72. Forge of Revolution
The sun had long since slipped behind the jagged peaks bordering the valley, leaving twilight shadows stretching long and low across the bloodied earth. The embers of the ruined village still smoldered faintly in the distance, but now, a different fire was rising.
The kindling of defiance had caught.
And Harsh was determined to let it burn.
---
Two days had passed since the battle that had shattered the village. In that time, Harsh had allowed no rest.
The commoners, once scattered and disheartened, now moved with grim determination, working side by side. They cleared the rubble, built makeshift shelters, and dug new trenches along the perimeter of the village. Burnt wood was salvaged, stone was stacked, and the framework of fortifications began to rise from the ashes.
Harsh watched them in silence from the edge of the encampment. His eyes were sharp and calculating, measuring their progress. His broad shoulders were dusted with ash, and his hands were raw from wielding a spade alongside them.
But it wasn't enough.
These people could toil and bleed, but without iron, without fire, they would only be lambs in the next slaughter.
---
That night, Harsh called the villagers together. The flickering orange light of the fires painted their faces in shifting hues, making them appear both worn and feral.
He stood before them, tall and unyielding. His cloak was heavy with dust, and his knuckles were cracked from the day's labor.
He waited until the murmurs died down, until all eyes were on him.
Then he spoke.
---
"You have hands that build."
His voice was steady, cutting through the evening chill.
"But now, you will have hands that forge."
The crowd stirred, uncertainty flickering in their eyes.
Harsh raised his voice, sharp and unwavering.
"There is iron in these hills."
He pointed to the rocky ridges that hemmed the valley.
"The nobles have been mining it for years. Sending it away. Selling it."
He let the words hang in the air, cold and damning.
"But now, it belongs to you."
---
A ripple of surprise ran through the crowd. Farmers glanced at one another, eyes wide with disbelief. The few surviving masons exchanged hushed whispers.
One man, his hands still stained with blood, stepped forward. His voice was rough, disbelieving.
"We… mine?" His brow furrowed, doubt flashing in his eyes. "We don't know how. That takes skill. Training. Tools. We have nothing."
The murmurs grew louder, thick with hesitation.
Harsh's eyes narrowed into slits. His voice cut through the noise like a blade.
"You had nothing, yet you fought." His voice was low, but it carried. "You had nothing, yet you bled."
He stepped forward, his eyes locking onto the man's with unyielding ferocity.
"You learned to kill with farming tools. You learned to make shields from doors and nails."
His voice rose, sharp and commanding.
"You can learn to mine. You will learn to forge. And when you are done, you will hold steel. Not wood."
---
The crowd stilled, but Harsh could see the disbelief lingering in their eyes.
So, he gave them no choice but to learn.
---
By the next morning, the mountain slopes echoed with the ring of iron against stone.
Harsh led them to the abandoned mining trails, where the noble caravans had once stripped the land of its veins. The paths were half-buried with fallen rock, but he forced them forward.
They carried hammers, chisels, and salvaged tools. The older men, those who once worked the mines as laborers, showed the others how to break the stone, how to extract the raw ore.
Their hands bled against the rocks, their backs ached, but they did not stop.
And Harsh was always with them—
Sweating. Bleeding. Pushing.
Never sparing himself.
---
Within three days, they had their first haul.
The ore was crude, riddled with impurities.
But it was iron.
And it was theirs.
---
The forge was next.
With scraps salvaged from the village, Harsh oversaw the construction of a primitive furnace. Clay, stone, and animal hides formed a rough but functional smelting pit. Bellows were fashioned from stitched leather, and the villagers took turns pumping the airflow, building the heat.
The first smelting attempt failed.
The iron was too brittle, cracking upon impact.
The second batch warped, melting unevenly.
But Harsh refused to stop.
And neither did they.
By the fifth batch, they produced usable iron ingots. Rough. Crude. Imperfect.
But strong enough.
---
That night, Harsh stood before the forge, his brow slick with sweat, watching the first blade being forged.
The blacksmith's hands were trembling with exhaustion, but his grip was steady. The hammer rang out, driving the blade into shape.
Sparks flared and died as the metal was tempered.
The iron cooled, hardening.
And when the blade was done, the blacksmith lifted it in his cracked hands, turning toward Harsh.
"For you, Prince."
Harsh shook his head, his eyes cold.
He pushed the blade back into the man's hands.
"No."
He nodded toward the crowd.
"For them."
The blade passed from hand to hand, and for the first time, the commoners held iron in their hands.
Not as tools.
Not as chains.
But as weapons.
---
The training began the next morning.
The newly forged weapons—crude and heavy—were distributed.
Spears, swords, and iron-tipped pikes.
The younger men trained with wooden poles first, learning the rudiments of spear-fighting.
The older men, those who had once fought in the service of the noble armies, trained the rest.
The women were not excluded.
Harsh made sure of that.
He personally trained them—teaching them to use daggers, to strike quickly and without mercy, and to aim for the arteries.
There were no formalities in their training.
No drills.
No rituals.
Only the brutal efficiency of survival.
---
One night, as the training camp burned with torchlight, Harsh stood before them, addressing them as he had countless times before.
But tonight was different.
There were no cowed faces, no hunched shoulders.
The men stood straight, their eyes hard.
The women gripped daggers, their fingers steady.
They were not the same villagers he had first met.
They were harder now.
Stronger.
And when Harsh spoke, they listened with cold resolve.
---
"No more begging."
His voice was low, filled with iron.
"No more pleading."
He stepped forward, his eyes dark.
"No more kneeling."
The flames flickered in their eyes, but they did not bow.
They did not avert their gaze.
They stood, faces hard with determination.
And Harsh knew—
He had not just given them weapons.
He had forged an army.
It marks the beginning of a genuine revolution—
No longer a band of survivors.
But the seeds of a force that would shatter the noble order.