The courtyard of Ahmednagar fort had never been so quiet.
Hundreds of soldiers, servants, and townsfolk stood pressed together, their faces pale with hunger, eyes sunken with sleepless nights, yet each of them had gathered to witness the reckoning. Word had spread like fire—Hyder, keeper of provisions, had been unmasked as the serpent who bled the fortress from within.
At the center of the courtyard, beneath the withering branches of an old neem tree, a wooden scaffold had been built. Upon it, Hyder stood, his hands bound, his lips trembling as he looked out at the crowd. He had been stripped of his finery, his once-proud robes replaced with coarse cloth. Yet his eyes still gleamed—not with remorse, but with a strange, simmering defiance.
Chand Bibi stepped into the courtyard, her armor catching the weak light of the morning sun. Every gaze followed her. She ascended the platform slowly, deliberately, until she stood face to face with the man who had betrayed them all.
"Hyder ibn Suleiman," her voice rang clear, sharp as steel, "keeper of provisions, sworn servant of Ahmednagar. You stand accused of poisoning our wells, burning our granaries, and selling our secrets to the enemy."
Hyder sneered. "And if I did? What loyalty do I owe to a crumbling fortress? The Mughals will triumph, Begum. I only chose the winning side."
A ripple of anger passed through the crowd, soldiers muttering curses, women clutching their children tighter. Chand Bibi's face, however, remained carved in stone.
"You chose chains," she said coldly. "Chains for yourself, chains for your people. But you will not live to wear them."
The rope was lowered over his neck.
But just as the executioner stepped forward, Hyder laughed—a sound sharp and jagged, cutting through the silence like broken glass.
"Fools!" he spat. "Do you think hanging me will save you? Do you not see? I am not the only one. There are more—within your council, within your ranks. Even among those you trust most, Begum. You cannot stop what festers in your walls. I was only the beginning."
The words dropped like stones into a still pond, spreading ripples of dread.
The crowd murmured, suspicion clouding their faces. Men glanced at one another uneasily. Fear, Chand Bibi realized, was more dangerous than swords. Hyder's death would end his treachery, but his words could live longer than his breath.
She stepped forward, her hand gripping the hilt of her sword. "You think your lies will survive you?"
And before the executioner could act, Chand Bibi drew her blade in a single swift motion. The steel flashed in the sunlight—then silence fell as Hyder's body crumpled, his head rolling against the wood.
The crowd gasped. Soldiers stiffened. Blood spread across the scaffold.
Chand Bibi raised her sword, crimson dripping from its edge, and her voice thundered across the courtyard:
"Let this traitor's fate be a lesson! Ahmednagar will not bow to serpents! If you betray this fortress, if you betray me—your death will not wait for dawn. It will come by my hand."
The silence broke. A roar rose from the soldiers, defiance surging through them like fire. They beat their shields, their voices echoing off the walls. For the first time in days, fear did not dominate their faces—fury did.
Hyder's body was left to hang, a warning against the storm-gray sky.
That night, the fortress was restless. Chand Bibi walked the ramparts alone, the echo of Hyder's last words gnawing at her. There are more. Even among those you trust most.
Could it be true? She had trusted so few already. But paranoia was poison, and she could not let it devour her judgment. Still, his words lingered like smoke in her lungs.
As the wind howled, she spotted torches flickering beyond the eastern hills. The Mughal camp was stirring again. But this time, they did not fire cannons, nor did they send arrows. Instead, at dawn, they sent something far crueler.
Laid just outside the fortress gates were bodies—villagers from the outskirts, slaughtered in the night, their throats cut, their corpses positioned in rows. A message written in ash on the ground read:
"This is your future. Your queen cannot save you."
The soldiers who found them returned pale, trembling. Some wept. The cruelty was beyond even Mughal warfare—it was psychological, designed to break the spirit of the fortress.
Chand Bibi stood before the gates, staring at the message, her jaw clenched, her eyes burning with fury.
"They think fear will open these gates," she said to her generals. "They are wrong. Ahmednagar bleeds, but it still breathes. And while I draw breath, not one stone of this fortress will be surrendered."
But as she turned back toward the walls, a shadow slipped from the crowd. A hand brushed against a dagger. The traitor's game was not finished.
And the next strike would be aimed not at Ahmednagar—
—but at Chand Bibi herself.