21. Answer for people in shadows

The air in the noblewoman's chamber was thick with unspoken words. Harsh sat in silence, his fingers still sticky with the assassin's blood.

He had been in life-threatening situations before—but not like this. Not where death came silently in the night, with no honor, no warning, just a whisper of steel in the dark.

This was not war. This was assassination.

And if someone had already decided to kill him, it meant he had truly entered the game.

The noblewoman studied him from across the chamber. She was dressed in loose silks, her hair unbound, but there was nothing vulnerable about her. She had expected this.

Harsh finally exhaled. "Who do you think sent him?"

She took a slow sip of her wine. "Who didn't?"

Harsh frowned. "That's not an answer."

She smirked. "No, it's just the reality of your situation." She set her goblet down and leaned forward. "You embarrassed a noble in front of an entire court. You demonstrated strength that should be impossible for a man of your standing. You exist as a contradiction in a world that values rigid order."

Her gaze sharpened. "They won't tolerate contradictions, Harsh."

He felt a cold weight settle in his chest. She was right.

And yet…

"They didn't send their best," he muttered.

The noblewoman's expression darkened. "No."

"That means they wanted to see how I'd react first."

She nodded. "This was a test."

Harsh exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. His mind was already shifting, calculating. If this was only a test, it meant he had time—time to prepare before the next strike.

But how much?

And more importantly—who had truly pulled the strings?

The noblewoman watched him carefully. "I assume you don't plan to wait for the next knife in the dark."

Harsh's lips curled slightly. "No."

"Then what will you do?"

He met her gaze. "I'm going to send a message."

---

The next morning, the city woke to an unusual sight.

The assassin's body had not been quietly discarded in the river, as was custom. It had not been buried in the slums, unmarked and forgotten.

Instead, Harsh had it displayed.

Not strung up as a warning, but laid out in a proper warrior's burial.

His body was wrapped in clean linens, placed on a pyre in the marketplace square. A brazier was lit nearby, its flame waiting.

People gathered in murmuring clusters, their eyes flicking between the body and the man responsible for its death.

Harsh stood beside the pyre, arms crossed, gaze steady.

"This man," he called out, his voice carrying over the murmurs, "was sent to kill me."

Silence.

He let that sink in.

"But he was still a warrior. He still lived and died by his duty."

A pause.

Then, he picked up the torch and set the pyre alight himself.

The flames roared to life, consuming the body in a bright, hungry blaze.

He turned back to the gathered people. "The next man they send won't be given this honor."

And with that, he walked away.

---

The noblewoman found him later that evening.

"You made a spectacle," she remarked.

Harsh smirked. "I sent a message."

She tilted her head. "And do you think they understood it?"

He exhaled. "That depends. Did they expect me to react with fear?"

She nodded.

"Then they got their answer."

The noblewoman watched him for a long moment.

Then, she did something unexpected.

She smiled.

Not the sharp, knowing smirk she usually wore. Something smaller. Quieter.

"You might actually survive this, Harsh."

He met her gaze. "And you?"

Her smile faded slightly. "I suppose that depends."

"On what?"

She picked up a goblet, turning it slowly between her fingers.

"On whether you become someone worth following."

Harsh studied her. This was the closest she had come to offering true support.

He didn't know her true motives yet, but one thing was clear—she was watching him. Testing him.

And for now, that was enough.