Meanwhile in remote corner of eastern side of empire in Bengal kingdom, Outskirts of chittagong port, near Karnaphauli river, Rangunia vilge, 3rd March 1557.

  The sun dipped low in the sky, its rays filtering through the dense forest canopy as twenty traders boriously pushed their heavy carts along a narrow, winding path. The carts were den with supplies of sugarcane and rice. They were accompanied by a detachment of thirty soldiers from the Bengali Delta Merchant Group, dressed in light leather armor.

  Leading the escort was Subanto, a seasoned soldier renowned for his keen eye and sharp mind. He raised a hand to signal a halt to the procession, his gaze narrowing as he scrutinized the path ahead. "Hold," he called out, his voice cutting through the stillness.

  The traders and soldiers halted in unison, their gazes fixed on the scene ahead. Instead of a clear path, they confronted a shattered wooden bridge dangling precariously over a wide gap. Once robust, the bridge now y in ruins, its pnks splintered and ropes frayed.

  "This is unexpected," murmured one of the soldiers, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The traders exchanged worried gnces, their murmurs rising in a chorus of concern.

  Subanto stepped forward, examining the broken structure with a critical eye. "The bridge is impassable," he announced firmly.

  Debashish Mukhopadhyay, the leader of the caravan, approached. "We must reach the port by tomorrow. Try to look for a shallow side of the river. A lot has been invested in this journey; we cannot afford to turn back empty-handed."

  Subanto nodded, his expression grave. "It's dangerous to cross the river. Look at the bridge. It's deliberately sabotaged, and finding a detour as night approaches will be perilous. We should spend the night here."

  A young trader, his face smeared with dirt and sweat, stepped forward. "Sir, there's a safer route about a mile downstream where the river diverges," he suggested tentatively. "We won't need to cross the river there and can enter the city with our supplies."

  Debashish turned to Subanto. "You heard him, Subanto-Da. I trust you won't let us down, especially when I'm covering all your expenses."

  Subanto nodded thoughtfully, weighing the options. "Very well. We'll take that route," he decided. "But stay alert. We don't know what caused the bridge to colpse."

  The group adjusted their course, moving cautiously through the underbrush. The soldiers kept a vigint watch, their hands ready on their weapons. The traders, though tired, pushed the carts forward.

  The stench of death hit them first, a sickly scent that lingered heavily in the air, sending shivers down their spines. As they rounded a bend in the road, the full horror of the scene unfolded before them.

  Bodies y strewn across the dusty path, hacked and sshed beyond recognition. Crimson pooled beneath them, staining the nd with sickly red.

  Debashish surveyed the scene, his eyes narrowing as he considered the situation. Their belongings were scattered haphazardly, armor ripped open and arms looted.

  "Look, most of the dead are stripped of their armor. They've been looted by the attackers, and it does look like a recent event. Whoever did this might not expect us to pass through these nds. We can still move forward."

  Subanto, however, was not so easily convinced. He had seen his share of violence on the road, but this felt different. The sheer number of bodies, the brutality of the killings – it spoke of something more organized, a targeted attack. He watched with a grimace as a few of the younger traders, unused to such sights, doubled over and vomited onto the roadside.

  Subanto chewed his lip, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach. He knew Debashish was right. Dey meant lost time and lost profit. Yet, the thought of pushing through this carnage without informing the local lord felt wrong. It was a viotion of an unspoken code, an invitation to trouble.

  "Alright," he finally conceded, his voice heavy. "We'll find the nearest settlement and report this. Then, and only then, will we proceed."

  Debashish's face contorted in frustration. "Report? To whom? Some petty lord who'll bleed us dry with taxes and fees? We don't need their involvement. We can handle ourselves."

  Subanto met his gaze, his own hardening. "This wasn't a robbery, Debashish. This was a massacre of someone important passing through. Ignoring it will only paint a target on our backs. We need official sanction to pass through here now."

  Debashish clenched his jaw, his initial defiance slowly crumbling. He knew Subanto was right.

  His patience dried out, and he snapped, "No! We can't afford any deys. How about we increase your pay?"

  Subanto, not easily swayed, replied firmly, "Fine, then double our pay."

  Debashish's eyes narrowed, but a grudging smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Deal," he spat. "But not a single copper in advance. You all get paid when we reach home, safe and sound."

  They struck their agreement, and despite the carnage, the group steeled themselves and pushed through the aftermath of the ambush.

  As they neared the end of the carnage, a rge tree trunk blocked the road. The sight of it brought a momentary halt to their progress.

  Suddenly, leaves and smoldering clothes emitting thick smoke were hurled toward them, filling the air with choking fumes. Panic ensued as they scattered, breaking all formation in a desperate attempt to find fresh air.

  Just as they began to regroup, they realized they were surrounded by masked archers, their bows drawn and aimed with deadly precision. Faces turned pale, and horror struck their expressions as they froze in pce.

  A burly figure, cd in dark leather and a mask hiding his face, emerged from the trees. His voice, cold and clear, echoed through the clearing.

  "If you wish to see another sunrise, surrender yourselves."

  Subanto, his hand instinctively moving towards his weapon, was about to give an order when Debashish grabbed his arm, stopping him.

  "Don't be a fool," he hissed, his voice barely a whisper.

