35. A storm

The morning sun rose over the blood-soaked soil of Harsh's growing domain. The battlefield was behind them, but the scars of it clung to the villagers—visible in their eyes, in the way they moved slower, more deliberately. The fresh graves on the outskirts of the village had become a grim reminder of the price they had paid for defiance.

But the price had been worth it.

For the first time, they had not only fought—they had won.

And now, Harsh would give them something even more powerful than victory.

He would give them purpose.

---

By midday, Harsh stood before the villagers once more. But this time, the crowd was different.

The farmers and laborers were still there, yes, their hands still rough with callouses from plowing fields and mending fences. But now, there were others—strangers. Mercenaries who had once fought for the nobles but were now leaderless, having fled their former masters. The scent of gold and survival had drawn them like flies to blood.

And there were refugees, too. Men who had fled their own villages after they had been seized or burned. Their eyes were hollow and sharp, faces lean from hunger. But their backs were still strong. Their hands still capable of wielding iron.

Bhairav stood at Harsh's side, arms crossed, eyes sharp as he observed the gathering.

"You've made quite the impression," Bhairav murmured under his breath, smirking faintly. "They're not just here for gold anymore."

Harsh's eyes narrowed slightly, scanning the crowd.

"They're here to see if I'm worth following," he replied grimly.

Vira approached from the opposite side, her sword belted at her hip, her armor freshly polished. The villagers glanced at her with reverence—a sight that had once been filled with suspicion now earned her nods of respect.

She stopped beside Harsh, her voice low. "How many will you arm?"

"All of them," Harsh said without hesitation.

She arched a brow. "Even the mercenaries? You trust them that easily?"

"No," Harsh admitted. His eyes remained fixed on the crowd. "But I don't need them to be loyal."

Her gaze narrowed slightly. "Then what do you need them to be?"

He glanced at her, his expression unreadable.

"Useful."

---

The blacksmith from Rannapet, Krishan, was already at work by the time Harsh led the crowd to the hastily expanded forge. Sweat glistened on the man's brow as he swung the hammer down on a glowing strip of iron, the clang of metal against metal filling the morning air. Sparks scattered around him like fireflies.

When he saw Harsh approach, Krishan wiped his hands on his soot-blackened apron and gave a curt nod.

"They came," the blacksmith said simply, jerking his chin toward the crowd. His eyes were sharp, assessing the rough-looking men and worn farmers.

Harsh turned toward the villagers, his voice steady but firm.

"If you are here for gold, you will have it," he said, letting the pouch of coins thud heavily onto the anvil. "But if you are here for freedom—then you will earn it."

He stepped forward, eyes sweeping over the crowd.

"Every able-bodied man will take up iron," he declared. "You will learn to fight, not as farmers swinging sticks but as soldiers. With discipline, with steel, and with purpose."

Krishan's voice cut in, gravel-rough. "You'll need more than iron," he grunted, holding up a partially-forged spearhead. "You'll need protection. Better shields, reinforced chest plates. If you're putting them on the field again, they'll need more than iron-tipped sticks."

Harsh nodded slowly. His fingers brushed against the pommel of his sword as he considered the blacksmith's words.

"Then we make armor," he said firmly. "Enough for every man who will fight."

Bhairav let out a low whistle. "Armor for hundreds of peasants? That'll take months."

Harsh turned to the blacksmith. "How much faster can you work with twice the hands?"

Krishan narrowed his eyes. "Three times faster."

Harsh turned back to the villagers. "I need thirty men to work the forge," he called out. "Not fighters. Smiths. Leatherworkers. Anyone who has ever bent iron or stitched a seam."

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then, slowly, a few hands rose. A handful at first—then more. Farmers who had once repaired their own plows, tailors who had stitched armor for nobles' men. They stepped forward, uncertain but willing.

Krishan's lips curved into a faint grin. He grabbed one of the men by the arm and shoved him toward the forge. "Pick up a hammer," he grunted. "I'll make a smith out of you by nightfall."

---

Beyond the forge, Harsh gathered the remaining men into the clearing. The villagers and mercenaries stood in uneven rows, their eyes wary, their hands unfamiliar with the weapons they now held. Some clutched spears awkwardly. Others handled their swords with the clumsy grip of men who had never held anything sharper than a sickle.

Harsh paced before them, his sharp eyes scanning their hesitant faces.

"You've fought before," he said, his voice carrying over the field. "But not like this."

He drew his sword slowly, deliberately, letting the steel catch the light.

"Your weapons will not win you battles," he said sharply. "Your strength won't either. You'll win with discipline. With unity."

He turned to Bhairav, who stood by the makeshift training racks, inspecting a row of wooden shields.

"Form ranks," Harsh ordered.

Bhairav nodded and barked the command. "Form up! Four rows! Move!"

The men shuffled into position, clumsy and disorganized. Shields overlapped unevenly, spears dipped at inconsistent angles.

Harsh's eyes hardened.

"Again," he ordered coldly. "Tighter this time."

The men exchanged confused glances but followed the command. The formation closed in slightly, but still left wide gaps.

Harsh walked through the lines, shoving the shields of two men together with a sharp motion.

"No space," he growled. "Your enemies will find the gaps before you do. Close them."

He turned back to Bhairav.

"Spears forward."

Bhairav barked the order. "Spears forward!"

The men raised their spears, but the lines wavered.

Harsh's jaw tightened.

He strode down the line, striking his sword against the shaft of a spear, sending it flying from the man's hands.

The soldier blinked in shock.

"If your grip is weak, you'll be dead before you even see the man who kills you," Harsh snapped.

He grabbed the man's trembling hands and positioned them properly. "Like this. Firm. Steady."

The man nodded, eyes wide with understanding.

One by one, Harsh moved through the ranks, correcting grips, adjusting stances. He struck shields with his own sword to test their strength, driving the men backward and forcing them to brace.

Hours passed. The sun burned overhead, and still Harsh drilled them. Sweat dripped from their faces, and their legs ached from holding their stances. But gradually, slowly, they improved.

The lines became tighter. The shields steadier. The spears sharper.

And for the first time, they did not look like farmers with weapons.

They looked like soldiers.

---

As the sun dipped low, Harsh stood before the men once more. His own shirt was damp with sweat, his chest rising and falling steadily. His voice, though raspy from hours of commands, was filled with certainty.

"You are no longer farmers," he said firmly. "You are no longer servants."

He drew his sword and drove it into the earth at his feet.

"You are the sword that will break this kingdom."

The men stared at him, some breathing heavily, others wiping sweat from their eyes.

And then, slowly, one of them struck the butt of his spear against the ground.

The sound echoed sharply.

Then another did the same.

And another.

Until the entire clearing rang with the rhythm of iron striking earth.

And Harsh knew—the storm he had been forging was only beginning to gather.

---