63. After end of battle

The night hung heavy over the battle-scarred valley, the cold wind carrying the stench of blood and smoke. The sky was a dull, leaden gray, and the horizon was stained red with the final light of the dying sun. The ground was littered with corpses, their lifeless eyes staring blankly into the encroaching darkness. The distant wails of the wounded were the only sounds that punctuated the eerie silence.

Harsh stood on the crest of the ridge, his boots caked in dried mud and blood. His fingers were stiff around the hilt of his sword, the calloused skin numb from the hours of combat. The steel was dull with gore, the edge chipped in several places. His once-pristine cloak was torn and heavy with dirt and blood.

He slowly exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air, and gazed down at the valley below. Even in the fading twilight, he could make out the remnants of the enemy force—the broken bodies and scattered armor forming a morbid carpet over the bloodied earth.

The battle was over.

But the weight of it still clung to him.

Behind him, the campfires flickered weakly, illuminating the tired, battered faces of his men. Their armor was dented, their clothes torn and muddied, but their eyes were filled with hard-earned pride. The firelight reflected faintly off their bloodied weapons, and despite the exhaustion in their limbs, there was steel in their gazes.

Aarya approached slowly, her steps heavy with fatigue. Her face was streaked with dirt and soot, a faint cut marring her cheek. The leather vambrace on her forearm was split, the edges stained with dried blood. Her cloak was missing, discarded somewhere in the chaos of the battle.

She stopped beside him, her arms loosely crossed, and let out a slow breath.

"It's done," she said quietly.

Harsh's eyes remained fixed on the valley below. His voice was low, almost too soft to be heard.

"Is it?"

Aarya's brow furrowed slightly, and she followed his gaze. She saw what he saw—the bodies of commoners and nobles alike, their faces indistinguishable in death. Young men barely out of boyhood. Fathers who had left their families behind. The battlefield made no distinction.

She glanced at Harsh's face, and for the first time in days, she saw a flicker of vulnerability. A fleeting shadow in his eyes.

"You saved them," she murmured, her voice firm but gentle.

"Some," Harsh muttered darkly. "And lost too many."

She shifted slightly, her hand brushing against his forearm.

"Victory comes with a cost. You knew that."

Harsh turned to face her then, his eyes dark and tired.

"I did," he admitted softly. His fingers tightened slightly around the worn leather grip of his sword. "But I didn't think I'd feel it this much."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the crackle of the campfires and the occasional groan of the wounded.

---

Later that night, Harsh sat in his tent, leaning over a wooden table littered with maps and scrolls. His tunic was stripped down to his undershirt, the fabric clinging to his dirt-streaked skin. His hair was damp from the quick wash he'd taken, but traces of blood still stained his forearms.

The oil lamp flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the canvas walls.

He slowly ran his fingers over the map, his eyes scanning the rough outlines of the newly conquered territories. The lines of the borders were hastily drawn, still marked with enemy insignias that no longer held power.

There was so much more left to do.

He stared at the map for a long moment, his jaw tight. His hands were rough and worn, fingers stained with ink and dirt. His nails were cracked, and his knuckles were still raw from gripping his sword for hours.

There was a soft rustle outside the tent, and the flap was pulled back slightly. Aditya entered, his expression solemn. He carried a small, leather-bound ledger, its edges weathered and frayed.

"My lord," Aditya greeted softly, his voice low and hoarse from the long day. "The casualty report."

Harsh nodded once, his face impassive, and took the ledger from him. He slowly flipped through the pages, his eyes moving over the lists of names. Each one belonged to a man who would never return home.

His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the parchment.

"How many?" he asked quietly.

Aditya's jaw tightened slightly, and he lowered his gaze.

"Seven hundred and forty-three," he said softly.

Harsh's fingers stilled over the page. The firelight flickered against his face, casting shadows across his features. His eyes remained fixed on the names.

"Too many," he murmured softly.

Aditya's voice was low but steady.

"It could have been worse."

Harsh exhaled slowly, closing the ledger. His hands were shaking slightly, the tension finally seeping into his limbs.

"We need to send the letters," he said quietly. His voice was rough with exhaustion. "To their families. They deserve to know."

Aditya nodded slowly, his expression grim.

"I'll see to it," he said softly before turning to leave.

As the flap of the tent fell closed behind him, Harsh sat in the flickering candlelight, his hands loosely clasped together. He stared down at his bloodied knuckles, the faint traces of dirt still clinging to his skin.

For a long moment, he simply stared at them, his breathing slow and measured.

---

The next morning, Harsh walked through the camp, his boots crunching over the frost-covered ground. The night had been bitterly cold, and the remnants of morning frost still clung to the tents and grass.

The soldiers moved slowly, their limbs stiff and sore from the previous day's battle. Their faces were pale and drawn, their eyes heavy with exhaustion. But when they saw him, they straightened slightly, their postures stiffening with respect.

Harsh paused by the makeshift field hospital, where the wounded were being tended to. Bloodied bandages were strewn across the ground, and the air was thick with the scent of herbs and burnt cloth.

He knelt beside a young man with a blood-soaked bandage over his thigh. The soldier's face was pale and clammy, his eyes hazy with pain. His fingers twitched slightly, as if reaching for a sword that was no longer there.

Harsh took the man's hand, gripping it firmly.

"You did well," he murmured softly. "Rest now."

The young man's fingers tightened weakly around his own, and he gave a faint, pained smile.

"Yes, my lord," he whispered.

Harsh stayed with the wounded for a while, moving among them, speaking softly. He held their hands, eased their fears, and comforted the dying.

---

That evening, the funeral pyres were lit.

The bodies of the fallen were placed upon the towering mounds of wood, their armor and weapons stripped away. The flames roared into the night, consuming the dead and carrying their ashes into the cold wind.

Harsh stood at the edge of the clearing, his face illuminated by the firelight. His hands were clenched at his sides, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Aarya stood beside him, her eyes red-rimmed but steady. She glanced at Harsh's face, searching it for emotion. But his expression was impassive, his features carved from stone.

As the flames consumed the last of the fallen, Harsh turned away from the pyres, his shoulders heavy with the weight of command.

There was no victory here. Only survival.

---