It is the middle of the night. Silence reigns all around. Except for the sentries in King Virendra Singh's camp, all are sunk in deep, restful sleep. Yet, the sleep of a few soldiers is of a peculiar kind—one can neither call them fully awake nor count them among the truly sleeping. These men, numbering no more than a thousand, lie clad in battle attire, their fine weapons strapped to their bodies. It is winter, yet none wears any garment that might truly ward off the cold, and so the chill, carried by the sharp wind, keeps them from falling into a deep slumber.

Fatehsingh is keeping watch over King Virendra Singh's tent. He himself sits on a stool before the entrance, while his subordinate soldiers patrol around the tent, naked swords in hand. Kanchansingh stands guard over Prince Indrajit Singh's tent, and Naharsingh, with his men, protects Anand Singh's tent.

When more than half the night had passed, a man approached the entrance of Prince Indrajit Singh's tent. He saluted Kanchansingh and stood silently by his side. This man was tall and strong, with a turban wound about his head and a black Kashmiri cloak draped over his shoulders.

Kanchansingh: Who are you, and why have you come?

Man: I am a resident of the fort of Rohtasgarh, and I have brought a message from Kishoriji.

Kanchansingh: What is the message?

Man: I have orders to speak only to the prince and to no one else.

Kanchansingh: The prince is asleep at this hour!

Man: If you deem my arrival important, then take me inside the tent, or awaken the prince and inform him.

Kanchansingh: (after some thought) Indeed, in such a case, I must wake the prince. Tell me, what is your name?

Man: I cannot tell you my name, but the prince knows me well. Take me inside with you. The moment he opens his eyes, he will recognize me, and you will not need to say a word!

Kanchansingh led the man into the tent. Kanchansingh walked ahead, the man followed behind. When they reached the center of the tent, the man drew a dagger from beneath his cloak and, taking advantage of Kanchansingh's unsuspecting state, struck him so forcefully from behind on the neck that with a single blow, the head was severed and fell far away, and from the poor man's lips...

Not a sound could escape. After this, he wiped his dagger, tucked it back into his belt, and came to stand beside the deeply slumbering Kunwar Indrajit Singh. He took out a small vial from his waistband and, with great care, held it to the prince's nose. The vial contained a powerful sleeping potion. Once the prince was unconscious, he untied a cloth from his waist, wrapped the prince in it, and went to the door, peering out from behind the curtain to see if the way ahead was clear.

At that moment, the guards, making their rounds, had passed to the