17 . Shadows behind the throne

The battlefield still smelled of blood and burning wood when Harsh stood atop the ruined hill.

Victory had been theirs. But it had come at a cost.

The trebuchets had proven their worth, raining destruction upon the enemy's ranks before the first swords were drawn. Yet war was never so simple. Even with strategy, even with superior weapons, men still died.

Harsh wiped the sweat and grime from his forehead, surveying the field of corpses below. His heart was steady, but a deep unease settled in his chest.

This wasn't what he had envisioned when he dreamed of changing the world.

He had imagined revolutions through knowledge, through reason.

Not this.

Not stepping over the bodies of men who would never understand why they had died.

A voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"You don't look like a man who just won a battle."

Harsh turned to see the noblewoman dismounting her horse, her dark eyes sharp as ever. Unlike him, she showed no hesitation, no regret—only calculation.

"Isn't that the point?" he murmured. "To win?"

She studied him for a moment. "Winning is never the point. It's what comes after that matters."

He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "And what comes after?"

She smiled faintly. "The part that decides if all of this meant anything."

---

They returned to the capital the next day, greeted not by cheers of victory, but by whispers of suspicion.

The nobles had seen the battlefield. They had seen what Harsh's mind could do.

And they were afraid.

Harsh felt their stares at court, weighing him, measuring him.

He was no one in their eyes. A forgotten noble with no great lineage, no alliances, no real power.

Yet he had altered the course of a battle.

That alone made him dangerous.

The noblewoman's father sat in the center of the grand hall, his expression unreadable. Around him, his advisors murmured amongst themselves, their eyes darting toward Harsh like a pack of hounds eyeing fresh meat.

"The trebuchets worked," the old noble said finally, his voice carrying through the chamber. "Your strange methods… proved effective."

Harsh bowed slightly, saying nothing.

A different noble, older, sharper, leaned forward. "But war is not won by machines alone. Can this man be trusted with the future of this kingdom?"

The tension in the hall tightened.

Harsh knew this moment was crucial.

If he showed weakness, they would eat him alive.

He glanced toward the noblewoman. She gave him a single, unreadable look—a test, perhaps.

So he spoke.

"I do not ask for trust," Harsh said calmly. "Trust is given to those with lineage and name. I have neither. What I have is results."

Murmurs rippled through the chamber.

He continued.

"If you want tradition, look elsewhere. If you want victory, then you need what I can offer."

A silence stretched.

Then, to Harsh's surprise, the old noble chuckled.

"Well spoken," he mused. "It seems my daughter's faith in you was not misplaced."

Harsh flicked his gaze toward her. She remained impassive, her hands folded delicately before her.

She had expected this outcome.

She had maneuvered him into this position without him even realizing.

And suddenly, he saw the truth—

This war, these politics… it wasn't just about power for her.

It was survival.

She was playing a game where losing meant death.

And now, he was part of it.

---

Later that evening, Harsh found himself in the noblewoman's private chambers.

A dangerous place to be.

She poured wine into a goblet, her movements smooth, practiced. "You handled yourself well today."

Harsh took the goblet from her, watching her carefully. "You set me up for it."

She didn't deny it. "Of course. You needed to prove your worth. Now they see you as something useful."

Harsh exhaled. "And when I stop being useful?"

Her lips curved in a knowing smile. "Then I suggest you never stop."

He drank deeply, the wine burning down his throat. "What's your endgame in all of this?"

She tilted her head slightly. "You still don't understand, do you?"

Harsh set the goblet down. "Enlighten me."

She took a step closer. "You think you're fighting a war of ideas. A battle of science, innovation."

Her fingers traced the rim of her own goblet, her gaze never leaving his. "But you're wrong. The real war is one you don't even see."

Harsh narrowed his eyes.

"Then tell me," he said.

She leaned in, close enough that he could smell the faint trace of perfume, the warmth of her breath against his skin.

"In this world," she murmured, "men fight with swords."

She placed a hand lightly on his chest.

"But women fight with everything else."

And just like that, Harsh understood.

She had never been some powerless noble's daughter, waiting to be married off.

She had been shaping this war long before he arrived.

And now, he was in it with her.

The weight of that realization settled over him.

But for the first time, he wasn't sure if he wanted to escape it.