57. Weight of Defiance

The sun had barely breached the horizon, casting a pale, orange haze over the village, when Harsh rode out from his hall.

His mount—a sturdy black mare—moved at a steady pace, its hooves cutting shallow grooves into the damp morning earth.

As he approached the market square, he saw them.

The villagers were already at work—carrying sacks, driving carts, and tending to their stalls. The faint clatter of pots and tools filled the early morning air.

But it was the way they moved that caught Harsh's attention.

There was a difference now. Subtle, but unmistakable.

Less bowed shoulders.

Less lowered eyes.

Fewer backs bent in reflexive submission.

It wasn't defiance—it wasn't even conscious rebellion.

It was tentative and clumsy, like a child learning to walk. The villagers seemed uncertain whether they were allowed to look up. To meet the eyes of the soldiers and landowners.

But some of them did.

A few young men by the well caught Harsh's gaze. They hesitated for only a breath before nodding slightly, almost as though testing the waters.

Harsh's eyes narrowed faintly, but he nodded back.

It was small, but it was enough.

---

But not everyone approved.

By the far end of the square, several older men gathered, watching him with hard eyes.

The landowners—the ones who held sway over the region's farms—stood stiffly beneath the shade of an awning. Their faces were grim, their hands clenched behind their backs.

One of them, a man named Gajendra, narrowed his eyes as Harsh rode past.

"The villagers are growing insolent," Gajendra muttered to the man beside him. His voice was low, almost snarling. "He encourages them to forget their place."

The man next to him—a wealthy merchant draped in fine silk—nodded slightly, his lips pressed in a thin line.

"He'll weaken us all," the merchant hissed softly. "These people will become bold. Unruly. The fields will empty. The labor will falter."

Gajendra's jaw tightened. His eyes, dark and calculating, never left Harsh's figure.

"He has to be stopped," he muttered.

---

Harsh brought his horse to a stop near the edge of the square and dismounted slowly. He tied the reins loosely to a wooden post and began walking toward the cluster of farmers near the grain stalls.

The farmers were gathered in small clusters, trading coarse bundles of wheat and barley. Their fingers were cracked and raw, their faces weathered by years of sun and labor.

As Harsh approached, several of them fell silent, their eyes flickering toward him.

One of the older farmers—a grizzled man with a scarred face—glanced at him warily.

"Lord," the man muttered stiffly, his head dipping slightly.

Harsh's eyes hardened.

"Don't bow," he said softly.

The man froze, his body tense.

Harsh stepped closer, his voice low but unwavering.

"Not to me. Not to anyone."

The man's eyes widened slightly, confused. He glanced at the others, unsure.

One of the younger men—barely more than a boy—stared at Harsh with a mixture of confusion and awe.

"But… you're our lord," the boy murmured.

Harsh shook his head slightly.

"I am no god," he said softly. "And neither is any man."

The older farmers shifted uncomfortably, exchanging uncertain glances. Years of submission were not easily erased.

But the young ones—they lingered.

The boy stared at Harsh, his fingers clenching slightly around the shaft of his wooden hoe. His eyes were filled with something uncertain.

Something like hope.

---

The villagers were still uneasy when a distant horn sounded—low and mournful.

Harsh's head snapped up.

Bharat appeared beside him, his face grim.

"Riders approaching from the west," Bharat muttered. His hand was already on the hilt of his sword.

Harsh's eyes narrowed.

The villagers stiffened slightly, exchanging nervous glances.

And then, from the tree line, they emerged.

A band of roughly armed men—twenty, perhaps thirty—rode in slowly. Their horses were lean and scarred, their armor mismatched and worn.

They were not soldiers.

They were raiders.

The leader—a bearded man with a scar cutting across his cheek—reined in his mount. His eyes swept over the village, assessing it with cold calculation.

His lips curled into a predatory smirk.

"You've grown bold, I hear," the raider called out, his voice hoarse. Mocking.

His eyes locked on Harsh.

"Making the farmers think they're men, are you?" he sneered.

Harsh's eyes darkened.

But he said nothing.

Instead, he began walking forward, his boots grinding softly against the dirt.

The villagers gasped softly, several of them backing away.

"My lord, no!" one of the older men called out.

Bharat's hand tightened around his sword, but he didn't move. He knew better than to stop Harsh now.

The raider leader's smirk widened slightly.

"Oh? You're going to play hero?" he jeered, spitting into the dirt.

Harsh stopped a dozen paces away, his eyes unwavering.

His voice was steady, almost dispassionate.

"You have one chance," he said softly. "Turn around."

The raider chuckled darkly.

"Or what? You'll scowl at me?"

The men behind him laughed.

Harsh's eyes remained fixed on the leader.

And he said nothing.

Instead, he reached down slowly, loosening the buckle of his belt.

The villagers watched in confusion as he unclasped his cloak and let it fall into the dirt.

Then, without a word, he unfastened his tunic, pulling it over his head.

He stood bare-chested in the morning light.

The raider's eyes narrowed slightly, confused by the display.

And then, he saw the scars.

Deep, ragged lines crossed Harsh's torso—old wounds from battles fought months ago. Jagged and uneven, they cut across his ribs and shoulders.

And his physique—lean, corded muscle, twice the strength of any man his size—was etched with silent ferocity.

Harsh's voice was low. Deadly calm.

"You have until I reach you," he said softly.

And then he began walking.

---

The raider leader barked a laugh, but his men didn't.

They saw the slow, deliberate stride of the bare-chested man walking toward them. The calm certainty in his eyes.

And they felt it—the gnawing sense that they had made a mistake.

The leader snarled and drew his sword.

"Kill him!" he bellowed.

But Harsh was already moving.

Faster than the raider anticipated.

His hands shot out, grabbing the raider's wrist before the blade could fall. With a sharp twist, he snapped the man's wrist with a sickening crack.

The raider screamed, but Harsh was already driving his elbow into the man's throat, crushing his windpipe.

Before the other men could react, Harsh was among them, moving with precise, feral efficiency.

He seized a raider by the hair, slamming his face into the ground. Blood sprayed as teeth shattered.

He ripped a blade from one of the raider's belts, plunging it into his neck.

The village men watched in stunned awe.

Their lord was not commanding them from behind a wall.

He was fighting beside them.

---