A cold whisper hissed to Devadatta's ears, chilling and clear, "You think you can challenge me?" He spun around, but there was nobody there. But where is he? Suddenly, he realized he was standing alone in the middle of a festival ground, a place tha...
The air in Delhi was thick with tension, the kind that precedes storms of change. A woman, draped in a burkha hidden in the shadows of an alleyway near the imperial palace, felt the weight of his rapid breaths. The dusk cloaked the city in a deceptive calm, but the night was anything but peaceful.
She knocked firmly on the hefty iron door. A silhouette appeared, a woman holding an oil lamp with a bright flame encased in glass. heir nods bridged words unspoken, and then they quietly slip through the door.
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Conspiracy
Six years ago ...
Whispers of conspiracy had wound their way through the city like a serpent, speaking of Farrukhsiyar's ambitions and his ruthless resolve to claim the Mughal throne. Shah Alam had heard rumors, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight he was about to witness.
As the first light of dawn broke, a contingent of Farrukhsiyar's soldiers stormed into his brother Zulfiqar's residence. Zulfiqar, a man of intellect and military prowess, had sensed the looming threat but chose to face it head-on, surrounded by his family and a few loyal guards.
Sheltered by the haystacks adjacent to the cowshed, Shah Alam observed as the doors succumbed to the invaders' force. The clash of iron rang out, a harrowing overture to the tragedy unfolding within. He saw through the open windows as if in slow motion, the valiant but futile resistance offered by Zulfiqar's guards.
Farrukhsiyar's men were ruthless, their blades not discriminating between the warrior and the innocent. Zulfiqar Khan fought with the ferocity of a cornered tiger, but even tigers fall when outnumbered. Shah Alam's heart raced as he saw his brother momentarily lock eyes with him, an unspeakable farewell passing between them.
Then, chaos. The soldiers descended upon Zulfiqar Khan, their blades a blur. Beside him, his wife tried to shield their children, her eyes wide with terror. The scene was a maelstrom of desperation and defiance, the air rent with the sounds of combat and the cries of the fallen.
In the middle of turmoil, as the battle cries echoed through the dawn, a chilling silence descended when Farrukhsiyar himself, with a demeanor as cold as the steel of his sword, stepped into the fray. He turned his cold gaze upon Asad Khan, the venerable patriarch of the fallen. The conqueror's eyes, devoid of mercy, fixed upon the defeated nobleman.
Despite the chains of age, Asad Khan stood with an indomitable spirit, his once robust frame now withered to frailty, yet his eyes blazed with an undiminished fire. Even in captivity, he had dispatched several of Farrukhsiyar's soldiers, a testament to the enduring might of his lineage. Nearby, Zulfiqar Khan lay defeated, his body a canvas of wounds from which his life's essence ebbed away.
With a calculated calm that belied the brutality of his actions, Farrukhsiyar addressed the aged warrior. "Asad Khan," he said, voice steady, "you have one final choice. End your son's suffering with your own hands, and I shall grant you mercy in your final days. Choose defiance, and you shall watch as your name and blood are dragged through the dirt of Delhi."
The air trembled with the weight of his words, a cruel bargain laid at the feet of a father already burdened with loss. Asad Khan, embodying the dignity of his ancestors, met Farrukhsiyar's demand with the fierce resolve that had defined his life. With a defiant smile, Asad Khan gathered his spit and launched it at Farrukhsiyar, the spit, mingled with blood, striking Farrukhsiyar's face and leaving a stark, crimson mark—a bold symbol of defiance against tyranny.
Farrukhsiyar signaled to his men. One soldier, with grim resolve, dragged Zulfiqar upright in front of his father. Farrukhsiyar then unsheathed his sword, its blade gleaming with a sinister light. "Witness the consequence" he announced, as he approached Zulfiqar. The air hung heavy with dread as Farrukhsiyar, with swift and cruel precision, blinded Zulfiqar with two strokes of his blade. Asad's anguished cries pierced the solemn air, a dire echo of the darkness that had now seized him.
As the echoes of Asad's cries faded, a sinister smile crept across Farrukhsiyar's face, his cold amusement chilling the air as Asad Khan's defiant voice rose in response, a testament to a spirit unbroken even in the face of unspeakable cruelty.
Farrukhsiyar, his face twisted in a sneer of contempt, signaled his soldiers with a flick of his wrist. "Let the streets of Delhi bear witness to the cost of defiance," he decreed.
Farrukhsiyar, his face twisted in disdain, signaled his soldiers. "Parade them through the city on elephants, all the way to the Delhi Gate," he commanded with a stern voice that brooked no argument. "Make a spectacle of them for all to see. Let it be known this is the fate of those who oppose me."
The soldiers, understanding their orders, moved quickly to execute the command. They dragged the battered bodies of Asad Khan and Zulfiqar Khan, preparing them for the grim parade through the city, towards the elephants that awaited to carry them through the streets to the Delhi Gate.
When silence finally reclaimed the space, it was a silence of absence. The floor was painted in the grim palette of loss. Zulfiqar's wife and his children lay motionless, their blood seeping into the fabric of history. Farrukhsiyar's soldiers looted what they could, leaving behind a scene of stark finality.
Shah Alam, heart shattered, retreated into the shadows. The dawn had witnessed a massacre, a brutal punctuation to the sentence of his brother's life and reign. This was not just the death of his family but the death of an era. Shah Alam fled Delhi, the images of that dawn seared into his memory, a haunting reminder of the cost of power and the fragility of life in the Mughal Empire's twilight years.
