40. Blood and Oaths

The sun had barely begun to rise, but the men were already awake. The camp stirred with the low rumble of boots, the clank of steel, and the dull thud of hammer against iron. Smoke from the forges drifted in slow, heavy plumes over the camp, darkening the edges of the dawn. The chill of the morning clung to the earth, but the men no longer felt it.

They moved with the steady, purposeful discipline of soldiers—no longer farmers, no longer peasants. Their armor was still rough, their blades crude, but their eyes were sharp.

And their hands no longer trembled when they gripped their swords.

Harsh stood at the center of the camp, his arms crossed over his chest. He was dressed in leather and mail, his cloak slung loosely over his shoulders. His bruises had faded, but his hands still bore the faint scars of the last battle—scrapes across his knuckles, scabs where his skin had split.

But he felt none of it.

The weight of his sword on his hip was familiar now. His limbs, once heavy with exhaustion, now moved with a steady, hardened strength. The twice-strong physique that he had been blessed with had become part of him. His strides were longer, his grip firmer, and his blows deadlier.

But he knew it wasn't strength alone that kept the men following him.

It was conviction.

And now, it was time to feed it.

---

Bhairav approached, his arms folded tightly over his chest. His armor was streaked with soot from working at the forge alongside the men. Sweat gleamed on his brow despite the morning chill, and his expression was grim.

"They're ready," he muttered.

Harsh's eyes narrowed slightly. He glanced past Bhairav's shoulder toward the eastern ridge where the men stood, arranged in neat columns. Their boots were caked with mud, their weapons still dulled with the grime of the last battle.

But they stood tall.

Silent.

Unyielding.

Harsh exhaled slowly.

He ran his hand over the hilt of his sword once before striding forward.

The men straightened as he approached. A few shifted their grips on their spears. Others bowed their heads slightly in silent respect. But none knelt. Not anymore.

And he was glad for it.

Harsh stopped before them. His gaze swept over the assembled faces—hardened and worn, streaked with soot and blood. But there was no fear in their eyes.

Only fire.

He let the silence stretch, holding their gaze. Letting them feel the weight of it.

Then he spoke.

"Two weeks ago," he said quietly, his voice steady, "you were farmers."

He paused. His eyes narrowed slightly, holding their gaze.

"Now, you are soldiers."

The men stiffened slightly, their grips tightening on their weapons.

"You bled," Harsh continued. His voice was cold, sharp. "You fought. You killed. And when they came for you with fire and steel, you did not break."

His eyes scanned the rows.

"And when they come again, you will not break."

He drew his sword slowly from its scabbard, the steel glinting faintly in the morning light.

"Because you are not peasants anymore," he said quietly.

His voice was soft, almost a whisper.

"You are mine."

The men's eyes burned.

And they roared.

---

By midday, the camp had settled into a steady rhythm. The soldiers sparred in pairs, the clang of steel ringing through the air. The blacksmiths worked the forges, pouring sweat into their craft. Others repaired the wooden palisade or carried barrels of water from the river.

But the steady rhythm was interrupted when the sentries spotted dust rising on the horizon.

Krishan came rushing into the command tent, his eyes sharp.

"Riders," he barked. "Ten. Maybe more."

Harsh rose slowly from his chair, adjusting the vambrace on his forearm. His eyes narrowed slightly.

"Colors?" he asked evenly.

Krishan shook his head. "None."

Harsh's lips thinned slightly. He strapped his sword to his hip and followed Krishan toward the ridgeline.

As he approached, he could see the riders clearly—a group of grim-faced men in weathered armor, their horses caked with mud from hard riding.

No banners.

No sigils.

Just men.

Bhairav strode up beside him, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Mercenaries?" he muttered darkly.

Harsh's eyes narrowed.

"No," he murmured. "Worse."

The riders reined in their horses just beyond the edge of the camp, their eyes sharp and wary. The man at the head of the group dismounted first. He was tall and lean, his beard streaked with gray. His armor was old but well-made—a relic of better days.

A forgotten noble.

The man's eyes swept over the encampment—the disciplined rows of soldiers, the iron in their eyes. His lips pressed into a thin line.

He was no fool.

He could see what Harsh had built.

When he met Harsh's gaze, there was no condescension. No derision.

Only cold, calculating recognition.

"You're Harsh," the man said, his voice low and rough.

It was not a question.

Harsh met his gaze steadily.

"I am."

The noble's eyes narrowed slightly. He took a slow step forward, removing one gauntlet. His hand was calloused and scarred.

"I came," he said evenly, "to bend the knee."

There was a faint ripple of movement through the soldiers at Harsh's back. A few of them stiffened slightly. Others murmured under their breath.

Bhairav's hand tensed on his sword hilt. His jaw tightened.

But Harsh's eyes remained cold.

He took a slow step forward, his boots crunching softly on the gravel.

"You will not kneel," he said softly.

The noble's eyes narrowed slightly. "What?"

Harsh's voice was steady.

"No man will kneel to me," he said quietly. "Not you. Not them."

The noble stared at him, frowning slightly.

And then, slowly, he nodded.

He extended his hand instead.

Not in submission.

But in allegiance.

Harsh clasped it tightly, his grip firm.

The noble's lips curled faintly into the barest hint of a smile.

"Then you have my sword," he murmured.

And behind him, the others dismounted.

And one by one, they stepped forward.

Not to kneel.

But to offer their hands.

---

By the time the sun set, the noblemen and their retainers had been welcomed into the camp. The soldiers watched them warily at first, but slowly, the tension eased.

Around the fire, Harsh sat with the noble leader—his name was Raghunath. He was a former lord whose lands had been seized by rival nobles and whose family had been slaughtered.

He spoke softly but firmly.

"There are more," he said quietly, his voice low. "Others like me. Nobles who have nothing left. Who would see the old order burn."

Harsh's eyes narrowed slightly.

Raghunath leaned forward.

"They will come," he murmured. "If you will have them."

Harsh's fingers curled lightly around the hilt of his sword. His eyes were sharp, cold.

And he nodded once.

"Let them come."

---

That night, the fires burned high. The soldiers sat in clusters around the camp, sharpening their blades and oiling their armor. The nobles sat with them—not as masters, but as brothers-in-arms.

And above the camp, a new banner was raised.

Black as the night.

No sigil.

No crown.

Only darkness.

The mark of no lord.

No king.

Only iron.

And the men who wielded it.

---