46. Weight of Gold

The sun lingered low on the horizon, casting long, blood-red shadows over the battlefield. The once-fertile plain was now a sea of corpses. The earth, torn and muddied with blood, bore the imprint of hoofprints and boot heels, now mixed with the scattered remnants of broken weapons and shattered shields.

Harsh sat on his horse at the crest of the hill, watching as the last vestiges of the enemy force scattered into the wilderness. His sword hung heavy in his hand, slick with blood that had already begun to darken. His gauntlets were crusted with dried gore, his cloak torn in three places, and the knuckles of his left hand were bloodied and raw from where he had struck down a man with his bare fist.

The battle was over. His forces had won.

But the air still reeked of death.

---

Bhairav rode up to him, his broad frame splattered with blood and filth. His beard was matted, and a fresh gash ran along his brow. His eyes were grim, but there was no triumph in them—only the dull, weary acceptance of another battle survived.

"They've broken," Bhairav rumbled, spitting the dirt from his mouth. His voice was hoarse from shouting commands. "Most fled into the hills. Some are surrendering."

Harsh stared down at the fleeing men, watching their tattered forms stumble away. He saw how some threw down their weapons and raised their hands, pleading for mercy. Others, too broken to fight or run, simply sank to their knees, staring at the ground.

"They will regroup," Harsh muttered. His voice was flat. "We can't let them."

Bhairav glanced at him, his expression darkening. "You want us to hunt them down?"

Harsh turned to him, his eyes hard. "Yes."

For a long moment, neither man spoke. Bhairav's jaw tightened slightly. His face was grim, but he gave a curt nod. Without another word, he turned his horse around and rode off, barking orders.

Moments later, groups of Harsh's cavalry rode out—merciless and swift. They pursued the fleeing enemy, cutting them down as they ran.

There would be no safe harbor for slavers. No mercy.

---

As the sun sank behind the hills, Harsh's soldiers began moving through the field, stripping the dead of valuables. Purses were cut from belts. Rings were pried from fingers. Horses were seized. It was a grim business, but necessary.

From the spoils of this battle alone, Harsh's forces would gain more than enough to replenish their dwindling supplies—food, weapons, and medicine. But the real wealth was not in coin or steel.

It was in the men and women they had freed.

Hundreds of captives—peasants, debt slaves, and prisoners—huddled together in the remnants of the enemy camp. Their clothing was ragged, their faces gaunt and hollow. Some of them wept silently. Others simply sat on the bloodied earth, staring blankly ahead, too numb to process their freedom.

Harsh dismounted, his boots sinking into the muddy soil, and approached the captives. When they saw him, some of them shrank back. Others lowered their eyes and bowed deeply, their bodies trembling.

The habit of subjugation ran deep. Even after their chains were broken, they bent their backs.

As Harsh walked among them, a frail old man with sunken cheeks and cloudy eyes shuffled forward, his hands trembling. His back was bent so low that he seemed half his height. With shaking hands, he reached out and clutched the hem of Harsh's cloak.

"Mercy… Lord," the man croaked, his voice hoarse and broken. His eyes were wide with fear. "Forgive… this wretched old man… please…"

Harsh froze.

For a brief moment, he could not breathe.

His chest tightened as he stared down at the man—this frail, skeletal remnant of a person. This man, old and weathered by time, was still terrified. Even freed from his captors, he bowed and begged for mercy out of habit.

Harsh knelt slowly. His bloodied gauntlet reached out and gently grasped the man's thin, trembling hand.

"You don't have to kneel," Harsh said softly, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "Not to me. Not to anyone."

The old man flinched slightly, confused by the kindness in Harsh's voice. He stared at him with watery eyes, unsure whether to trust him or not.

"Stand," Harsh said quietly. He gently but firmly helped the old man to his feet. His hands—once used to guiding instruments in a lab—were now rough with calluses, but still steady.

The old man's eyes widened in disbelief. His cracked lips parted slightly, as though he meant to speak, but no words came.

And then, slowly, other freed captives began to rise. One by one. First in scattered groups, then in droves. Their eyes, filled with fear and uncertainty, flickered toward Harsh.

And as they saw the warlord kneeling before a slave, they hesitated.

And then they, too, began to stand.

---

Vira approached slowly, her bow slung over her shoulder, her leather armor stained with blood. Her eyes moved across the gathered freedmen. She watched as the last chains were cut, and she saw the people slowly straightening their backs.

Her gaze shifted to Harsh. He was still kneeling before the old man, speaking softly. He was not giving a speech. He was not declaring himself a savior. He was simply speaking to a broken man with gentle sincerity.

She inhaled slowly, taking in the sight.

"You're a fool," she muttered under her breath.

But her lips curved slightly at the edges.

She could see the subtle shifts—the way the freedmen stared at Harsh, not with fear, but with uncertainty. And within that uncertainty, she saw the first glimmer of hope.

---

That evening, Harsh sat inside his makeshift command tent. The flap was open, allowing the faint light of the dying sun to filter in. The scent of smoke and blood still lingered in the air, but the battlefield was silent now.

He stared at the maps laid out before him, his eyes distant. The lines and markers were smudged with dirt and sweat. His gauntlets were still sticky with blood, but he had not bothered to remove them.

A sack of coin sat heavily on the table—the wealth they had claimed from the fallen. Enough to feed and supply his growing forces.

But Harsh's eyes were not on the coin.

They were on the crude ledger in his hand—a list of names hastily scrawled by one of his men. The names of the captives they had freed. Names of men and women whose faces he would never remember, but whose lives now rested in his hands.

He set the ledger down with a soft thud and exhaled heavily. His shoulders ached. His head throbbed faintly from lack of sleep.

And yet, he could not rest.

A faint rustle made him look up.

Vira stood in the entrance of the tent, her arms folded across her chest. She was still dressed in her battle garb, her hair loose and disheveled. There was blood beneath her fingernails.

She didn't speak at first. She simply studied him.

"Are you going to drown yourself in maps and coin all night?" she asked quietly.

Harsh's lips twitched faintly. A ghost of a smile.

"There's still much to be done," he muttered.

Vira's gaze was sharp, but she did not press him. She walked forward slowly, leaning down to pluck the bloodied gauntlet from his hand. She dropped it onto the table with a heavy thud.

"Then you can do it with clean hands," she murmured softly.

Her eyes met his briefly. She lingered only for a moment, then turned and left without another word.

Harsh sat there in the fading light, his fingers curling faintly around the edge of the map.

And as the last light of day faded into darkness, he allowed himself a brief, weary exhale.

He was still far from victory. But for the first time, he allowed himself to believe that perhaps it was possible.

---