8. Blood and Silk

Harsh did not sleep that night.

The noblewoman's words echoed in his mind, a slow, insidious whisper that refused to fade.

"If you are a fool, you will die soon enough. But if you are not… I may have use for you."

What use could she possibly have for him?

He was not a warrior, nor a noble of consequence. He was barely finding his footing in this world, still struggling to understand the rules that bound it.

And yet—she had sought him out.

He needed to be careful. He needed to think.

But the moment the sun rose, the world refused to give him the luxury of thought.

Because the first thing he saw when he stepped outside was blood.

A body lay in the dirt road, twisted unnaturally, eyes wide open in death. The man had been middle-aged, a merchant by the look of his clothing, though now the fine silk was torn and soaked in red.

A small crowd had gathered, but no one spoke. No one screamed. No one wept.

There was only acceptance.

Harsh's stomach twisted. In his time, a murder in broad daylight would have sent shockwaves through a community. Here, it was just another morning.

"Who was he?" Harsh asked a bystander.

The man glanced at him, then back at the body, expression carefully blank. "A merchant. He spoke out of turn."

Harsh frowned. "Spoke out of turn?"

The man's face darkened. "He forgot his place."

A shiver ran down Harsh's spine.

So that was it. The merchant had said something he should not have. Perhaps he had questioned the wrong person, demanded too much, offended someone of power. And for that, his life had been taken.

The lesson was clear.

Do not speak. Do not resist. Do not forget your place.

Harsh clenched his fists.

He could see it in their eyes—the quiet, unshaken acceptance. The understanding that this was normal.

That was the real horror.

Not the murder itself, but the lack of outrage.

He turned away, bile rising in his throat.

He had studied history. He had known oppression existed. But knowing and witnessing were two very different things.

"You look troubled."

Harsh stiffened. He knew that voice.

She had found him again.

He turned slowly. She stood under the shade of a cloth canopy, her fine robes untouched by the dust of the road. She was dressed differently today—softer, more delicate fabrics, her hair adorned with intricate gold pins.

A noblewoman in every sense.

And yet, her eyes still held that sharpness, that unspoken knowledge that she saw more than she should.

Harsh exhaled slowly. "A man was murdered today."

She raised an eyebrow. "And?"

His temper flared. "And no one cares."

She tilted her head, watching him with quiet amusement. "Why should they?"

"Because it's wrong."

Her expression didn't change. But something flickered in her gaze.

She stepped closer, her silk robes whispering against the air. "Tell me, traveler," she murmured. "In your lands, do men not kill for power? Do rulers not silence those who threaten them?"

Harsh clenched his jaw. "That doesn't make it right."

She smiled. "Right and wrong are luxuries of the powerful. The rest of us do what we must."

He stared at her. "And what do you do?"

Her lips parted slightly, as if she might actually answer. But then she stepped back, her expression smoothing into neutrality.

"Walk with me," she said instead.

He hesitated. He should not trust her.

But something in him—curiosity, desperation, recklessness—made him follow.

She led him away from the market, into the quieter paths near the palace walls. Guards patrolled nearby, but none so much as glanced at her.

She was untouchable here.

Finally, she stopped near a small stone bench beneath a flowering tree. The scent of jasmine clung to the air.

She turned to face him. "Tell me, traveler, what is it you want?"

Harsh frowned. "What do you mean?"

She studied him. "You look at this world like an outsider. You question things no one else does. That means you want something."

He exhaled. He had wanted something, once. He had wanted knowledge, adventure, discovery. But now?

Now he wasn't sure.

Because this world did not want change. It did not even recognize its own chains.

And yet… he could not look away.

Finally, he spoke. "I want to understand."

She laughed softly. "An interesting answer."

Then, before he could react, she reached out and grabbed his wrist.

Harsh tensed. Her fingers were cool against his skin, deceptively gentle.

But when she spoke, her voice was a whisper.

"Then listen well, traveler."

She leaned in, close enough that he could see the intricate gold embroidery on her robes, close enough that her breath was warm against his skin.

"There are forces in this world that will crush you if you are not careful," she murmured. "You think you are asking questions. But questions can be weapons. And weapons make enemies."

Harsh swallowed. "Are you my enemy?"

She smiled, but there was something unreadable in her gaze.

"I do not make enemies without reason," she said. "Nor do I make allies without caution."

She released his wrist, stepping back. "But I am watching you, Harsh."

She turned gracefully, beginning to walk away.

Harsh exhaled, his heart pounding.

Just before she vanished around the corner, she spoke one last time.

"If you are not careful, traveler…"

Her voice was soft. Almost amused.

"…you may find yourself on the wrong side of history."

And then she was gone.

Leaving Harsh standing beneath the jasmine tree, pulse racing, mind spinning.