69. Gathering Storm

The morning sun crept sluggishly over the horizon, casting long, pale streaks of light over the city's stone walls. The once-hardened, weathered streets were beginning to change subtly—not in their physical form but in the way people moved through them.

Where once commoners shuffled with lowered gazes, now they walked with their heads a little higher. Fathers led their children to makeshift schools established in temple courtyards, their hands calloused but steady with quiet pride. The younger generations, many of whom had grown up never dreaming of reading or writing, now clutched clay tablets and wooden styluses in trembling hands, their eyes wide with cautious hope.

But the change was slow, and in many quarters, it was met with suspicion. Some elders watched in silence, their eyes clouded with skepticism. The old ways were embedded deeply—the belief that knowledge was meant for the chosen few, that power was ordained by birth and blood, not by will or merit.

---

In the palace courtyard, Harsh stood on the balcony overlooking the city, his arms resting against the stone railing. His eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the people below—a sea of laborers, merchants, and smiths, moving with renewed vigor. His gaze lingered on a group of young boys and girls walking toward the makeshift school, their faces flushed with curiosity.

For a moment, his thoughts drifted back to his own childhood—the university campus, the late nights of study, the thrill of discovery in his mentor's laboratory. The memory was distant, almost dreamlike, a world far removed from the one he now ruled.

He felt Manav's presence behind him before he heard his voice.

"They're still afraid," Manav said softly, his tone laced with quiet observation.

Harsh turned slightly, his gaze cool.

"Of education?" he asked, his voice low.

Manav shook his head, stepping forward to lean on the railing beside him.

"No," he replied. "Of you."

For a brief moment, Harsh was silent. He followed Manav's gaze toward the streets below, watching the people move through their day.

"They've started to see you as more than a king," Manav murmured. "And less of a man."

Harsh's jaw tightened slightly, but he said nothing.

Manav's eyes narrowed slightly, his voice lowering.

"You walked among them," he continued, almost accusingly. "You bled with them. You turned farmers into fighters. You give them knowledge. You made them look at you… and wonder if you might be a god after all."

There was a heavy pause.

Harsh's fingers tightened around the stone railing, his knuckles turning white. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low but unyielding.

"No," he said flatly. His eyes hardened. "They will not see me as a god. I won't allow it."

Manav's expression darkened faintly.

"They already do," he said softly. "And the nobles see it too."

---

In the noble quarter, a different fire smoldered.

The lavish hall, usually filled with the smell of incense and wine, now stank of frustration and fear. The nobles gathered in tense clusters, their voices low and clipped, their hands gripping goblets and daggers alike.

Lord Bhaskar, once again at the center of the gathering, sat with one hand curled around the pommel of his sword, his expression cold. His eyes, dark and calculating, swept over the assembled nobles with grim certainty.

A merchant-lord with a paunch and jeweled fingers slammed his goblet down.

"He's spreading knowledge to the peasants," he spat, his voice thick with venom. "Knowledge! Like it's water from the river." His lips curled back in disgust. "Do you not see what he is doing?"

An older noble, his beard streaked with silver, scowled.

"He is building a future where we have no place," the man muttered. "Where our blood means nothing. Where any fool with a book can challenge us."

A woman in crimson silk, her voice smooth and sharp as a blade, spoke next.

"The peasants… they are still afraid," she said coolly, her eyes narrowing. "They worship him now, but fear is never far behind." She sipped her wine, her lips curling faintly. "We must give them a reason to be afraid again."

Bhaskar's eyes glimmered coldly.

"Yes," he murmured softly. "We will remind them that knowledge does not make them untouchable."

The nobles leaned forward slightly, their eyes glimmering with interest.

Bhaskar's lips twisted into a cruel smile.

"We will strike," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "where they feel the safest."

---

That evening, as the sun slipped behind the jagged peaks of the distant hills, Harsh stood in the courtyard of the palace, watching as the militia trained in the fading light.

His eyes were narrowed in focus, watching as the young soldiers moved through their drills with increasing precision. His gaze lingered on a group of farmers turned fighters, their hands once used for plowing now gripping iron spears.

But even as he watched their growing strength, a faint unease stirred in his chest.

And then he saw the messenger running toward him, his face pale with fear.

"Your Majesty!" the man gasped, nearly falling to his knees before catching himself. "There has been… an attack."

Harsh's eyes hardened instantly, his voice low and sharp.

"Where?"

The messenger's eyes were wide with terror.

"The school in the southern quarter," he stammered, his voice hoarse. "They burned it. The nobles… they—"

Harsh was already moving before the man could finish, his legs carrying him swiftly through the courtyard, his blood thundering in his ears.

---

When he reached the school, the scent of scorched wood and burning parchment filled the air. The roof had collapsed, sending black smoke spiraling into the sky. Screams and cries echoed through the narrow streets, children coughing and sobbing as they stumbled from the ruins.

Harsh barely noticed the heat of the flames as he pushed through the crowd, his eyes burning with fury.

He saw the bodies of three teachers, their corpses blackened by the flames. Nearby, a mother clutched her son's body, her hands shaking violently as she rocked back and forth, wailing.

His chest tightened painfully, but he did not stop moving.

The people stared at him with wide, fearful eyes, their faces streaked with soot and tears. But they did not kneel.

Instead, they clutched at his robes, their eyes wild with desperation.

"They came in the night," one man sobbed, his face smeared with ash. "They had torches… they locked the children inside before they—"

Harsh clenched his fists, his knuckles white with fury. His heart pounded against his ribs, rage twisting like a knife in his chest.

A small hand clutched his sleeve, and he looked down. A young girl, no older than seven, stared up at him with tear-streaked eyes, her lip trembling. Her tiny fingers gripped the edge of his tunic tightly.

"Will they come again?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harsh's breath caught.

He knelt beside her, his voice steady but cold.

"No," he said softly, brushing her soot-streaked hair from her face. "They won't come again."

But even as he spoke, he knew that the storm had only just begun.

---