They did not speak until the village was far behind them.
The road curved west, where the fields widened and the land swallowed sound. Wheat stubble scratched softly against the wind. A half-broken milestone leaned like a tired man, its markings worn smooth by years of passing feet and indifferent rain. Here, voices did not carry. Here, words could be chosen without witnesses.
Bhairav Malik stopped first.
He planted his staff into the soil and looked back once, confirming what he already knew: no guards close enough, no villagers foolish enough to follow, no ears except the land's. His shoulders remained square, but his jaw worked as if grinding a thought to powder.
Zafar Khan slowed, then halted a few paces away. He adjusted the ledger under his arm, not because it needed adjusting, but because his hands preferred order when his mind did not.
"You let him stand," Bhairav said.
It was not a question.
Zafar did not turn immediately. He scanned the fields as if reading yield from the color of earth alone. "I let the village breathe," he replied. "There is a difference."
Bhairav's mouth curled. "Breathing makes men forget fear."
"No," Zafar said calmly. "Starving makes them leave."
That earned Bhairav's full attention.
He stepped closer, boots pressing deep into the soil. "Fear keeps them here," he said. "Fear keeps grain in storehouses and heads bowed."
Zafar finally faced him. His eyes were sharp, calculating, irritated by bluntness. "Fear empties villages," he said. "I have seen it. You take everything today, they will salt the fields and run away. Then tell me—who will give tax next season?"
The words hung between them, heavy and practical.
Bhairav snorted. "Peasants threaten flight every year."
"And every year fewer return," Zafar replied. "You break doors. I count absences. Which one do you think the Faujdar notices first?"
Bhairav tightened his grip on the staff. "The Faujdar wants obedience."
"The Faujdar wants revenue," Zafar corrected. "Obedience is useful only if it feeds him."
Silence settled, broken only by wind dragging itself across the stubble. Bhairav stared at the fields like an enemy formation, reading weaknesses. To him, land was territory—something to be held through force, something that responded to boots and iron. He had never trusted soil to remember kindness.
"You speak as if they are assets," Bhairav said.
"They are," Zafar replied without shame. "Renewable ones, if managed correctly."
Bhairav laughed, short and humorless. "You sound like a trader."
Zafar's lips thinned. "And you sound like a fire. Bright. Fast. Consumes everything in reach."
Fire, Bhairav thought, was honest.
He jabbed the staff into the ground. "That teacher," he said. "He makes them sit straight. Makes children look you in the eye. You felt it."
Zafar did not deny it. "Yes."
"That kind of calm spreads," Bhairav continued. "It rots fear."
Zafar exhaled slowly. "Or it increases productivity."
Bhairav turned sharply. "Do not dress danger in numbers."
Zafar met his gaze evenly. "Do not pretend force does not fail without food."
They stood there—muscle and ledger, staff and paper—both aware that neither could fully act without the other. Bhairav could break the village in a day. Zafar could starve it over a season. Each path ended differently, and neither trusted the other's patience.
"The Faujdar will not wait," Bhairav said. "He expects results."
"He expects continuity," Zafar countered. "Empty land gives neither tax nor soldiers."
Bhairav's eyes narrowed. "You protect them."
"I protect income," Zafar said. "Do not confuse the two."
A crow lifted from the field suddenly, its wings snapping the air. Bhairav's gaze followed it for a moment, then returned, darker.
"That teacher stays," he said. "Because you allowed him."
Zafar did not flinch. "He stays because removing him now gains nothing."
"And later?"
Zafar considered. "Later depends on what he becomes."
Bhairav's jaw tightened. "Men like him become symbols."
"Only if struck too early," Zafar replied. "Crush a weed before it flowers, and seeds scatter. Let it grow tall, and everyone sees where to cut."
Bhairav studied Zafar then—not as a fellow officer, but as a rival. He saw the ambition beneath the oil-smooth words. Zafar did not merely want revenue. He wanted relevance. Influence. A future where muscle answered to paper.
"You would let villages think," Bhairav said.
"I would let them work," Zafar said. "Thinking is unavoidable."
That admission sat poorly with Bhairav.
He turned away, scanning the horizon where dust marked distant movement. "If they resist," he said, "I will act."
Zafar nodded. "If they flee, I will blame you."
The understanding was complete. No handshake sealed it. No threat was spoken aloud. They did not need ceremony; both knew the rules of decay.
Bhairav pulled the staff free from the earth. Soil clung to its end. He did not shake it off.
"Do not forget," he said, "fear travels faster than hunger."
Zafar adjusted his ledger again. "And hunger lasts longer than fear."
They began walking again, side by side but not together, the distance between them precise. Ahead lay forts, records, summons, and a Faujdar who encouraged rivalry by never resolving it.
Behind them lay a village that did not know it had become a point of tension between two methods of control.
The land absorbed their footprints without comment.
And somewhere, beneath the soil, seeds waited—patient, indifferent, remembering everything.