6. A web of silent chains

Harsh stood frozen in the dimly lit courtyard long after she had vanished. His mind raced through their brief yet charged conversation, replaying every word, every glance. The weight of her presence lingered, pressing down on him like an unseen force.

She saw too much.

Who was she? A noblewoman, clearly. Perhaps a princess, or at least someone with influence. But more importantly, she was dangerous. Not in the way a warrior was, with weapons and brute strength, but in the way a spider was—silent, patient, weaving webs unseen until it was too late.

His breath was steady, but his hands were not. He flexed his fingers, trying to shake the tension from them.

She had asked him a question—"Why do you care?"—as if kindness itself was suspicious.

And in this world, maybe it was.

The next morning, Harsh walked through the market, his mind still unsettled. He needed to understand more, to see how people lived, how they thought. His conversation with her had left him shaken not because of what she had said, but because she was right—no one here asked those kinds of questions.

The market bustled with life. Merchants shouted over one another, trying to lure customers with promises of the finest fabrics, the ripest fruits, the most fragrant spices. The air smelled of sandalwood, turmeric, and something deep-fried sizzling on a clay stove.

Harsh's gaze flickered to a group of men carrying heavy sacks of grain. Their backs were bent, their muscles straining. No one acknowledged them. They moved like ghosts, invisible despite their toil.

He approached a fruit vendor and picked up a mango, feeling its weight in his palm. "How much?"

The vendor, a plump man with a well-trimmed beard, barely glanced at him. "For you, young master, two copper coins."

Harsh hesitated. The price was suspiciously low. "And for them?" he asked, nodding toward one of the laborers passing by.

The vendor's smile didn't falter, but his eyes darkened slightly. "They do not buy such things."

The laborer in question—a wiry man with skin darkened by the sun—did not even react. He walked past them without breaking stride, head lowered, hands gripping the sack on his shoulder as if it were an extension of himself.

Harsh's stomach twisted. They do not even think to ask.

He handed the vendor the coins and took the mango, but the fruit felt heavy in his palm now, as if tainted by something unseen.

As he wandered further, he noticed more things—how the merchants greeted wealthy buyers with wide smiles and deep bows, while barely nodding at others. How the guards patrolled with lazy indifference unless a noble passed by, at which point they straightened their backs instantly.

The real weight of the system wasn't in chains or whips. It was in the minds of the people themselves.

There was no rebellion because there was no belief that rebellion was possible.

A potter's son would be a potter. A fisherman's daughter would mend nets. A servant's child would never dream of anything but servitude. Not because they were forced, but because they knew no other world.

This wasn't just oppression. It was obedience woven into their very existence.

Harsh clenched his fists. How do you fight something people do not even recognize as chains?

He had studied revolutions, read about peasants rising against emperors, about the fall of kingdoms and the birth of new orders. But those revolutions had begun when people realized they were being wronged.

Here, there was no realization. There was contentment in servitude.

And that made it infinitely harder to change.

He turned a corner and nearly collided with a boy, no older than ten, who scrambled backward, dropping a bundle of cloth.

"Sorry, sahib," the boy mumbled, kneeling quickly to gather his things.

Harsh instinctively bent down to help him. "It's alright—"

A sharp gasp made him pause.

The boy was staring at him in horror.

Harsh frowned. "What—"

The boy scrambled back, clutching the bundle to his chest like a shield. "Please, sahib, I did not ask for your help. I swear it." His voice trembled.

Harsh's chest tightened. The boy was afraid. Not of punishment, but of something deeper.

"You don't have to—"

"Harsh."

The voice was soft, but unmistakable.

He turned slowly.

She was there.

The noblewoman from last night.

She stood in the shade of a cloth canopy, watching him with an expression that was unreadable, but her eyes—those sharp, too-intelligent eyes—gleamed with something almost like amusement.

The boy scrambled away as if his life depended on it.

She took a slow step forward. "You are an interesting man, Harsh."

The way she said his name sent a chill down his spine.

She had found out who he was.

And she was watching him far too closely.

Harsh forced himself to remain calm. "You know my name."

Her lips curved slightly. "A name is a simple thing to find."

He didn't believe that. Not here. Not now.

She stepped closer. The scent of jasmine and sandalwood clung to her, a stark contrast to the dust and sweat of the marketplace.

"You have strange habits," she mused. "You ask strange questions. You offer help where none is expected."

She wasn't accusing him. She was observing him. Testing him.

"I don't like seeing people suffer," he said carefully.

Her expression didn't change, but something flickered in her gaze. "No one here thinks they are suffering."

Harsh exhaled sharply. "That's the problem."

Silence stretched between them. Around them, the market carried on as if nothing had changed. Merchants shouted, coins clinked, voices rose and fell in an endless hum.

But Harsh knew—everything had changed.

She had taken an interest in him.

And in a world where power was built on knowing more than others, that was dangerous.

She finally smiled—a small, unreadable thing. "Be careful, traveler."

Then, just like the night before, she turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Harsh stood still, his heart pounding.

He had set something in motion.

And he wasn't sure he could stop it now.