2. The weight of Name

Harsh's boots sank slightly into the damp earth as he walked beside Rama, the aging steward who seemed to know him far better than he knew himself. His limbs still ached faintly from the strange journey, but his mind was sharper now, on high alert. With each step, he stole glances at the surroundings, trying to commit every detail to memory.

The road was uneven, cracked in places by the rain that had recently lashed the area. On either side, fields stretched out, their edges speckled with mud-brick huts and stone granaries. Farmhands moved through the furrows, bent under the weight of their baskets. From a distance, their worn tunics and sun-darkened skin were visible, but it was the way they moved that caught Harsh's attention—slow, methodical, and utterly resigned.

A boy, no older than eight, dragged a basket of grain that was clearly too heavy for his small frame. His back was already hunched unnaturally for his age, his hands raw. The man walking beside him—his father, Harsh guessed—did not offer aid. Instead, the man scowled and struck the boy lightly with the flat of his hand, urging him to hurry.

Harsh's chest tightened, his hands clenching at his sides. The weight of the injustice made his throat burn. Help him! His modern instincts screamed at him. His legs nearly stopped of their own accord.

But no one else batted an eye. The peasants near them walked on without sparing a glance. To them, it was ordinary. Routine.

Rama, walking a step behind Harsh, cleared his throat. "The river was merciless this season, my lord," he said, his voice heavy with practiced deference. "Many lost their crops and their homes. But the village held fast in your absence."

Harsh tore his eyes from the boy and turned to Rama, forcing himself to respond. "You… you've done well."

The words came out awkwardly. Too formal. Too stiff. Yet Rama smiled as though he had just been praised by a king.

"I only did as you would have wished, my lord," the old man said with reverence. "You have always been just."

Harsh's throat tightened at the words. Just? A bitter weight settled in his stomach. How much of this man's respect was built on the back of a system I would have despised?

But there was no time for reflection. Ahead, a group of villagers spotted them approaching. Women in simple saris and men in rough cotton dhotis turned and immediately prostrated themselves. Their hands pressed into the dirt, their eyes downcast. A few children—barefoot and caked with dirt—clung to their mothers' legs, peeking out shyly at the man they were told was their lord.

For one agonizing moment, Harsh was frozen. His jaw clenched. His gut twisted violently at the sight. They shouldn't be bowing.

As if moving on instinct, he stepped forward. "Stop," he said, his voice louder than he intended.

The villagers froze, heads still pressed to the dirt, trembling at his sharp command. Rama's eyes widened slightly, confused by the sudden harshness.

Harsh took a steady breath. He forced his voice to soften, but he made sure it carried. "Get up," he ordered, glancing over the crowd. "All of you. Stand."

The villagers, eyes wide, slowly pushed themselves up, bewildered. Their hands were still folded in hesitant deference, eyes lowered.

"You… you do not need to bow," Harsh said firmly. His voice was rough but steady. "Not to me. Not to anyone. Only to your gods and your parents."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, confusion mixing with disbelief. Rama's forehead creased with concern. No lord would say such a thing.

A thin, weathered man with a gray-streaked beard, clearly one of the village elders, stepped forward hesitantly. His voice was hoarse from age and hard labor.

"My lord," he said, bowing slightly. "We… we offer you our respects. It is our duty. Our honor."

Harsh's chest tightened, but he shook his head. "Respect does not require your knees in the dirt."

The man's mouth opened, then closed. He stared, clearly at a loss. Behind him, the crowd exchanged uncertain glances.

Harsh took a step forward, lowering his voice just enough that only the elder could hear. "Stand with dignity," he said softly. "Even in front of men like me."

For the briefest moment, the elder's eyes met his. Harsh saw the confusion—the internal war between learned submission and the strange, forbidden spark of self-worth. But the man said nothing. Slowly, he straightened his back.

The crowd did the same, albeit with hesitation. Their eyes were wide, still unsure. Some stared at Harsh as though he were mad. Others seemed cautiously intrigued.

Rama gave him a wary glance. He leaned closer and whispered under his breath, "My lord, it is… not customary to refuse their reverence. They may think you displeased."

"Let them think," Harsh replied quietly, though his voice was cold with restrained fury.

Let them think and question why they kneel at all.

---

By the time they reached the stone-walled manor—his manor, apparently—Harsh's legs ached from the long walk. Yet his mind remained alert, buzzing with disbelief. The stone building, though modest compared to the opulent palaces of major nobles, was still grand by comparison to the mud-brick homes of the commoners.

The manor's courtyard was bustling with servants. Stable hands and kitchen maids hurried through the archways, carrying baskets of grain and bundles of cloth. A few laborers carried bundles of firewood, their movements brisk and practiced.

The moment they spotted him, they froze.

A woman with a shawl over her head dropped the basket she carried and hurriedly fell to her knees. The others followed.

Harsh's teeth clenched. His stomach turned violently.

"No," he said sharply.

They hesitated, clearly unsure of his meaning.

"Get up," he commanded, louder this time. "I won't tell you again."

The courtyard fell into an uneasy silence. Slowly, the servants pushed themselves to their feet, casting each other uncertain glances. None dared to meet his eyes.

Harsh's fingers curled into fists at his sides. This was going to be harder than he thought.

Rama, clearly disturbed by the scene, guided him through the stone hallways into a chamber adorned with carved wooden furniture and colorful tapestries. It was dimly lit, but comfortable—a minor noble's estate, as it should be.

A few scribes and attendants bowed stiffly. One offered him a goblet of water, which he accepted gratefully. His throat was parched, his body still reeling from the day's events.

When they were alone, Rama cleared his throat awkwardly. "My lord, if I may speak freely?"

Harsh exhaled sharply. "Go ahead."

The steward hesitated, then lowered his voice. "Your kindness is known to us all, but… refusing their reverence will confuse them. The people… they do not understand the ways of noble mercy."

Harsh's eyes hardened. "I'm not being merciful," he said flatly. "I'm being right."

Rama's lips pressed into a thin line. His weathered face, etched with decades of obedience, seemed momentarily lost. He doesn't understand. None of them do.

Harsh set the goblet down, his hands trembling slightly. He stared at the faint reflection of the flame flickering in the bronze rim.

I am their lord. But I can't be like the others. I won't.

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