  Subanto, though reluctant, saw the wisdom in Debashish's words. With a heavy heart, he nodded in agreement. "Alright, we surrender," he announced, his voice ced with frustration and defeat.

  Bound and unable to see, they were guided along rough terrain. The journey was disorienting, every step filled with uncertainty and fear. Eventually, the blindfolds were removed, and they found themselves in a rebel camp.

  Debashish's eyes adjusted to the dim light of the campfires, revealing a harsh, bustling atmosphere that resembled more of a refugee camp for people of all ages than a mere bandit hideout.

  Struggling to maintain composure, he addressed their leader. "What do you intend to do with us?"

  The leader's gaze bore into him, dismissing his question. "Are you their leader?"

  Debashish nodded, and he was escorted to the rebel leader while the others remained captive. Upon arriving at the site, a sense of déjà vu coursed through his veins as he witnessed the unfolding events.

  On the moonless night of Amavasya, amidst the riverside ghats, an altar took shape in the flickering torchlight.

  A young man, his well-trained physique cd in a bck dhoti and adorned with the sacred white thread called janeu draped across his shoulder, approached the altar with a giant bde in his hand.

  Behind him, three prisoners, chained and dragged by his followers dressed in the same attire, pleaded for mercy. Desperation filled their voices and terror their eyes, as they promised to amend their wrongdoings. Yet, their pleas fell on deaf ears. By the look of their fine clothing, it was clear they were of noble birth. They were lined up to face the altar, their fate sealed.

  "May your soul be purified with your blood," the young leader prayed one st time, in the flickering torchlight.

  The events unfolded with horrifying speed – the fervent prayer, the glint of the bde, the sickening spray of crimson. Debashish's stomach lurched, bile rising in his throat. He had witnessed animal sacrifices in his travels, but this barbaric dispy of execution was beyond his wildest nightmares.

  The crimson bde rose and fell two more times on others awaiting same fate, each time accompanied by a surge of terror in Debashish's chest. He couldn't bear the inhumanity and vomited.

  The bodies were unceremoniously dumped into the river, while the rebel leader washed his hands. As he approached the new comers, his gaze fell on the terrified trader.

  Debashish's legs had turned to jelly, and he could only manage a weak bow. The leader's eyes narrowed.

  "You seem to be a merchant from our community," the leader rumbled. "What goods do you carry?"

  Debashish's voice trembled. "Sugarcane and rice, my lord," he stammered, fear twisting his words.

  The young leader grunted, "Bhairav, why are common people being dragged here? They should have been ignored. We are rebels, not bandits. We fight for a cause, not for plunder!"

  Debashish's heart leaped with a flicker of hope. Perhaps, just perhaps, there is a shred of humanity beneath this brutal exterior.

  But Bhairav's response extinguished that hope as quickly as it had fred. "But Sardar," he argued, "they could be spies from government! They dared to pass through the carnage and now trying to act like ordinary merchants. They are suspicious!"

  Cold sweat slicked Debashish's back. He tore off his turban, revealing his bald head, and fell to his knees before the rebel leader. "Forgive me, my lord!" he pleaded. "I am a greedy man, yes, but I only wanted to make a little profit by reaching the port. We have nothing but sugarcane and rice, I swear it!"

  The young leader studied him for a long moment, then nodded to Bhairav. "Is this true, Bhairav?"

  Bhairav hesitated. "Yes, Sardar," he finally admitted.

  The young leader's gaze returned to Debashish, a flicker of something akin to pity in his eyes. "You seek gold," he stated. "You may have it. But there will be no passage."

  With heaven's luck, Debashish and his companions managed to trade their goods with the rebels at terms comparable to normal market prices, though not as lucrative as city profits.

  During the transactions in next morning, Debashish cautiously inquired about the rebel leader and their cause. He learned that the leader name is Abhijeet Dutta, was once a member of the ruling nobility who had been wronged and chased out of the city.

  His wife had been ostracised for adultery and had been pelted with stones on false accusations of infidelity while he was away fighting bandits.

  Thankfully, she survived and found refuge in a nearby vilge. However, the vilge that sheltered her was burned in an act of jealousy and defiance after refusing to hand her over to the city authorities, choosing instead to help her escape at the cost of their own lives.

  When Abhijeet discovered his wife in a shattered state, he was consumed by grief. Later, he uncovered that his corrupt family members were colluding with the Portuguese, exploiting local people. They were even behind the stone pelting incidence, a practice foreign to Indian culture.

  Extremist Muslims in rural areas began aggressive forced conversions, with kidnapping and rape becoming rampant. Temples were destroyed, homes burned, and the government turned a blind eye, swayed by hefty donations.

  The suffering of the common people and rampant corruption within the royalty shook him to his core, prompting him to rebel. Abhijeet and his followers took up arms, initiating their own campaign to challenge the existing power structure through all means possible.

  Surprisingly, after the transaction, Debashish and his men were allowed to return, blindfolded. During this brief interaction, they learned crucial information: the port city of Chittagong is going to be under siege. No one could enter or leave the city without the mercy of the rebels, led by Abhijeet, once a hero and now a fugitive.

  This journey had evolved beyond trade; they had stumbled into a fight for justice, driven by fury and despair. The question loomed rge: would they stand aside as bystanders, or would they find themselves drawn into the struggle?

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  Author's note :This is just an introduction of future plot of queen Raamya and will continue only when time arrives.