12. The first move

Harsh sat alone in the dimly lit chamber, the parchment still in his hands. The inked names seemed heavier than mere letters—they carried consequences.

He exhaled slowly.

This was the first time he had been given something that truly mattered. But it wasn't a gift. It was a test.

The noblewoman had laid her trap carefully. If he refused, he would prove himself too weak to play in this world. If he accepted—he would no longer be an observer.

He would be complicit.

His hands clenched involuntarily.

A forgotten noble, with no wealth, no allies, and no claim—what choice did he truly have?

By the time he left the palace, the sun had begun its slow descent, casting long shadows across the stone streets. The scent of the evening market filled the air—spices, roasting meat, the faint bitterness of dye vats.

Harsh moved through the streets, his mind turning over the names on the list. Some of them were recognizable—minor officials, a merchant known for his loyalty to a certain faction. Others were unknown to him.

But what mattered wasn't their names.

It was what would happen to them if he acted—or didn't.

"Lost in thought, are we?"

Harsh tensed at the voice.

Turning, he found himself face to face with a man leaning casually against the wall of a narrow alley.

The man was dressed plainly, his face shadowed beneath the hood of his travel-worn cloak. But there was something too practiced about his stillness—something that set off an instinctive warning in Harsh's mind.

"Do I know you?" Harsh asked, keeping his tone even.

The man's lips curved into a smirk. "No. But I know you, noble-born."

Harsh's spine stiffened. A threat? A warning? Or something worse?

The man stepped closer, his voice dropping. "You walk like a man who has been given a choice he does not wish to make."

Harsh's fingers twitched, but he forced himself to stay calm. "And what would you know of that?"

The man chuckled. "More than most. Choices shape men, noble-born. And the wrong one can shape a grave just as easily."

He turned slightly, as if to leave. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Careful where you step. Some paths lead into shadows that never end."

Then he was gone, vanishing into the evening crowd.

Harsh stood still for a long moment, heart pounding.

He had just been watched. And warned.

Back in the safety of his small estate, Harsh sat at his crude wooden desk, the parchment spread before him. A single oil lamp flickered beside him, casting jagged shadows.

He ran a hand through his hair.

If he chose to act on the noblewoman's list, it meant playing a game he barely understood. But if he ignored it—he would be no better than the powerless noble he had been all this time.

The noblewoman had been right about one thing: he had nothing to lose.

And perhaps that was what scared him the most.

His gaze drifted to the list again, then to his reflection in the small bronze mirror on the desk.

He wasn't the same man who had arrived here weeks ago.

His body had changed. His strength had changed. His mind, too, had begun adapting to this world's rules.

But was he willing to cross this line?

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

He rose cautiously, slipping a dagger into his sleeve before answering.

Outside stood a woman—not the noblewoman, but another.

A servant, judging by her plain dress and careful posture. But there was something sharp in her gaze.

"She sent me," the woman said without preamble. "To tell you that time is running out."

Harsh studied her. "And if I say I need more time?"

The woman's lips pressed together. "Then I tell her you are hesitating."

Harsh exhaled. He had no illusions about what that would mean.

The noblewoman would not wait forever. And he was not fool enough to believe she had no other options.

The game had begun. And now—he had to make his first move.