The dawn was slow to break. A faint, bruised pink hue clung to the horizon as the first pale rays of sunlight painted the sky. The fields beyond the camp were still streaked with blood, the grass bent and broken beneath the weight of battle. Smoke lingered faintly in the air, the remnants of charred wood and fallen banners clinging to the wind.
Harsh stood alone on a small rise overlooking the camp. The first slivers of sunlight cast long shadows over his form, outlining the sharp angles of his jaw and the lines of tension in his shoulders. His cloak stirred faintly in the morning breeze, the edges torn and frayed from days of riding and battle.
His hands were steady, but his eyes were distant—fixed on the horizon. Even with the sun rising, he felt the lingering cold of the night clinging to his skin.
Behind him, the camp slowly stirred to life. Fires were rekindled, and the faint sounds of men moving about filled the air—the clatter of armor, the scrape of steel against whetstones, the low murmur of voices.
But there was something heavier in the air. Something different.
The freedmen—those who had been slaves only days before—were moving among the soldiers. Hesitantly, but deliberately.
They were watching.
Some of the men-at-arms handed out scraps of bread and salted meat, while others offered simple woolen garments. The freedmen accepted the food with shaking hands. Some of them ate quietly, their eyes flickering with disbelief, as though unsure whether the meal was real or another cruel dream.
But others were doing something else.
They were watching the soldiers train.
Their eyes lingered on the wooden practice swords and the clumsy, uneven strikes of the younger recruits. They studied the way the men moved—the stance of their feet, the swing of their arms.
And some of them—slowly, cautiously—began to mimic the movements.
---
Harsh's gaze slowly drifted downward, watching as a group of former slaves gathered near the edge of the camp. They were practicing with crude sticks, mimicking the forms they had seen the soldiers use. Their stances were awkward, their movements clumsy. Some swung too high, others too low.
But they kept trying.
A young man of no more than twenty swung with all the force he could muster, but the weight of the thick branch he used made him stumble. He nearly fell, but before he could regain his footing, an older man behind him caught him by the arm.
"Steady your legs," the older man rasped, his voice hoarse from disuse. His hands were still calloused from years of labor. "Don't fight the stick. Let it swing with you."
The younger man nodded faintly, swallowing thickly, and reset his stance.
And then he swung again.
His form was still clumsy, but slightly less so.
Harsh's chest tightened faintly.
For so long, they had been told they were weak. That they were unworthy of strength. That they were born to serve and nothing more.
But now, they were trying to learn how to stand.
"Commander."
The voice pulled Harsh from his thoughts. He turned sharply to find Vira approaching him. She wore no armor, only a simple tunic and leather boots, her hair loosely braided over her shoulder. Her eyes were sharp and alert, but faintly shadowed with fatigue.
She stepped up beside him, her eyes flickering toward the freedmen practicing below.
"They're still weak," she murmured. "They won't last against trained soldiers."
Harsh exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Not yet," he said quietly.
Her gaze lingered on his profile, studying the faint lines of tension in his face. Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"You're going to train them, aren't you?" she asked, her voice quiet but certain.
He turned toward her slightly, his jaw tightening faintly.
"Yes."
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"They're farmers. Bakers. Weavers. They've never held a sword in their lives," she said, her voice low but firm. "And you mean to make them soldiers?"
"No," Harsh replied evenly. "I mean to make them free men."
Her eyes hardened faintly. She stared at him for a long moment, searching his expression.
Then, slowly, she exhaled.
"You know the nobles will call you a madman for this," she said softly. "They'll call you a traitor."
His eyes darkened faintly.
"They already do," he murmured.
---
Later that morning, Harsh stood before the freedmen.
He was dressed simply—no armor, no finery, only a tunic and riding boots. His hands were bare, and his sword remained strapped to his saddle, away from view. He stood not as a noble or a warrior, but as a man.
The freedmen gathered hesitantly before him. They were still ragged, their faces hollow with exhaustion. Some of them still bowed when they approached, their eyes lowered.
But Harsh did not let them kneel.
When one of the women tried to lower herself, he reached out and caught her by the arm, gently pulling her back to her feet.
"Don't kneel," he said softly, but firmly. "Not to me. Not to any man."
She stared at him, wide-eyed and bewildered.
But she did not kneel again.
Harsh turned toward the others. His eyes swept over their faces—their sunken cheeks and calloused hands, the faint glimmer of hope battling against years of learned helplessness.
He spoke plainly, his voice clear but without flourish.
"You have worked the fields," he said softly. "You have built the walls of the cities. You have tilled the land and laid the stones. It was your hands that built this kingdom."
He paused, letting his words settle.
"But you are told that you are nothing. You are told that you are weak. You are told that you were born to kneel. That your backs were made for burdens. That your hands were made for labor. That your blood was meant to be spent in the service of others."
A faint tremor moved through the crowd. Faces lifted slightly.
Harsh's eyes narrowed faintly. His voice hardened.
"But look at your hands now," he said sharply.
Some of them slowly lifted their hands, their fingers rough with callouses and scarred from years of labor.
"These are not the hands of weak men," Harsh said firmly. "These are not the hands of slaves. These are the hands that built this kingdom. The hands that tilled the soil. The hands that forged the iron. The hands that bled."
He stepped forward, his voice low but steady.
"They told you that you were born in chains. That you would die in chains." His eyes hardened. "But they were wrong."
The freedmen stared at him, their eyes wide with disbelief.
And for the first time, he saw something faint—something fragile but unmistakable—flicker in their eyes.
Not just hope.
Defiance.
---
Harsh spent the rest of the day walking among them. He did not simply speak. He taught.
He knelt beside a boy no older than sixteen, showing him how to grip a spear properly, how to steady his feet. He moved among the older men, correcting their stances and demonstrating how to block without wasting movement.
He showed them how to hold a sword—not with desperation, but with conviction.
And when they failed, he did not berate them. He showed them again. And again. And again.
By nightfall, their hands were blistered, their arms heavy with exhaustion. Their strikes were still clumsy, their movements still rough.
But they were learning.
And when they stood in the firelight, the exhaustion in their eyes was accompanied by something else.
Something stronger.
They no longer looked like slaves.
They looked like men.
And Harsh knew—slowly, painfully—they were starting to believe it too.
---