34. Weight of Victory

The sun bled over the horizon, painting the sky in a mixture of soft amber and cruel crimson. The battlefield was still. Silent, except for the occasional groan of the wounded and the labored breathing of the survivors. The once fertile soil was now stained with blood, trampled by boots and splattered with the remnants of battle.

The villagers moved among the dead with trembling hands, dragging the bodies of their kin into makeshift rows. No one spoke. The only sounds were the crackle of smoldering torches and the occasional stifled sob of a grieving family member.

Harsh stood on the edge of the field, his hands bloodied to the wrists. The weight of his sword seemed heavier than before. He stared at the faces of the men who had stood by him only hours ago—men who had listened to his words and trusted him. Now, their eyes were vacant, their mouths slightly open, as if still caught mid-breath when death had struck them.

Adesh's body lay among the fallen.

Harsh knelt beside the young man, gently brushing away the dirt clinging to his face. Adesh's expression was twisted into a grimace—half defiance, half surprise—as if he had still believed, in his final moment, that he could fight through the pain.

Vira approached silently, her face hard. She carried her helmet under her arm, her tunic stained with blood—both hers and the enemy's. She stopped beside him, watching him for a moment before speaking.

"You can't keep doing this," she said quietly. "You lead them into battles they are not ready for. You're going to lose them all."

Harsh's jaw clenched. "I didn't ask them to fight."

Her voice hardened. "But they did. For you."

He exhaled sharply, looking away from Adesh's body. His voice was low, almost a whisper. "I wanted them to fight for themselves. Not for me."

Vira knelt beside him, her dark eyes steady. "It doesn't matter what you wanted. They followed you. They bled for you. That makes them yours now. Whether you like it or not."

The words hung between them. Heavy. True.

---

The villagers dug shallow graves just beyond the field. There were too many bodies to burn, and they had neither the resources nor the time for proper pyres. The dirt was hard and unyielding, forcing their crude shovels and calloused hands to work slowly.

Harsh worked alongside them. He did not stand aside and let them bury the dead. He carried the bodies himself. The villagers, seeing their leader covered in sweat and blood, laboring with them, grew quiet. Some of them glanced at each other, unsure whether to feel encouraged or disheartened.

By the time the final body was laid to rest, the sun was sinking again. Harsh stood by the graves, his eyes fixed on the uneven rows of fresh soil.

The villagers gathered, weary but expectant. They were waiting for him to speak—to say something, anything that would make sense of the horror they had just endured.

Harsh turned to them, his voice hoarse but steady.

"You will be asked to fight again," he said, his eyes hard. "Some of you will die. And when you do, the nobles will tell the survivors that you were foolish, that you were wrong to stand. They will call you traitors, criminals, heretics."

His gaze swept over the crowd.

"They will call you this because they are afraid of you."

A murmur passed through the villagers. Some clenched their fists. Others lowered their heads, their eyes hollow with grief.

"You have already won more than they ever believed you could," Harsh continued. "You were meant to kneel. You were meant to bow. And instead, you stood."

His voice dropped, softer now, but filled with resolve.

"And if you keep standing, you will break them."

There was no roar of defiance. No applause or cheering.

But the silence that followed was louder than any war cry.

---

That night, Harsh sat alone in his tent, cleaning his sword with slow, deliberate movements. His hands were still shaky from the battle, but he refused to let them stop.

There was a quiet knock on the wooden beam by the entrance.

"Come in," he muttered.

The tent flap shifted, and Bhairav entered. His leather armor was still covered in soot and blood, his hair slicked back with sweat. His eyes were sharp, calculating, as he moved toward the table and dropped a heavy leather pouch onto it.

Gold coins spilled across the surface.

Harsh glanced at them without interest. "Where did you get that?"

Bhairav smirked faintly. "From the enemy. They brought payment for their mercenaries. The bastards didn't live long enough to spend it."

Harsh picked up one of the coins, turning it over between his fingers. The metal was heavy, smooth. The mark of a minor noble stamped into its surface.

He stared at the coin for a long moment, considering.

"You can buy a lot with this," Bhairav said carefully. "Food, horses, armor." He paused. "Loyalty."

Harsh's eyes narrowed slightly.

Bhairav's voice lowered. "I know what you're thinking. But you'll need men. Real men. Not farmers with sticks. Soldiers. And soldiers don't fight for ideals." His eyes flicked toward the gold. "They fight for coin."

Harsh's jaw tightened. He knew Bhairav was right.

No matter how much the villagers believed in his cause, belief would not hold the line forever. Not when the nobles came with trained warriors, with steel and war horses and strategies.

He slowly poured the gold back into the pouch and tied it shut. His hands were steady now.

---

By morning, Harsh rode to the nearby village of Rannapet with Bhairav and a small group of men. The village was smaller than his own, with only a few dozen thatched huts and a single crude stone temple. It had no walls and no garrison.

But it did have a blacksmith.

The man was middle-aged, heavyset with thick arms and soot-blackened hands. His beard was knotted and gray, and he regarded Harsh and his men with wary eyes.

"We've nothing to sell," the blacksmith said curtly, eyeing the weapons strapped to their backs. "Bandits came last week. Took the lot."

Harsh dismounted slowly, holding the pouch of gold at his side.

"I'm not here to take anything," he said evenly. "I'm here to buy."

The blacksmith's eyes narrowed.

Harsh walked to the forge, glancing at the barrels of scrap iron and half-forged blades. "You make weapons?"

The blacksmith snorted. "For the nobles? Sometimes."

Harsh nodded. "Then make them for me."

The man blinked, caught off guard. "You want to buy weapons?"

"No," Harsh said calmly. "I want to hire you." He tossed the pouch of gold onto the table. The blacksmith's eyes widened slightly at the weight of it.

"You'll make iron-tipped spears, reinforced shields, and better armor for my men," Harsh continued. "You'll teach my smiths everything you know."

The blacksmith's gaze flicked from the pouch to Harsh, uncertainty in his eyes. "You're no noble. You can't afford that."

Harsh smiled faintly. "You're right. I'm no noble." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "But you and I both know how easily nobles die."

For the first time, the blacksmith's lips curved into the ghost of a smile.

---

That night, Harsh stood at the edge of the village, watching the stars. The air was cold and sharp, carrying the faint scent of blood and burnt wood from the battlefield.

Vira approached him from behind, her arms crossed. "You're quiet tonight."

Harsh stared at the dark horizon. "I was just thinking."

She raised a brow. "About what?"

He exhaled slowly, turning to look at her.

"That it's not enough to make them fight," he said softly. "I have to make them believe they can win."

Vira's eyes softened, just slightly.

And for the first time in a long while, she felt something she hadn't expected.

Hope.