25. Forging the first blade

The crisp morning air carried the distant sounds of a city waking up—merchants shouting their wares, the clatter of wooden wheels on uneven streets, and the occasional neigh of a restless horse. But within the walls of Harsh's newly fortified estate, a different kind of awakening was taking place.

Harsh stood in the courtyard, watching as a dozen men tested their strength against wooden dummies. They moved with purpose, but their strikes lacked discipline. These were not soldiers, not yet. They were laborers, former gladiators, and outcasts—men who had never wielded a blade with precision, only desperation.

He turned to the scarred fighter, whom the others had taken to calling Vira. The man had proven himself time and again in the pit, his raw aggression making up for his lack of formal training. If anyone could whip this ragtag group into something resembling an army, it was him.

"They're eager," Harsh admitted. "But eagerness alone won't win battles."

Vira smirked. "You don't say? Half of them still grip a sword like they're holding a damn plow."

Harsh ran a hand through his hair, thinking. He had no illusions—his men weren't going to outmatch trained soldiers in head-to-head combat, at least not yet. But they didn't need to. Not if he played this right.

"Then let's change how they fight," he said. "We don't need brute strength alone. We need speed, unpredictability. We need to fight smarter."

Vira folded his arms. "You have something in mind?"

Harsh nodded. "Follow me."

He led Vira to a small forge at the far end of the courtyard. Sparks flew as a blacksmith hammered away at molten steel, shaping what looked like an ordinary blade. But this was no ordinary weapon.

Harsh picked up a prototype—a short, curved blade, lighter than the traditional swords used by the noble warriors. Its design was inspired by something he had once read about in a military history book—a weapon that could be wielded quickly, slashing before an enemy even had time to react.

"This," Harsh said, turning the blade in his hand, "is the weapon of our army."

Vira took the sword and tested its balance. "Lighter than I expected," he muttered. He slashed the air a few times, testing its movement. A slow grin spread across his face. "Fast. Deadly. You're thinking ambush tactics."

Harsh nodded. "The nobles train for honorable combat—heavy armor, long engagements, formations. We won't give them that luxury. We hit fast, disappear before they can retaliate. We bleed them little by little, until they're too weak to fight back."

Vira's grin widened. "I like it. But training a man to fight like this… it'll take time."

Harsh exhaled. "We start small. Give me twenty men. We train them until they can kill before a noble warrior even realizes they're in danger. Then we send them out."

Vira nodded. "And if the nobles find out before we're ready?"

Harsh's eyes darkened. "Then we make sure that by the time they understand what's happening, it's already too late."

---

By the time the sun reached its peak, Harsh had divided his recruits into two groups. One would train in the use of his newly designed weapons, while the other would focus on survival tactics—stealth, ambush techniques, and quick escapes.

The noble class relied on superiority, believing that no peasant could ever rise against them. Harsh intended to prove them wrong.

Among the recruits, one figure stood out—not because of his strength, but because of the quiet confidence with which he carried himself. He was lean, with sharp eyes that missed nothing. Harsh approached him.

"What's your name?"

The man inclined his head slightly. "Surya."

"You move differently than the others."

Surya smiled faintly. "I was a scout in a noble's army. Until I saw what they did to the villages they conquered."

Harsh studied him. "And what do you want now?"

"To be on the right side of history," Surya said simply.

Harsh nodded. "Then prove it. Train these men in what you know. Stealth, sabotage. If you're lying, I'll know soon enough."

Surya only smiled again. "I don't plan to disappoint."

---

As night fell, Harsh was preparing to review supply reports when a soft knock came at his chamber door. He frowned. No one disturbed him at this hour unless it was urgent.

"Enter."

The door creaked open, revealing not a soldier or a strategist—but her.

The noblewoman.

She stepped inside with the quiet grace of someone who had spent a lifetime moving through dangerous courts. The flickering light of the oil lamp cast sharp shadows on her face, accentuating her calculating gaze.

"You're not an easy man to find," she said.

Harsh leaned back in his chair. "I wasn't hiding."

She arched an eyebrow. "No? Then perhaps you should be. There are whispers in the capital about a forgotten noble who is gathering men, training them in ways that make the ruling class… uncomfortable."

Harsh studied her carefully. "And what does that mean for you?"

She took a slow step forward. "It means you are playing a dangerous game, and I am trying to decide whether I should watch from the sidelines… or place my bet on you."

A tense silence hung between them.

"You already know who I am," Harsh said. "You knew the moment you saw me fight in the pit."

Her lips curved slightly. "I suspected. Now I am certain."

Harsh exhaled. "And? Will you report me to your father?"

She met his gaze evenly. "Not yet. Not unless you give me a reason to."

He tilted his head. "And if I don't?"

"Then I will see how far this goes." She stepped even closer, lowering her voice. "You are different from the nobles I know. You think beyond power—you seek something more. That intrigues me."

Harsh smirked. "Intrigue is dangerous."

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "So is ambition. Yet here we are."

For a long moment, neither spoke. The air between them was thick with unspoken possibilities.

Then she turned toward the door. "Be careful, Harsh. You are moving pieces on a board that has existed long before you. The wrong move, and you will be swallowed whole."

She left without another word, leaving only the faint scent of jasmine in her wake.

Harsh stared at the empty doorway.

He was no fool. He knew she was dangerous.

But for the first time in a long while, he wondered if danger could also be an ally.

And perhaps… something more.

---