5. The eyes that see too much

The woman standing before Harsh exuded a quiet, unsettling authority.

She was dressed in deep blue, embroidered with gold—colors that signified wealth, status, and power. The fabric draped over her shoulders with effortless grace, and the golden beads woven into her dark hair caught the moonlight. But it wasn't her attire that made Harsh uneasy.

It was her eyes.

Sharp. Watchful. Too intelligent.

Harsh knew that a misstep here could be fatal. He had spent years debating theories of power and history, but now he was standing before someone who lived it, someone who knew the weight of every word spoken in this world.

"You do not belong here."

Her voice was smooth but firm, carrying an authority that came naturally to those raised in nobility.

Harsh stiffened. Had someone reported his strange behavior? Did she suspect something?

"I don't understand what you mean," he said carefully.

A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. "You are neither a farmer nor a merchant. You walk like a man accustomed to privilege, yet you speak like someone trying to hide it." She tilted her head slightly. "That makes you interesting."

Harsh kept his breathing steady. She's testing me.

"I am just a traveler," he said.

She chuckled, soft but sharp. "A traveler?" Her gaze swept over him. "A man does not wander without a purpose. Tell me, traveler—why have you come here?"

Harsh hesitated. He had no real answer. He had landed in this time by accident, and he was still struggling to understand where he fit into this world.

But she didn't press him. Instead, she took a small step closer. "You asked a question earlier."

His heart pounded. She had heard him.

"Why didn't they fight back?" she repeated, watching him. "That is not a question men of this land ask."

Harsh swallowed. The words had slipped out of him in frustration, in disbelief. But now, standing before her, they felt heavier.

She took another step forward, her voice quieter. "Why do you care?"

Harsh felt like the ground beneath him had become unsteady. He was at a crossroads—he could lie, feign ignorance, try to escape her attention.

Or he could speak the truth.

Taking a slow breath, he said, "Because where I come from, people believe that no one should be forced to kneel."

For the first time, something flickered across her face. Surprise? Amusement? Or perhaps something deeper—something even she hadn't expected.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. Her expression became unreadable once more.

"You are an idealist," she murmured. "That is dangerous."

Before he could respond, a figure emerged from the shadows—a servant, waiting at a respectful distance.

She glanced back at Harsh, her gaze lingering for just a moment. "Be careful with your questions, traveler. They can get you killed."

And just like that, she turned and walked away, disappearing into the darkness.

Harsh exhaled, his hands shaking.

He had just caught the attention of someone powerful.

And he had no idea whether that was a good thing—or the beginning of his downfall.