65. Threads of Domination

The early morning sun cast a dull, orange glow over the blood-soaked fields. Smoke still drifted from the blackened remains of abandoned enemy camps, rising in lazy, sinuous trails toward the overcast sky. The scent of burnt wood, blood, and death clung to the cold air, sharp and biting.

The survivors of the battle moved with haunted expressions, their faces pale and gaunt. Wounded soldiers groaned softly from where they lay on hastily assembled cots, their bandages soaked through with blood. The healers worked tirelessly, their hands trembling with fatigue as they moved between the injured.

Harsh sat alone on the edge of the camp, his back pressed against a jagged boulder that overlooked the ruined field. His clothes were stiff with dried blood, and his hands, though washed, still bore faint stains beneath his nails. He held a small, jagged stone in his hand, rolling it between his fingers absently.

He stared out at the wreckage of the battlefield, but his eyes were unfocused, his thoughts elsewhere. His muscles ached from the previous day's battle, but his mind was restless.

Aarya's voice cut through the stillness, soft but firm.

"You're not going to find answers in the dirt."

Harsh's eyes slowly shifted toward her. She stood just behind him, her cloak drawn tightly around her shoulders, her eyes sharp but filled with a subtle concern.

He said nothing, simply exhaling slowly through his nose.

Aarya walked closer, lowering herself beside him on the cold stone, her fingers loosely entwined over her knees. She stared at the distant forest, where smoke still rose from the burnt trees.

After a long pause, she finally spoke.

"Thinking of the men we lost?"

Harsh's jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't answer right away. His gaze remained locked on the bloodstained horizon.

"Some," he admitted quietly. Then, after a brief silence, he added, "But mostly about what comes next."

Aarya's lips pressed together in a thin line, but she nodded faintly.

"They'll come again," she said softly. "They always do."

Harsh's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Let them."

The edge in his voice made her glance at him sharply.

---

By midday, Harsh stood before the remnants of his forces. His armor had been polished, the grime and blood scrubbed clean, but the deep exhaustion in his eyes remained.

The soldiers stood in tight ranks, their armor dull and battered, but their eyes burned with a fierce loyalty.

When Harsh raised his hand, the crowd fell into an expectant silence.

He stepped forward, his boots heavy against the hard-packed earth, and swept his gaze across the assembled men.

"You fought well," he began, his voice low but carrying over the crowd.

"Many of you… better than I could have asked for."

He paused for a moment, allowing the weight of his words to settle.

"And some of you," he continued, his eyes flicking over the bloodied veterans at the front, "fought beyond reason—beyond fear."

The men in the front row stiffened slightly, their eyes locked on him, chins lifted with a quiet pride.

Harsh's voice lowered slightly, but it was firm.

"I will not insult the dead by offering empty words. They knew what they were fighting for. They knew the price."

A heavy silence fell over the crowd.

"And because of them," Harsh continued, his voice hardening, "we still stand."

His eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze moving over the assembled soldiers.

"But our battle is far from over."

A ripple of unease spread through the ranks, but Harsh's voice did not waver.

"We still have enemies in the shadows. We still have wolves at our borders."

He turned slowly, sweeping his gaze across the crowd.

"And we have cowards in the courts," he added sharply. "Men with silver tongues and rotten hearts. They would rather kneel to their enemies than stand with their own people."

The soldiers stiffened, some glancing at each other with murmurs of anger.

Harsh's eyes flashed with cold fire.

"We will not allow it," he declared. "Not now. Not ever."

---

After the assembly, Harsh walked through the healing tents. The rows of wounded men were laid out on blood-stained blankets, their faces pale and twisted with pain.

Some of the soldiers stirred slightly as he passed, their eyes dull with fatigue. A few men tried to rise when they saw him, but Harsh shook his head sharply.

"Don't," he ordered firmly. "Rest."

One of the soldiers—a young man barely old enough to fight—reached for him weakly, his hand trembling. Harsh knelt beside him, taking his hand gently.

The boy's voice was faint, barely above a whisper.

"Did… we win?"

Harsh leaned in slightly, his voice steady but soft.

"We did."

The boy's cracked lips curved into a faint smile, and he exhaled shakily. His grip loosened slightly, but Harsh didn't let go.

He stayed there for a long moment, his fingers wrapped around the boy's trembling hand, until the boy's breathing steadied and slowed into a weak, uneven rhythm.

---

By dusk, Harsh was in the council chamber, surrounded by his commanders and nobles. The torches burned low, filling the stone room with flickering shadows. The heavy scent of burning oil and damp stone clung to the air.

Aditya stood at the head of the table, laying out the latest reports.

"The eastern border is still vulnerable," he said grimly. "The enemy has retreated, but they left behind small bands of mercenaries. They're looting villages. Taking supplies."

Harsh's fingers tightened around the edge of the table.

"How many villages?"

"Four," Aditya replied stiffly.

Aarya's frown deepened, her hands clasped behind her back.

"They're testing us," she muttered.

Harsh's jaw clenched slightly.

"Then we will answer," he said darkly.

He turned his eyes toward the assembled nobles, his gaze sharp and unyielding.

"Those who fled the battle," he said coldly, "will not be spared."

The nobles stiffened slightly, their eyes widening.

One of the older lords, his hands trembling faintly, cleared his throat.

"My lord," he began carefully, his voice trembling slightly, "surely they were only trying to protect their families—"

Harsh's eyes narrowed dangerously, and the lord immediately fell silent.

"No," Harsh cut in icily. His voice was quiet but sharp, the words slicing through the chamber like a blade.

"They were protecting their gold. Their coin. Their power."

The nobles averted their eyes, their faces pale and drawn.

Harsh's voice was unwavering.

"They will answer for their cowardice," he declared coldly. "Just as we would answer for ours."

The council chamber fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the crackling of the torches.

When the meeting ended, Harsh stepped out onto the balcony, overlooking the city below. The faint, flickering torchlights dotted the streets, and the distant clang of hammers echoed faintly from the forges.

He leaned heavily against the stone railing, his fingers pressing into the cold stone, and let out a slow breath.

Aarya appeared at his side, silent but watchful.

"You'll break them," she said softly. "One by one."

Harsh's eyes remained on the city below, his expression unreadable.

"No," he murmured quietly. "I will forge them."

---