4. Chains of mind

The weight of silence pressed against Harsh's chest.

The old man still knelt in the dirt, his bound hands trembling. Blood from his forehead dripped onto the cracked earth. The guards stood over him like vultures, their hands resting lazily on their swords.

But it wasn't the violence that disturbed Harsh the most. It was the reaction of the villagers.

They didn't flinch.

Some lowered their heads, as if ashamed. Others muttered among themselves. But no one stepped forward. No one protested.

Harsh had seen oppression before—in history books, in documentaries, in the endless political debates on social media. But those had always carried the underlying belief that change was possible.

This?

This was something else entirely.

This was a world where the oppressed did not even see themselves as victims.

Harsh clenched his fists, his mind racing. What should I do? What can I do?

Logic screamed at him to stay quiet. He had no power here. One wrong word, one impulsive action, and he could end up just like the old man—or worse.

But a deeper part of him—a modern part of him—wanted to push back.

Before he could act, Dhanananda, the village head, stepped forward.

"I will cover his dues," he said evenly.

The guards exchanged glances. One of them frowned. "That is not—"

"The village still owes taxes, does it not?" Dhanananda's voice was calm, but firm. "If I pay on his behalf, what difference does it make?"

A tense silence stretched between them. Finally, one of the guards exhaled sharply. "Very well."

The bindings around the old man's wrists were cut. He slumped forward, coughing. Dhanananda motioned for two villagers to help him up.

Harsh released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

The crisis had passed—for now.

But as the guards mounted their horses and rode off, a bitter taste lingered in Harsh's mouth. This wasn't justice. It was submission.

Dhanananda turned to the crowd. "Back to your work," he said, his tone carrying the weight of quiet authority.

The villagers dispersed without argument.

Harsh remained where he was, his mind still reeling.

Dhanananda caught his gaze and sighed. "You have questions."

A thousand thoughts swirled in Harsh's head, but only one found its way out. "Why didn't anyone fight back?"

Dhanananda studied him carefully. Then, without answering, he gestured for Harsh to follow him.

---

The village head's home was modest but well-kept. The walls were made of sunbaked mud, reinforced with wooden beams. Inside, a woven mat covered the floor, and clay oil lamps flickered in the dim light.

Dhanananda poured water into a small metal cup and handed it to Harsh. "Drink."

Harsh hadn't realized how thirsty he was until he felt the cool liquid touch his lips. He drank deeply.

Dhanananda sat down across from him. "You asked why no one fought back."

Harsh nodded.

The older man exhaled. "Because rebellion is not just about anger. It is about belief."

Harsh frowned. "Belief?"

Dhanananda leaned forward. "If a man is chained, he will struggle. If a man is beaten, he will curse his oppressor. But if you teach a man from birth that his suffering is natural, that it is righteous, then he will not fight. He will kneel."

A cold shiver ran down Harsh's spine.

Dhanananda's expression was unreadable. "Do you know how long the empire has ruled? Generations. For generations, the lowest castes have been told that they are lesser—that their place is to serve, to suffer, and to be grateful for what little they are given."

Harsh swallowed hard. "But… they outnumber the ones in power."

Dhanananda gave a small, tired smile. "You are thinking like an outsider."

Harsh stiffened.

Dhanananda continued, "It is not about numbers. It is about the mind. The empire does not need to fight every poor farmer or laborer. It only needs them to believe that fighting is wrong."

Harsh felt sick.

This wasn't like the historical oppression he had studied in school. This was deeper, more insidious.

And he had just walked into the middle of it.

---

The night was thick with humidity when Harsh finally stepped outside. The village had settled into an uneasy quiet. The only sounds were the distant calls of night birds and the occasional crackle of a dying fire.

He needed to think.

The weight of this world was pressing down on him, and he had no clear path forward.

His instincts told him to blend in, stay unnoticed—at least until he understood more.

But something about what he had witnessed today refused to leave his mind. The old man, the villagers' silence, Dhanananda's words…

How can I accept this?

As he wandered near the outskirts of the village, a flicker of movement caught his eye.

A figure stood near the trees—a woman, half-hidden in the shadows.

Harsh tensed.

She stepped forward, her features illuminated by the moonlight.

She was dressed in rich fabrics, her long hair braided and adorned with subtle golden beads. Her posture was poised, her gaze sharp.

Not a village woman.

A princess.

And by the way she studied him, she knew exactly who he was.

---

What Comes Next?

Harsh's first meeting with the princess—a woman who is far more politically aware than most.

She will not trust him easily but will be intrigued by his unusual perspective.

Meanwhile, Harsh will struggle to find his place, torn between survival and his modern ideals.