61. Aftermath of Victory
The cold morning air was thick with the stench of blood and burnt iron.
The sun had barely crested the eastern hills, its light spilling over a battlefield littered with bodies and broken weapons.
The once-green fields were now blackened with soot and blood, and the distant forests still smoldered from the fires of battle.
Harsh stood alone atop a jagged hill of rubble—his cloak stained with mud and soot, his sword heavy in his hand.
The blade was caked with blood, his knuckles stiff and raw from hours of fighting.
The cries of the wounded still lingered faintly in the distance, but the battle was over.
The enemy was routed.
And his people had held their ground.
Victory.
But it was a bitter one.
---
As the smoke drifted over the battlefield, Harsh walked among the scattered corpses, his boots sinking into the mud.
He stopped beside a young man, barely older than nineteen, his lifeless eyes staring at the sky, a rusted dagger still clutched in his frozen hand.
A farmer, by the look of him.
Harsh knelt slowly, his breath trembling in the cold morning air.
He reached out and gently closed the boy's eyes, his fingers briefly lingering on the bloodied cheek.
The boy had not worn armor.
He had fought in simple cloth, his body no match for the noblemen's steel.
But he had fought anyway.
And he had died for the chance to live free.
Harsh's jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists.
There were so many like him—men and women who had taken up arms, not because they were warriors, but because they could no longer bear their chains.
The noble houses had underestimated them.
But Harsh had not.
---
As the sun climbed higher, the villagers gathered the fallen, preparing a communal pyre.
The people moved in grim silence, their faces pale and streaked with ash, their hands shaking from exhaustion.
A few mothers wept softly, their eyes red and swollen, clutching the lifeless hands of their sons.
Others stood with grim faces, refusing to let their grief show.
The bodies were laid out, row upon row.
Some were wrapped in cloth, others merely covered with cloaks and tattered shawls.
Harsh stood at the edge of the clearing, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his face unreadable.
Aarya approached silently, her boots barely making a sound on the hardened ground.
She came to stand beside him, her eyes fixed on the pyre, her expression grave but steady.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then, softly, she asked, "Was it worth it?"
Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the cold morning air.
Harsh's jaw tightened, but he did not answer.
Instead, he took a slow breath, his eyes never leaving the pyre.
The flames roared upward, consuming the dead, turning flesh and bone to ash and memory.
And still, he said nothing.
---
Later that evening, Harsh sat alone in his tent, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows on the canvas walls.
His cloak lay discarded over the back of a chair, and his hands were still stained with the dirt and blood of the battlefield.
He stared at the map spread across the table—the outlines of the noble houses' territories, the routes of their supply lines, and the scattered locations of his growing rebel forces.
Small dots of ink marked the villages they had liberated—barely more than a handful.
But there were more than there had been a month ago.
And with each skirmish, with each battle, his cause grew stronger.
But the weight of it pressed heavily on his shoulders.
The faces of the dead lingered in his mind—the farmers and fishermen who had followed him, only to fall to steel and flame.
He closed his eyes briefly, his fingers tightening into fists.
How much longer could they endure?
How many more would have to die?
---
By the time midnight fell, the camp was restless, the fires burning low.
In the distance, the sound of faint laughter drifted through the tents—the rebel soldiers drinking and celebrating their victory.
But Harsh could not sleep.
He moved through the camp, his steps slow and heavy.
He passed small groups of men sitting around flickering fires, clutching crude wooden cups, their faces worn but hopeful.
They nodded respectfully as he passed, their eyes filled with reverence.
To them, he was more than a man now.
He was a symbol.
A leader who did not kneel, who bled alongside them, who fought with their sons and brothers.
A king who bowed only to God.
But as he passed the tents, he heard something unexpected.
A young woman's voice, singing softly by the fire.
Her voice was low and haunting, a melody that carried softly through the night.
It was an old hymn, one he had not heard in years.
The soldiers listened in silence, their faces softened by the music.
For a brief moment, the war seemed distant, and the world was still.
Harsh stood at the edge of the fire, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his face unreadable.
But in his heart, he felt something stir—a faint flicker of hope.
---
The next morning, Harsh stood at the gates, watching the sunrise over the valley.
The light painted the distant hills in hues of orange and gold, but the land was still scarred.
The villages lay in ruins, the fields blackened and scorched.
But it was their land now.
And they would rebuild it.
As he turned back toward the camp, Aarya approached, her expression grim but resolute.
"The scouts returned," she said quietly.
Harsh's gaze sharpened.
"And?"
She hesitated briefly, then handed him a folded scrap of parchment.
He unfolded it slowly, his eyes narrowing as he read.
The noble houses were rallying.
Two great families had formed an alliance—five hundred riders and two thousand footmen were marching north.
Toward them.
Harsh's jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the parchment.
But his eyes were cold.
"We'll meet them," he said quietly.
Aarya's brows furrowed.
"Outnumbered?" she asked softly.
But Harsh's voice was steady.
"Yes," he said.
And then, with deadly calm, he added:
"And we'll break them."
---