49. The Fire In Their Eyes

The day was harsh and unyielding. The sun hung low and heavy in the sky, casting a golden haze over the fields beyond the camp. The grass, once vibrant, was now brittle and dry, trampled by the boots of hundreds of men. The earth beneath was scarred with shallow trenches and scorched patches of dirt, marking the place where Harsh's freedmen trained day after day.

The once-weak hands of laborers were now calloused and steady around the hilts of swords and the shafts of spears. The bodies once stooped under the weight of chains were now held upright with the rigid discipline of soldiers.

But they were not soldiers.

Not yet.

Harsh moved among them, his eyes sharp and critical as he watched them spar. His arms were folded across his chest, his posture unwavering as he observed every stumble, every weak grip, and every poorly executed strike.

"Stop."

His voice was low but carried across the field with unmistakable authority.

The men froze.

Harsh slowly stalked toward two of the freedmen who had been sparring—a wiry man in his late forties and a younger one, no older than twenty. Both were breathing heavily, their shoulders slick with sweat, their faces streaked with dirt.

The older man was hunched slightly, his grip trembling faintly with fatigue. The younger man stood stiffly, his jaw clenched in frustration.

Harsh circled them slowly.

"Again," he said simply.

The younger man's eyes flickered with hesitation. His breathing was still ragged, his limbs trembling faintly with exhaustion. His grip was loose around the wooden practice sword.

"Again," Harsh repeated, his voice low and firm.

The young man swallowed hard and lifted his sword. He swung clumsily, his form sloppy and uneven. The older man deflected easily, knocking the younger man back with a sharp blow to the ribs.

The boy grunted in pain, staggering backward.

But before he could regain his footing, Harsh was suddenly before him.

Without a word, he reached out and seized the boy's wrist. His grip was firm but not cruel. His fingers tightened over the boy's hand, correcting his grasp on the hilt.

"Here," Harsh murmured, guiding the boy's hand. "Your wrist is weak because you're holding it like this. Tighten your grip. Let the strength come from your forearm, not just your hand."

The boy's eyes widened slightly, startled by the sudden correction.

Harsh stepped back.

"Again."

The boy hesitated, but this time his grip was firmer. His feet were steadier. He swung with more control. The older man blocked the strike again, but this time he did not knock the boy off balance.

Harsh's lips twitched faintly at the corners.

"Better," he muttered.

But there was no praise in his tone—only calm expectation.

And that was enough.

---

As the day stretched on, Harsh moved among the men, correcting their stances, guiding their movements. His voice was steady but patient—teaching, not commanding.

But even as he trained them, he was not gentle.

When a man's grip faltered, Harsh would tighten it. When their footwork stumbled, he forced them back into position.

And when they fell, he did not offer a hand.

He made them stand on their own.

By nightfall, the freedmen were covered in sweat and dust, their muscles trembling from exertion. Their hands were blistered and raw, their knuckles bloodied from gripping their weapons too tightly.

But they were still on their feet.

And when Harsh looked into their eyes, he no longer saw the dull gaze of broken men.

He saw fire.

---

Later that evening, Harsh sat in the council chamber, his face impassive as the nobles argued before him.

The stone hall was filled with the sharp clang of voices—lords and landowners, draped in their fine silks and heavy jewelry, their faces flushed with anger.

"Freedmen?" one of the nobles spat, his voice filled with disdain. "You expect us to arm peasants and laborers? To hand swords to the very people we rely on to till our fields?"

A ripple of agreement swept through the chamber. Several nobles nodded, their eyes sharp with suspicion and contempt.

Another man—a lord with silver-streaked hair and the heavy-set frame of a lifelong noble—leaned forward, his eyes narrowed.

"These men are barely more than cattle," he sneered. "You would make farmers into soldiers? Smiths into warriors? You're building an army of half-starved beggars."

Harsh sat still. His expression was calm—detached, almost dispassionate.

He let them rage.

But when the last voice fell silent, his eyes slowly lifted.

And in that moment, the hall grew quiet.

He did not speak right away. He let the silence hang heavy in the chamber. Let them feel the weight of it.

Then, slowly, he rose from his seat.

Without a word, he walked toward the long stone table that divided the room. His boots echoed faintly against the stone floor.

And then he placed both hands flat against the table.

He stared at the men before him, his eyes hard and unyielding.

"The fields you speak of," he said softly, his voice like tempered steel, "were tilled by their hands."

The nobles stiffened.

"The roads your caravans ride on—the stones were laid by their hands," Harsh continued, his voice still low but sharp with quiet fury. "The walls that guard your cities—their hands built them. The swords that you so carelessly wield—the iron was forged in their fires."

His eyes narrowed faintly.

"And the blood that stains the fields?" he asked coldly. "The blood that waters your lands? It is their blood."

The chamber was deathly silent.

Harsh straightened slowly.

"You call them cattle," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "But they are the ones who have built your kingdoms."

He let the words settle.

Then, he turned on his heel and walked away.

He did not wait for their permission.

---

That night, the freedmen were still awake.

The fires were low and dim, but they were still in the field, training beneath the stars. Their bodies were trembling from exhaustion, their arms heavy, their legs unsteady.

But they did not stop.

They swung their crude weapons, their movements slow and unsteady. But they kept moving.

Harsh stood at the edge of the field, watching them silently. His jaw tightened faintly.

Then he stepped forward.

He removed his cloak and tossed it aside. Slowly, he unbuckled the belt at his waist and laid his sword down in the dirt.

And then he picked up a wooden training sword.

Without a word, he walked into their midst.

The men turned toward him in surprise, their eyes wide.

But he did not speak.

He simply lifted the training sword.

And he swung.

The freedmen stared, their eyes uncertain.

Then, slowly, they lifted their own weapons.

And they swung back.

And so he trained with them.

He let them strike him. Let them shove him to the ground. Let them fight him as though he were no different from them.

He did not tower over them. He did not lord over them.

He was among them.

And when they fell, he made them stand.

Not with orders.

But with the weight of his own refusal to yield.

And when the sun began to rise, they were still swinging.

Bloodied. Exhausted.

But still standing.

And when Harsh looked into their eyes, he knew they were no longer peasants.

They were men.

Men who had learned to stand.

---