47. Scars of servitude

The camp was restless. Even after the fires were lit and the battlefield was cleared, the unease lingered like a specter in the cold night air. The acrid scent of burnt wood and drying blood clung stubbornly to the wind. The cries of the wounded still echoed faintly from the healer's tents, each pained voice a reminder of the cost of victory.

Harsh sat by one of the smaller fires near the edge of the camp, a worn woolen cloak draped over his shoulders. His hands were still stained faintly with blood, though most of it had been washed away. His tunic was torn at the sleeve, exposing a shallow gash that had already begun to crust over.

A small iron pot simmered over the flames, filling the air with the faint scent of boiling herbs. His eyes were fixed on the fire, but his mind was elsewhere.

---

Across the camp, the freed captives huddled together in clusters. They were clothed in rags, their faces sunken with exhaustion and hunger. Though they had been given food and blankets, many of them sat apart from the soldiers—silent, withdrawn.

Some still bowed when a soldier approached. Others kept their eyes low, unsure of whether they were truly free or if this was simply another cruel trick.

Harsh's eyes flicked toward them, observing their small, nervous movements—the way they still whispered quietly, hesitant to speak aloud, as if fearing punishment. He saw the way they instinctively stepped aside when a man-at-arms walked past, lowering their eyes and shrinking back.

They were still afraid.

Even free, they did not know how to be free.

A faint voice stirred him from his thoughts.

"Commander," a soldier approached quietly, saluting with a brief bow. "One of the freedmen wishes to speak with you."

Harsh glanced up, surprised. The captives had barely spoken since the battle. Most avoided his gaze altogether.

He rose slowly, his cloak shifting around his shoulders, and gestured for the man to lead him.

---

A Voice From the Dust

The soldier led Harsh to a cluster of captives near one of the larger fires. As he approached, the group stirred uneasily. Several of the men instinctively lowered their heads, and one of the women clutched a child closer to her chest.

But one man stepped forward.

He was lean and wiry, with a face that was prematurely aged by hardship. His skin was weathered and darkened by years in the sun. His clothes were little more than tattered rags. His bare feet were cracked and raw.

But his eyes were sharp and steady.

He knelt quickly, lowering his head. "My lord," he rasped, his voice hoarse from thirst. "Forgive me for speaking out of turn."

Harsh's brow furrowed. His hands slowly clenched into fists.

"Stand," he said quietly.

The man's head lifted slightly, but he did not rise. His back remained bowed, his posture submissive.

Harsh's eyes hardened. His voice came sharper this time.

"Stand," he repeated.

The man hesitated, glancing toward the other freedmen. His eyes were uncertain. When he slowly rose to his feet, his shoulders remained hunched, and his head bowed slightly. It was as if his body had forgotten how to stand tall.

Harsh stepped closer. "You are free," he said softly, but firmly. "You don't have to bow anymore."

The man's eyes flickered upward, briefly meeting Harsh's gaze. His expression was a strange mix of disbelief and confusion, as if he did not quite understand the words.

"You… freed us," the man said quietly, his voice thick with uncertainty. "And you… speak to us like…"

"Like people?" Harsh finished for him.

The man stared at him for a long moment. His fingers twitched faintly.

Then, he slowly shook his head. "No… my lord. Like equals."

Harsh felt his chest tighten slightly.

The man's lips trembled faintly as he spoke, as though the very notion of equality were too dangerous to say aloud.

---

As Harsh turned back to the crowd of freed captives, he realized just how deeply the scars of servitude were etched into them. Even without shackles, they were still bound—by fear, by tradition, and by the beliefs that had been drilled into them since birth.

These were people who had been told their entire lives that their suffering was their duty—that it was the natural order.

And now that the chains were gone, they did not know what to do with their empty wrists.

He moved slowly among them, stopping by small groups, sitting by their fires. He spoke softly, asking their names, their villages, their families.

Some could not even answer.

A woman with hollow eyes simply stared at him blankly when he asked where she was from. She could not remember. She had been sold so many times that she had forgotten the name of her home.

A young boy no older than twelve sat curled in the corner of a tent, rocking back and forth with vacant eyes. When Harsh knelt beside him, the boy flinched violently and tried to crawl away.

The boy's small hands were covered in faint, crescent-shaped scars. It took Harsh a moment to realize they were from shackles.

He stared at the boy's trembling form for a long moment. Then, without a word, he removed the gauntlet from his right hand and slowly extended it toward the boy.

The child froze, staring at the outstretched hand with wide, fearful eyes.

But Harsh did not move.

He simply sat there, waiting.

Slowly, the boy's trembling hand reached out. Hesitantly, he placed his tiny fingers against Harsh's palm.

For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.

And then the boy began to cry.

Silent, shuddering sobs that made his small frame shake violently.

Harsh did not speak. He simply held the boy's hand.

---

Later that evening, Harsh stood at the edge of the camp, staring out into the darkness. His breath formed faint clouds in the cold night air. His hands were steady, but his chest felt heavy.

He had freed hundreds today.

But how many would truly know freedom?

Behind him, he heard the familiar sound of boots on gravel. He glanced over his shoulder to see Vira approaching. She wore no armor, only a simple cloak, her hair loose and unkempt from the day's battle. Her eyes were tired but alert.

"You're not celebrating with the others," she said quietly, stepping up beside him.

Harsh's jaw tightened slightly. He exhaled slowly through his nose.

"They're not free yet," he muttered.

Vira tilted her head slightly, regarding him. She studied his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadows beneath his eyes. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the heavy weight that had settled there.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Vira's voice came softly.

"You know… you can't save them all."

Harsh's fingers curled slightly. His eyes remained fixed on the distant horizon.

"Maybe not," he murmured softly. "But I can teach them how to save themselves."

Her eyes flickered toward him. She saw the faint glimmer of steel in his gaze—the hard, determined resolve.

And for the first time, she allowed herself to hope that perhaps he truly could.

---