3. Whispers of change

Harsh sat on the stone ledge of his manor's balcony, staring out at the stretch of fields beyond the village. The sun was dipping below the horizon, bleeding gold and crimson across the sky. A warm breeze carried the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke, but his mind was elsewhere—distant, tangled in knots of frustration and disbelief.

His elbows rested on his knees, and his hands hung loosely between them. Despite the warm evening, his palms were clammy.

It had been two days. Two days since he had arrived in this world—this life—where people bent and bowed at his feet as if he were some divine hand of fate. Two days of servants lowering their eyes and treating his mere presence like that of a god.

He had stopped them at every turn. Time and time again, he had refused their reverence. Yet the more he denied it, the more confused they became. Some even looked afraid, as though his refusal to accept their submission was a sign of disfavor. They were so bound by custom, they mistook defiance for cruelty.

Harsh clenched his fists. The sight of the child laboring in the field still haunted him—the boy with raw, bloodied hands, carrying a load meant for a man. He thought of the elder's face when he had told him not to kneel—the fleeting, bewildered glimmer of defiance that had flickered and then died in his eyes.

They don't even know they are bound.

The realization cut through him like a blade. They think they belong in the dirt.

He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to stand. His muscles ached from the constant tension of forcing his body into calm. His twice-strengthened frame made movement effortless, but it also made it difficult to release the nervous energy coiling within him.

Without thinking, he turned and crossed the balcony, heading back inside. He needed to move.

---

Rama found him in the courtyard, pacing. The old steward's footsteps were slow and measured, his eyes wary as he approached.

"My lord," he greeted softly.

Harsh glanced at him and gave a curt nod, continuing to pace.

Rama clasped his hands together, watching him with a mix of patience and worry. "You have been restless since your return," he observed cautiously. "Is something troubling you?"

Harsh almost laughed at the absurdity of the question. Is something troubling me? He wanted to scream.

Instead, he stopped walking and turned to face the old man. "I want to visit the village," he said bluntly.

Rama's brow furrowed. "The village?"

"Yes," Harsh said sharply. "I want to walk among the people. Without guards. Without fuss."

The old man's face immediately creased with concern. He stepped forward slightly, lowering his voice. "Forgive me, my lord, but it is not… fitting. The people will be unsettled. You would be exposed."

Harsh's eyes narrowed slightly. "Exposed?"

Rama faltered. "You are a noble, my lord. To walk openly among the villagers…" He lowered his voice further, hesitant. "It would be improper."

The word struck Harsh like a slap. Improper. To be among his own people.

His lips pressed into a thin line. He took a slow step toward Rama, his voice dropping. "I won't ask again, Rama."

The old man's shoulders stiffened. His mouth opened slightly, but when he saw the sharpness in Harsh's eyes, he inclined his head reluctantly.

"As you wish, my lord," he said, bowing slightly.

Harsh turned and strode toward the gate before Rama could say another word.

---

The village was alive with the fading light. Children ran barefoot across the dirt paths, their laughter shrill and wild. Women gathered around stone mills, grinding grain with slow, practiced movements. The rhythmic thud of pestles echoed through the narrow lanes.

Harsh walked slowly through the crowd, feeling the weight of every glance. The moment they spotted him, the villagers stilled. Conversations faltered. Hands froze over half-braided hair and unfinished tasks.

He saw them lower their eyes. Some hesitated, clearly unsure of how to greet him without guards or attendants announcing his arrival. An elderly woman paused with a basket in her hands, glancing at him uncertainly.

Harsh held her gaze, then gave her a small, deliberate nod. "Namaste," he greeted softly.

She blinked, clearly startled. After a brief hesitation, she bowed stiffly, her eyes cast downward.

The villagers murmured among themselves as he passed. Their eyes were wary, confused. Why was he here?

---

Further down the path, he stopped when he saw a young woman struggling with a heavy sack of grain. She stumbled slightly, her thin frame swaying under its weight. The man beside her—a stout, sun-darkened farmer—glared sharply and muttered something under his breath, but he made no move to help.

Harsh's fingers twitched at his sides. Without thinking, he strode toward her.

The woman noticed him immediately and froze, eyes going wide with terror. She clumsily dropped to her knees, releasing the sack. Her hands pressed into the dirt.

"No!" Harsh's voice was sharp. Too sharp. She flinched violently.

He knelt in front of her, startling her further. She kept her head low, trembling. Harsh's throat tightened at the sight. This is what they've been taught—to shrink at the sight of men like me.

"Don't," he said softly. His voice shook slightly. "Don't kneel."

The woman didn't move.

Gently, Harsh reached out and touched her wrist, guiding her hand off the ground. She gasped softly, terrified by the contact, but he didn't let go. With slow, steady pressure, he pulled her hand upward until her palm was level with his.

Her eyes flicked up uncertainly, just for a moment.

"Stand," he said softly. "Please."

Her lips parted slightly, but she obeyed. Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet. She kept her head low, still trembling.

Harsh exhaled sharply and turned to the sack she had been carrying. Without a word, he bent and lifted it easily with one hand. It was heavy—a burden that would have strained most men—but his enhanced strength made it effortless.

Gasps rippled through the villagers. The woman's eyes widened in disbelief. She stared at him, clearly struggling to process what she was seeing—a noble, lifting a laborer's load.

Harsh turned to the farmer standing beside her—the man who had offered no help. The man's eyes dropped quickly, his face reddening with shame.

"Help her," Harsh said coldly, his voice sharp with restrained anger.

The man flinched slightly, then nodded hurriedly and grabbed the other side of the sack. Together, they carried it toward the stone granary.

By the time Harsh turned back, he realized that the entire village had gathered. Dozens of men, women, and children watched him in stunned silence. Some with confusion. Some with awe. Others with distrust.

A man with rough, calloused hands stepped forward hesitantly. His voice was hoarse, uncertain. "My lord…" He glanced at the others, clearly searching for the words. "Why… why would you do this?"

Harsh's throat tightened. He stared at the man, feeling a strange knot of emotion lodge in his chest. For a moment, he was at a loss. Then, softly, he replied:

"Because it is right."

The man blinked slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly with confusion. Around him, the villagers exchanged wary glances, as though unsure whether to be grateful or afraid.

Harsh scanned their faces, seeing the skepticism in their eyes. He knew they didn't trust him—not yet. They were too used to being betrayed by men of title.

He felt the weight of their uncertainty. But he didn't look away.

Instead, he let them see him—their lord—with dirt on his hands, grain dust clinging to his tunic. He held their gaze and offered no excuse.

And then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

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