Chapter 2: The Army’s Loyalty

The starting point of a female-protagonist novel is often the ending point of a male-protagonist novel.

Funny, na? If this were a movie, the camera would linger on my tired face as the credits rolled, but here, the real drama was only beginning. The world loves a good love triangle; the suffering must be epic for the audience to feel satisfied.

If this were a male-oriented novel, by the time I commanded a million-strong force, I should have been donning another layer of uniform and preparing to seize power.

People expect the hero to charge forward, break the chains, and grab power, like a scene from those old Amitabh Bachchan movies. But this… this is a different kind of stage.

But in a female-oriented novel, things don’t work that way…

In this world, a million soldiers are not weapons, just background dancers for the heroine’s pain and sacrifice. I almost laughed at the irony. In the soap operas my ma watches, the women always suffer first so the men can become heroes later.

A million Northern Frontier troops are nothing more than the backdrop for the tragic love triangle between me, Rajeev, and Ananya.

It’s almost insulting, but I see now why the audience loves it—nothing brings tears like three broken hearts in a single frame.

But now, everything is different.

I flexed my fingers, feeling the blood course through my veins. This time, I’ll be the one to rewrite the ending. No more puppet strings.

From zero to one, I may not be as capable as the original Commander. But from one to ten, the original Commander cannot compare to me.

My mind buzzed with possibilities. I was no ordinary player in this game—I had memories from another world, a sharp tongue, and a stubbornness forged on crowded railway platforms.

“Sir, the army has assembled.”

Outside, the tent flap rustled. Deputy General Kunal’s voice was as crisp as a winter morning. He stood at attention, boots perfectly shined, moustache bristling with discipline.

Deputy General Kunal entered the command tent and saluted smartly.

I nodded, returning his salute with the authority of a man who knows his worth. “Let’s go review the troops.”

The deputy general frowned slightly but didn’t say anything.

His hesitation was subtle—a slight tightening around the eyes, a pause that would escape the untrained. Kunal always walked a thin line between loyalty and candour, and I respected him for it.

In the original novel, the deputy general was the only one who dared to urge the Commander to rebel.

Kunal was never a simple yes-man. In a place where sycophancy ran rampant, he was the rare soul who’d rather risk a scolding than watch his leader fall.

“What man fears lacking a wife? Why risk everything for a woman, Sir? Better to lead the army south, enter Delhi, and seize power.”

There was almost a pleading note in his tone, the sort you’d hear from an elder brother forced to watch his sibling run headlong into trouble. Kunal fiddled with his watch strap, avoiding my gaze, his hands balled into fists, speaking what his lips could not.

“Ananya is in Delhi. If I’m late, that foolish PM might harm her. Don’t talk about this again.”

My reply was curt, as sharp as the smell of gunpowder on a foggy morning. The pain behind the words was real, but the duty was greater.

But the deputy general persisted.

He didn’t let go. “Sir, sometimes we must choose the greater good.” The silence stretched, filled with unsaid words—the kind of silence that descends over a joint family table after a quarrel.

In the end, the original commander became so angry that he ordered Kunal to be flogged fifty times and dismissed him from his post.

My hands instinctively clenched; I remembered that scene too well. The crack of the whip, Kunal’s back bloodied, his jaw set in silent protest. In India, betrayal was personal—a stain that never washed away.

The deputy general bore a grudge, colluded with foreign mercenaries, and became the greatest villain in the book.

How quickly loyalties could turn, how easily a friend became a foe. In the old stories, a man’s dushman was often the one who once broke bread with him.

…

At the entrance to the command tent, the deputy general hesitated, then said, “Sir, you must still be cautious.”

His voice was softer now, almost fatherly. He stood with hands behind his back, eyes flickering with concern. Even the guards outside pretended not to listen, though everyone in camp knew something was up.

I chuckled lightly. “With a million Northern Frontier troops at my command, what can Rajeev possibly do to me?”

The words fell like thunder, and for a moment, the old tension broke. I winked, and Kunal’s lips twitched in reluctant amusement. In the Indian Army, such bravado was as good as a blessing.

The deputy general’s eyes immediately lit up.

Gone was the hesitance; he squared his shoulders and leaned in, as if ready to reveal a secret recipe passed down from his mother.

“I have a plan that will help you achieve great things.”

He whispered the words, as if we stood in the middle of Chandni Chowk instead of a war tent. Outside, a stray dog barked, and a crow cawed, as if eager to hear the scheme.

“Speak.”

I kept my tone neutral, but inside I was burning with anticipation. In this land, a good plan was more valuable than a sack of gold.

“In the past, when invaders crossed the border, the people suffered and the nation was on the brink of collapse.”

Kunal’s voice dropped, his face shadowed by memories. For a moment, I glimpsed the old pain in his eyes—the kind that never quite faded, no matter how many medals you wore.

“Fortunately, you raised troops in the north, sheltered the refugees, fought bitter battles for ten years, rebuilt the land—everyone in the country owes you a debt of gratitude.”

The tent seemed to grow smaller, heavy with the weight of history. My men and I, we had seen death up close, felt the chill of loss seep into our bones. But we had endured. Kunal’s words rang true.

“Why not announce to the nation that the PM has forcibly taken Miss Ananya, so all will know the fault lies with him? Then, when you raise troops to cleanse the PM’s office, no one will object.”

Kunal’s eyes glinted with cunning. In India, public opinion was a river—slow to start, but unstoppable once it gained force. No leader survived the tide of log kya kahenge.

“Especially since Miss Ananya has shown kindness to many soldiers and officers of the Northern Frontier. If this news spreads, it will boost the army’s morale.”

He finished with a flourish, eyes shining. Ananya’s reputation was my greatest weapon—a shield and sword, both.

Having said this, the deputy general stepped aside, looking at me with hope in his eyes.

For a second, the tent fell silent. Even the wind seemed to pause, as if awaiting my verdict. I could feel Kunal’s hope, fragile yet fierce, the way a young boy waits for his father’s approval.

My own eyes brightened. I clapped the deputy general on the shoulder. “Excellent, very good. I’ll leave this to you.”

He straightened, pride glowing in his face. My approval was his reward, more precious than any medal. We were, after all, brothers-in-arms.

The deputy general was overjoyed and saluted. “This subordinate obeys.”

He clicked his heels, the salute sharp and sincere. As he left, I caught the faintest smile on his lips—a rare sight from the ever-serious Kunal.

But could even the best plan withstand the storms to come?