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Farrukh's worries

Farrukh was fuming in his chambers once again, the news of the Maratha-Vijayanagara alliance spreading like wildfire across the subcontinent. An alliance strong enough to shake the foundations of empires, including his own.

"Damn this hell!" he roared, his voice reverberating off the high ceilings. His pacing left a storm in its wake—torn curtains, shattered vases, and toppled furniture. Servants lined the walls like statues, their faces pale, their eyes fixed on the ground as they trembled under his fury.

"Those insolent dogs!" Farrukh bellowed, slamming his fist onto a nearby table, splintering the wood. "An alliance with each other? Against us?"

"Those cursed kafirs!" He grabbed a porcelain vase, the last unbroken one in the room, and hurled it at the wall with a deafening crash.

Hasan leaned casually against the doorframe, watching the tantrum with a faint smirk, his sharp green eyes glinting with amusement. He yawned, scratching his ear.

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