The next three days were a study in organized denial. The great generals of the Vijayanagara Empire, men who had won a hundred minor skirmishes, scoffed at the threat. They spoke of the impregnable walls, of the sacred duty of the gods to protect their chosen city, of the inherent treachery of the Sultanates that would surely cause their alliance to crumble before they reached the gates. The city's markets remained open, but a nervous energy thrummed beneath the surface. Prices began to creep up. More and more soldiers were seen on the streets.
Aditya tried to speak to his father, a minor courtier with no real influence. He laid out his concerns, speaking of supply lines, of the enemy's likely point of attack, of the need to reinforce the northern river crossings. His father waved him away. "Leave war to the warriors, my son. Pray to the gods and trust in your king."
Aditya did not pray. He returned to the library and committed the city's detailed architectural and logistical maps to memory until his head ached. If the city was to become a tomb, he would know its every passage.
The attack came not as a siege, but as a storm. The allied Sultans did not bother with a prolonged assault. Their massive, combined army, fueled by a singular desire for plunder, smashed against the northern defenses. The Battle of Talikota, fought miles away, was a catastrophic, decisive defeat. The news reached the city at the same time as the first wave of routing, terrified soldiers from the imperial army.
And then the enemy was at the gates.
Chaos erupted. It was a physical entity, a monster of sound and terror. The city's command structure dissolved. Generals shouted contradictory orders. Soldiers, their morale shattered, began to desert their posts to protect their own families. The proud, eternal city descended into a panicked mob.
Aditya was in his family's wing of the palace when the walls were breached. The sound was unmistakable—a deep, crunching roar, followed by the sound of thousands of men screaming in triumph. Bhairav, the captain of his household guard, a man of granite loyalty, burst into the room.
"Prince, we must go. Now!"
There was no time for questions. Aditya grabbed a single, small scroll he had been studying—an astronomical chart—and followed Bhairav and his two remaining guards into the pandemonium of the palace corridors. Smoke was everywhere, thick and acrid. The distant screams grew closer, punctuated by the brutal clang of steel on steel.
Bhairav led them through the labyrinthine passages, his sword a blur of motion as they cut down a handful of opportunistic looters. But the tide of violence was too great. As they tried to cross a small, open courtyard, a squadron of enemy cavalry, their armor and swords gleaming, thundered towards them.
The two guards moved to form a wall, buying seconds with their lives. Their screams were short.
"The alley!" Bhairav roared, pointing to a narrow gap between the royal stables and a temple wall. He did not run with Aditya. He turned, his broad back to the boy, and raised his own sword to meet the charge, a lone warrior facing a tidal wave. It was a suicidal act of perfect loyalty.
Bhairav shoved Aditya with all his might. The boy stumbled and fell into the narrow alley, the rough stone scraping his cheek. He looked back just in time to see a scimitar cleave through Bhairav's shoulder. The captain fell, his defiant roar choked off by a spray of crimson.
The horses thundered past the alley entrance. Aditya didn't dare to breathe. He pushed himself deeper into the shadows, the smell of blood and fear overpowering him. A stray piece of a flaming roof timber fell from above, striking him on the temple. The world exploded in a flash of white-hot pain, and then spiraled into a silent, welcoming darkness. The last conscious thought he had was of Bhairav's face. The last taste in his mouth was the taste of ash.