70. Bonds of Blood

The night was heavy with the scent of charred wood and ash. The school's remains still smoldered in the darkness, the fire having long since died, but the stench of burnt parchment and flesh clung stubbornly to the cold night air.

The moonlight struggled against the rising haze, casting a pale glow over the ashen faces of the survivors. They sat scattered around the school's ruins—men, women, and children—faces streaked with soot and grief, eyes hollow from the violence they had just witnessed.

Harsh stood in the center of them, his cloak stained with ash, his hands trembling faintly at his sides. His fingers still smelled of burnt fabric and blood. The little girl's tear-streaked face flashed in his mind—her tiny, trembling hands clutching at his sleeve as though he were the only thing in the world that could keep her safe.

And in that moment, he was no longer a king, nor a noble. He was simply a man standing among his people, bound to them by sorrow and rage.

---

A man in his thirties, his face streaked with soot and dried blood, stumbled toward him. His eyes were wild, his clothes torn. His trembling hands clutched the lifeless body of a child—a boy no older than six—his skin pallid and limp, his small arms dangling as though he were simply asleep.

The man's voice broke as he came to a halt before Harsh, his knees buckling.

"My son…" the man rasped, his voice cracking like brittle glass. He fell to his knees, holding the boy in trembling arms. His bloodshot eyes bore into Harsh's, pleading, searching for answers. "Why?"

Harsh stared down at the lifeless child, and for a brief, horrifying moment, he saw his own face in the boy's, imagined himself in another life—a child caught in the fire, helpless.

A long, jagged breath escaped him. His throat clenched, and he knelt before the man. Slowly, he extended his hands.

The man's lips trembled as he hesitated, then with a strangled sob, he placed the boy into Harsh's arms.

The child's body was limp, fragile, and terribly light. His tiny hand, streaked with soot, flopped against Harsh's chest.

Harsh's jaw clenched tightly, his fingers digging into the boy's tunic.

"I am sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible. His throat burned. "I am… so sorry."

The man gripped Harsh's wrists, his fingers trembling violently. His voice broke as he spoke.

"Don't be sorry," he gasped, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gulps. His eyes burned with raw, desperate fury. "Make them pay."

A low murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, rough voices trembling with grief and anger.

"Make them pay!" a woman's voice rang out, cracked with rage.

Another voice, hoarse with fury, echoed, "For the children!"

More voices joined.

"For the teachers!"

"For the farmers!"

"For us!"

---

An older man, his beard streaked with gray, limped forward on a crude wooden cane, his eyes sunken but hard. His voice was ragged with grief but clear.

"We were fools," he rasped, his voice shaking with restrained fury. "We thought you were a king. We bowed. We scraped. We waited for you to lead us."

His wrinkled hand gestured toward the ruins, his eyes dark and hollow.

"But you… you came into the fire with us." His voice cracked, and he met Harsh's eyes, his gaze heavy with sorrow and pride. "You bled with us."

A woman in her forties, her face lined with hardship, stepped forward, clutching a blood-soaked shawl to her chest. Her eyes were red and swollen, but there was no fear in them.

Her voice was low but steady.

"My boy was in that school," she whispered, her voice hoarse but clear. Her fingers clenched the fabric until her knuckles turned white. "I watched them burn him alive."

Her eyes narrowed, and she took a slow step closer to Harsh. Her voice hardened.

"Teach me to fight," she rasped. "I want to put a sword in my hand."

There was a hushed silence that fell over the crowd, but her words hung heavy in the air.

Another man—a potter, with cracked hands and a torn tunic—stepped forward, his face contorted with fury.

"I'll fight too," he spat, his voice raw. "If it means keeping them from killing my children again, I'll fight. With my hands if I have to."

A young man, barely out of his teenage years, limped closer, his face smeared with soot, his arm in a makeshift sling.

"I was a mason," he muttered, his voice low. "I built walls. I can tear them down just as easily."

The voices began to grow louder, a rumbling murmur of shared grief and fury.

More and more villagers and commoners stepped forward, their voices hoarse with rage.

"I can hunt. I'll fight."

"I'll sharpen spears."

"I'll carry water to the battlefield if I have to!"

A young girl, no older than twelve, limped forward through the crowd, her eyes still swollen from crying. She held out a bloodied handkerchief.

"Let me sew your banners," she said softly, her voice trembling. "So they'll know it's us when you… when you make them bleed."

The crowd surged closer, the air thick with grief and resolve. The commoners, who only weeks before had bowed their heads in fear, now stood with their eyes raised.

They did not kneel.

They did not bow.

They stood with him.

---

Harsh slowly rose, the dead boy still in his arms. His chest tightened painfully, but he did not let the emotion show. Instead, he let his eyes sweep over the crowd, taking in their faces—the fathers, the mothers, the children.

His voice, when he spoke, was low but unwavering, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

"No more," he said softly, his voice trembling faintly. "No more bowing. No more kneeling."

He shifted his gaze over the crowd, his eyes dark with resolve.

"You will not kneel before me. You will not kneel before any man." His voice hardened. "Not anymore."

A heavy, stunned silence fell over the crowd.

Harsh slowly knelt, placing the boy's body on the ground with careful reverence. He reached down and pressed his fingers to the boy's forehead, closing his small, sightless eyes.

Then he slowly stood.

And his voice rang out like iron.

"You will only kneel to your gods. To your parents." His voice was sharp as steel, cutting through the rising tension. "And to no one else."

The crowd was silent, unmoving, holding their breath.

Then, one by one, they began to clench their fists.

To raise their hands.

To stand straighter.

And then, the first voice rang out—rough, broken, but resolute.

"We will stand with you!"

The second voice was stronger.

"We will fight with you!"

Then the third.

The fourth.

The voices grew louder, deafening, until the entire square rang with their vow:

"We will never kneel again!"

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