The battle was over.
The dust had settled, but the stench of blood lingered heavily in the air.
The villagers stood in stunned silence, their hands trembling around makeshift weapons—farming tools slick with gore.
Some of them were still catching their breath, their chests heaving from the exertion of fighting. Others were simply staring at the corpses—the still-warm bodies of the raiders that littered the square.
But none of them looked at the dead.
They were staring at Harsh.
He stood bare-chested, his skin streaked with sweat and blood. His fists were coated in crimson, the cuts on his knuckles glistening in the morning light.
A thin gash along his collarbone oozed sluggishly, but he barely seemed to notice it.
The villagers' eyes were wide, their faces torn between awe and disbelief.
Many had seen lords fight before—from the safety of the rear lines, behind armor and shields.
But none had seen a man fight like this.
A man who bled with them.
A man who stood before them, unyielding—flesh torn, bloodied and battered, but still defiant.
And when he turned to face them, there was no nobility in his eyes. No aloof lordship.
There was only a man, scarred and sweating, looking at them as equals.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then, an old woman in the crowd—her face weathered with years of toil—stepped forward.
She knelt.
"My lord, you saved us…" she whispered hoarsely.
Harsh's eyes hardened immediately.
Without hesitation, he strode over and seized her by the arm, pulling her gently but firmly to her feet.
"No," he said sharply, his voice hoarse. "No kneeling."
Her eyes widened slightly—surprised, confused.
"Stand," he said softly, his voice trembling faintly.
The woman's lips parted, but she did as he asked.
Harsh turned to the others.
His gaze swept over them—the men and women who had fought beside him.
And in a voice heavy with exhaustion, he spoke.
"You are not slaves," he said hoarsely. "You are not cattle. You will not kneel. Not before me. Not before any man."
His voice rose slightly, trembling with restrained intensity.
"The only ones you kneel to…" he said softly, "are your parents… and your gods."
The crowd stirred, uncertain.
Many of them glanced at one another, uncertain whether they were allowed to believe him.
And then, one by one, they began to rise.
The old woman stood slowly. The men near her followed.
The younger farmers, still gripping their bloodied tools, straightened their backs.
No one knelt.
The only sound was the slow, ragged breathing of exhausted survivors.
And then, from somewhere in the crowd, someone raised their hand in salute.
A fist, clenched tightly, lifted into the air.
And then another.
And another.
Until the entire crowd stood, their fists raised in silent, defiant unity.
Harsh's chest tightened faintly.
For the first time in weeks, he felt a faint prickle of warmth behind his eyes.
He exhaled slowly, and then, without a word, raised his own fist.
And for a brief moment, the village was not divided by caste or birth.
For a brief, fleeting moment, they were simply men and women—standing together.
---
But unity came with consequences.
By midday, messengers had arrived—riders from nearby settlements. They came with reports.
The raiders Harsh had killed were not merely brigands.
They were mercenaries, hired by discontented landowners from the northern provinces. Men like Gajendra—men who saw Harsh's growing influence as a threat to their control.
Bharat stood in the hall's main chamber, his jaw clenched as he read the missive aloud.
"There will be retaliation," Bharat said darkly, folding the parchment with deliberate care.
Harsh's hands curled into fists.
He knew it was coming. He had known for weeks.
The landed nobles were afraid. And fear made them violent.
His jaw tightened.
The old ways would not be surrendered easily.
---
That evening, Harsh stood in the main hall, staring down at the wooden map laid across the table.
Around him, his commanders and advisors were gathered—men he trusted.
Bharat, loyal and calculating, stood at his right.
To his left was Shivendra, the former mercenary who had pledged his sword to Harsh. His face was grim, his fingers resting lightly on the hilt of his dagger.
And then, beside Bharat, stood Aarya.
She had arrived an hour before, her cloak damp from the road, but her eyes sharp and alert.
Her gaze flicked briefly toward Harsh, but she said nothing.
Instead, she focused on the map, her eyes scanning the markers carefully.
Harsh's voice was quiet but unyielding.
"They'll come with everything they have," he muttered.
Bharat nodded grimly.
"At least three noble houses," Bharat murmured. "Perhaps more."
Harsh's lips pressed into a thin line.
His voice was soft, almost detached.
"Then we'll need more men," he said softly.
He glanced at Shivendra, his eyes cold and direct.
"Go to the border provinces," he ordered. "Recruit everyone willing to fight. Every mercenary, every cutthroat. I want them armed and trained by week's end."
Shivendra nodded sharply.
Harsh's gaze shifted to Bharat.
"Prepare the farmers," he muttered.
Bharat's eyes narrowed slightly.
"The farmers?" he repeated, frowning.
Harsh's eyes were steely and unwavering.
"We can't afford to shield them anymore," he said quietly. "They'll need to fight. They'll need to bleed."
Bharat's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
He knew Harsh was right.
---
When the others had left the hall, Aarya lingered.
She stood by the window, her arms folded loosely.
Harsh turned toward her, but she didn't meet his eyes.
Instead, she spoke softly.
"You're pushing them hard," she murmured. "Harder than they can take."
Harsh's gaze hardened faintly.
"It's the only way," he said quietly.
She turned then, her eyes sharp.
"They'll break, Harsh," she muttered. "You'll make them fight and bleed and burn—and they'll do it because they believe in you. But when it's over, they'll look at you and wonder if you were any different from the lords you destroyed."
Her voice was low, almost cold.
But there was no malice in her eyes.
Only concern.
For the first time that night, Harsh felt the weight of his choices press heavily on his chest.
He turned away slightly, his fingers curling loosely around the edge of the table.
"I know," he muttered softly.
But his voice was raw.
"I know."
Aarya stared at him for a moment longer.
And then, without a word, she turned and walked away, leaving him alone in the hall.
---