33. Crack in foundation

The village was changing.

Not in an obvious way—not yet—but the shift was there, like the slow build-up of pressure before a storm. It was in the way people spoke, in the cautious questions they asked each other when they thought no one was listening. It was in the way they looked at Harsh—not just as an outsider, not as a noble, but as something else entirely. A possibility. A threat. A crack in the dam that had held for generations.

But if there was one truth about people, it was this—change was not easy.

And sometimes, it was terrifying.

---

The village square was packed with more people than Harsh had ever seen in one place. Every able-bodied man and woman had come, drawn by whispers that something important was about to be said.

Harsh stood in the center, his arms folded, his expression unreadable. He had not called them here for an easy discussion. This was the moment where the future would be decided—not by him, but by them.

Keshav, one of the village elders, stepped forward. His face was lined with years of hard work, his hands thick with callouses earned through labor. He was a man respected by all, a living embodiment of tradition.

"You are asking us to become something we are not," Keshav said, his voice steady but cautious. "You speak of freedom, of change, but freedom is dangerous. Our ancestors lived this way for generations. Who are we to think we know better?"

A younger voice cut in.

Adesh, a farmer's son barely past twenty, stepped forward with clenched fists. "And what has that given us, Keshav? Generations of servitude? We work the land, but we do not own it. We fight their wars, but we gain nothing. You speak of tradition as if it protects us—but who does it really serve?"

Keshav turned his gaze to the younger man. "You think rebellion will solve everything? You think nobles will suddenly see us as equals?"

Harsh watched as the two men stared each other down, one the voice of tradition, the other the voice of frustration.

And then, he finally spoke.

"Keshav," Harsh said, his voice cutting through the tension. "You say this is how it has always been. That change is dangerous. That we must know our place. But tell me—what have you gained from obedience?"

Keshav hesitated.

"Do the nobles reward your loyalty?" Harsh continued. "Do they grant you more land? Lower your taxes? Do they let your children live in peace?"

Silence.

Harsh's voice hardened. "No. They take. And they tell you it is right. That it is fate."

Keshav exhaled slowly. "And what if it is?"

Harsh stepped forward. "Then let me be wrong. But let me fight for something greater than another man's wealth."

A hush fell over the square.

It wasn't agreement—not yet. But it was a crack in the foundation.

And that was enough.

---

That night, Harsh sat outside his tent, staring at the flames of a small fire. He was alone—almost.

Vira approached, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

"You did well today," she said.

Harsh smirked. "You almost sound impressed."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't get used to it."

He leaned back against the tree behind him. "They won't change overnight."

"They won't change at all if you die before they listen," she replied bluntly. "Do you realize what you're doing? The nobles won't sit idle while you challenge everything they stand for."

Harsh met her gaze. "Good."

Vira sighed. "You really don't know fear, do you?"

He exhaled. "I do. But I fear regret more."

She didn't answer right away. But she didn't leave either.

And that, Harsh knew, meant more than words.

---

The next morning, Harsh stood before the villagers once more.

This time, he did not ask them to listen.

He asked them to choose.

"To those who wish to remain as they are," he said, "I will not stop you. But to those who wish to fight for a life where you are more than tools for another man's war—step forward."

One by one, they did.

Not all. Not even most.

But enough.

And as Harsh looked upon those who had chosen a different path, he knew—

This was just the beginning.

---

That night, as Harsh and his closest supporters discussed their next steps, a scout arrived, breathless and pale.

"My lord," the man gasped, bowing his head. "Riders approach from the north. Armed."

Harsh's jaw tightened.

The nobles had noticed.

Vira grabbed her sword. "They're here to crush you before you can become a real threat."

Harsh turned to the villagers who had chosen to stand by him. Their faces were filled with uncertainty, with fear. Some clutched weapons—old, rusted spears, makeshift clubs. Others had nothing but their hands.

They were not soldiers.

But if they ran now, they would never be free.

Harsh stepped forward, his voice carrying over the gathered crowd. "Listen to me. They come to remind you of your place. To remind you that you are nothing but workers, nothing but tools."

His gaze swept over them, holding each of their eyes.

"But they are wrong."

He pulled a sword from his belt and drove it into the ground before him.

"We stand together, or we fall alone. If you wish to leave, do so now. But if you stay, if you fight, you fight not for me. You fight for yourselves."

A heavy silence followed.

Then—

Adesh stepped forward. He was the first. He knelt beside the sword, gripping its hilt.

Then another man followed.

And another.

Until every man who had stepped forward that morning now stood beside him.

Harsh turned to Vira. "We fight."

She smirked. "I was hoping you'd say that."

---

The battle was not a glorious thing.

It was desperation, it was blood, it was the raw clash of steel and flesh under the pale moonlight. The villagers were not trained warriors, but they were fighting for something the nobles' men did not have—belief.

Harsh fought among them, his sword cutting through the enemy ranks. His twice-strong body made him faster, deadlier, able to take hits that would have killed an ordinary man. But even he could not protect them all.

Men died.

Not just nameless faces, but those he had spoken to. Those who had laughed in the evenings, who had shared their fears in hushed whispers.

Harsh did not allow himself to grieve.

Not yet.

By the time dawn broke, the nobles' men were dead or had fled.

But the cost was heavy.

Harsh knelt beside Adesh's broken body, his fingers curling into fists. The young man had stood for something greater. And he had paid for it.

Vira placed a hand on Harsh's shoulder. "This won't be the last time."

He knew.

But that did not make it easier.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, turning to those who remained.

They were fewer now.

But they had won.

And for the first time, the nobles had something to fear.

---