The morning sun pierced through the low-hanging mist, painting the encampment in hues of amber and gold. The rhythmic clang of hammers against iron echoed across the field, mingling with the guttural shouts of men drilling in formation. The once-chaotic camp of refugees was now transforming into something far more dangerous—a disciplined militia with hardened eyes and steady hands.
Smoke curled from the blacksmith tents, where blades were being sharpened and horseshoes reforged. Leatherworkers labored over makeshift armor—cobbled together from scraps of metal and reinforced leather, but sturdy nonetheless.
And at the heart of it all stood Harsh.
---
He stood by the edge of the training ground, his arms folded tightly across his chest, his eyes sharp and calculating.
Before him, nearly five hundred men and women moved in staggered ranks. The freedmen were no longer the tattered, half-starved souls they once were. Their backs were straighter. Their eyes more focused.
Harsh watched as they marched in unison, their boots striking the dirt in rhythm. They moved in blocks of fifty, learning to advance and retreat in formation.
At the head of each group, he had appointed leaders—men who had once been little more than farmers and blacksmiths, but who now commanded with the confidence of battle-hardened officers.
Bharat, the broad-shouldered former miner, shouted orders in a voice that could shake the very ground. His men responded swiftly, their shields locking into a tight wall. Their spears pointed forward in a bristling line.
Ravi, a wiry man with sharp eyes, led his group in flanking maneuvers. His men moved with speed and fluidity, circling their imaginary enemy like a pack of wolves.
And Chander, the once-timid farmer, now wore a hardened expression as he drilled his archers. Their arrows struck the wooden targets with satisfying thuds, the crude fletching trembling with the force of their strikes.
Harsh's gaze swept over them slowly, taking in the scene.
These were no longer mere laborers and peasants.
They were soldiers.
---
As the men drilled, Harsh moved among them, offering corrections and guidance.
"Too high," he murmured, stepping behind a spearman. He pressed the man's wrist downward slightly. "Aim for the ribs, not the chest. It'll drive deeper and cripple him faster."
The man nodded sharply, adjusting his stance.
Harsh moved to the next group.
He took a shield from one of the men and held it before him.
"Strike," he ordered.
The man hesitated for only a moment, then swung his sword. The blade clanged against the shield. Harsh didn't even flinch.
"Again."
The man struck harder this time. The shield vibrated with the force.
Harsh's eyes narrowed faintly.
"Too shallow," he muttered. "You're pulling back before you've driven through."
He tossed the shield aside and grabbed a sword from a nearby rack.
"Watch."
Without warning, he stepped forward and slashed at the man's shield arm—not with the bluntness of training, but with the swiftness of a warrior who had fought to survive.
The man staggered back, barely blocking the blow.
Harsh didn't slow. He pivoted, driving his shoulder into the man's chest, knocking him to the ground.
He stood over him, his blade pressed lightly against the man's throat.
"Don't fight to survive," Harsh murmured, his voice low and steady. "Fight to kill."
The man's breath was ragged, but his eyes were clear.
Harsh stepped back, offering his hand.
The man grasped it without hesitation, his grip strong.
The lesson had been learned.
---
Later that evening, Harsh stood by the main fire, speaking with his commanders. The flames cast flickering shadows across their weathered faces.
Bharat was the first to speak, his voice gruff.
"The men are holding up well," he said. "But they're still not soldiers. Not yet."
Harsh's eyes narrowed faintly.
"How long do they need?" he asked.
Bharat shook his head, his expression grim.
"Months, if not longer," he admitted. "Maybe years."
The words were heavy with truth.
And Harsh hated it.
He knew they didn't have years.
"We don't have that long," Ravi said softly, echoing Harsh's thoughts. His dark eyes flickered with unease. "The nobles will move soon. Their riders have already crossed into neighboring lands. They're offering gold and land to mercenaries."
Bharat spat into the dirt.
"Sell-swords," he muttered bitterly. "Greedy bastards."
Harsh's jaw tightened faintly.
The nobles had more gold and more men. They had war-hardened knights and trained soldiers.
And Harsh had farmers with swords.
But he would make them enough.
---
Later that night, as the camp quieted, Harsh sat alone by the edge of the training ground. The firelight flickered against the worn leather of his boots. His gaze was distant, his hands clasped loosely before him.
He was lost in thought when he heard soft footsteps behind him.
He didn't turn.
But he knew the sound of her stride.
"Can't sleep?" Vira's voice was quiet, almost teasing.
Harsh didn't answer immediately. He stared into the fire, the embers cracking faintly.
After a long moment, he exhaled softly.
"Do you ever wonder," he murmured, his voice low, "if we're just delaying the inevitable?"
Vira's expression faltered slightly.
He turned his head slowly, his eyes locking with hers.
"These men," he said quietly, gesturing toward the sleeping camp. "They're still farmers and smiths at heart. Most of them have never even held a sword until now. And when the nobles come, they'll send real soldiers."
His voice lowered slightly.
"Men who've seen blood. Who've smelled it on their hands."
Vira was silent for a moment.
Then she stepped closer, sitting beside him.
"They'll hold," she murmured softly.
Harsh shook his head faintly.
"You can't know that."
Her eyes narrowed faintly.
"No," she admitted. "I can't."
She reached out slowly, brushing her fingers lightly against his hand.
"But you'll hold," she murmured.
Their eyes met.
And for a brief moment, Harsh let himself believe her.
---
The next morning, Harsh stood before his forces once more.
He gazed out over the sea of faces—the men and women who had once been bound by chains.
Now, they stood with steel in their hands.
He unsheathed his sword slowly, the steel glinting in the morning sun.
"Hold your heads high," he said softly, his voice carrying over the field. "You once bowed before them."
His eyes hardened.
"No more."
He stepped forward slowly, meeting their gazes one by one.
"When the nobles come," he murmured, his voice low but sharp, "they will see no farmers before them."
His eyes narrowed faintly.
"They will see warriors."
A beat of silence followed.
And then, slowly, one man raised his sword.
Then another.
And another.
The fire in their eyes burned as brightly as the steel in their hands.
And Harsh knew—
When the nobles came, they would not be facing peasants.
They would be facing an army.
---