it — the flicker of triumph, the spark of a trap already sprung.
To be continued...