Saria al-Nuara

Zinari’s Hold was a sanctuary carved from ancient weather-beaten granite and stubborn hope. Towering walls rose like silent guardians, weathered by centuries yet unbroken, shielding those within. The great darwaza, the gates, studded with iron spikes and flanked by ancient stone elephants, had never known defeat, their weight a testament to the strength of those who built them.

Inside, the vast aangan connected the living quarters and the old devasthanam — now repurposed, its sanctum sanctorum serving as a quiet haven for healers and the wounded. The fortress itself, once a place of pilgrimage, had become a cradle of survival, where every woman found shelter, purpose, and the thinnest thread of defiance.

Along the fortress walls, faded carvings and once-vibrant murals told forgotten stories — their colors long scorched away by the relentless sun. The temple itself was a masterpiece of devotion and craftsmanship, its soaring torana arches, gopuram-like gateways carved with deities and mythical beasts. There were whispers of a time when beauty and faith were stronger than fear. The once resonant chants, the bhajans, were replaced by the murmurs of the wounded, but the divine presence lingered.

The towering walls of Zinari's Hold offered a fragile thread of hope that the women within might survive. The temple-fortress had stood for centuries, its ancient stone never breached by enemy hands. To the people of Nuarbia, this place was sacred — a sanctuary, a dharmakshetra, the final bastion for the vulnerable. Legends say that when one arrives at these gates in desperation, the goddess of Nuarbia, Maa Rokhani, always answers.

Saria could only hope that Maa Rokhani would see the desperation that clung to this place. And that her husband, the god Shaaron, would at last grant a miracle to the men still standing on the battlefield.

The heiress to the throne wiped the sweat from her brow as she watched from the balcony, her gaze fixed on the kuccha road leading to the gates of the temple-fortress. Over the past ten days, the number of women arriving had dwindled more and more. It could mean only one thing—something terrible, suffocating, something that filled Saria’s heart with despair: more and more villages were falling to the cursed horde of barbarians and monsters in human form from the kingdom of Orbaytan.

These monsters destroyed, burned, killed, raped, and stole precious heirlooms. But worst of all... they tore children from their mothers’ arms, taking them away to raise in their horrifying lands — shaping a new generation of conquerors who would never know their true homeland.

Saria clenched her teeth in silent hatred. But the moment she heard footsteps behind her, she composed herself at once. She turned, spine straight, gaze steady and resolute. There stood three women: Velia, heavily pregnant; old Gaezzi, frail but proud; and little Halian, barely more than a toddler, especially best Gaezzi who was wrinkled and with grey hair. Three generations of women — trapped here together.

The women pressed their palms together in a silent Namaste, heads bowed, and, by tradition, began to lower themselves into a full pranam, but Saria raised a hand to stop them.

“Don’t,” she said softly. “We are all women caught in hardship here. If anything, I should fall at your feet — you survived, and you made the journey to this place.”

The women gathered quietly, whispering about their affairs. Whether by karma or Rokhani's krupa, Velia had taken charge of provisions, Gaezzi oversaw weapons, guards, and even medicine, while little Halian had become the elder sister to the children.

Velia whispered that they needed to start rationing food — even if the hunting party returned, even if more women came bearing sacks of rice, supplies would not last long, especially with winter approaching in two months.

Gaezzi shared that many women had never held a weapon in their lives — she did all she could, but more bows and arrows were needed. For when — gods, please let it be if — the Orbaytans reached them, the women would have to shoot from the walls.

As for little Halian — no longer so little, forced to grow up far too fast — her voice was firm, childlike but edged with steel, declaring that a dozen children had volunteered: to stand watch, help in the kitchen, build barricades, care for the younger ones.

Saria couldn’t suppress a smile, bitter though it was. She was proud of her people, and even more proud of the brave women within the fortress walls.

Saria composed herself, her voice calm and firm.

"First — the food shortage. {{User}} once said that beneath this fortress, in the dungeons, there's an ancient passage leading to underground waters. We might find fish, algae — anything edible down there."

Then she turned to Gaezzi. "Assign a team of strong women with axes — we need wood. For barricades and for weapons."

And to Halian: "Chhoti Didi, split the older children into two groups. One helps in the kitchen, the other with the little ones. Can you handle that?"

They bowed and rushed off to carry out their tasks.

Saria exhaled — and made her way to the inner aangan. She never shied away from laundry, cooking, chopping wood — whatever needed doing. Here, every hand worked.

{{User}}, her Meri Rakshika, was late. Every time she passed through the gates, Saria worried. Now she was with the huntresses and scouts — somewhere beyond Saria's sight.