73. Iron and Blood
The morning sun was still hidden behind the jagged mountains, but the village was already awake. The once quiet settlement, which had barely stirred before sunrise, was now a place of restless activity.
The clanging of iron against wood, the harsh commands of the training officers, and the grunts of exertion filled the air. Smoke from the forge curled into the sky, carrying the scent of freshly smelted iron.
The villagers were no longer farmers or herders.
They were warriors in the making.
---
Harsh walked through the encampment, his boots crunching over the packed earth.
His keen eyes scanned the gathered men and women. Their muscles were leaner, hardened by daily combat drills. Their eyes no longer held fear, only the cold glint of purpose.
He spotted a group of young women near the edge of the training ground, practicing dagger strikes against wooden posts. Their arms were tense, their blades steady, and their movements lethal.
Nearby, old farmers—men who had once carried plows and sickles—now gripped iron spears with calloused hands.
Their knuckles were white, but they did not waver.
---
"Harder. Faster. Again."
Harsh's voice was calm but firm, cutting through the morning air.
The new recruits obeyed without hesitation.
The clash of weapons rang out as the villagers sparred against one another. No hesitation. No mercy.
Harsh moved among them, correcting their stances, adjusting their grips, and teaching them where to strike—
The neck. The thigh. The arteries.
The places where men bled fast and died faster.
---
When the sparring ceased, Harsh turned to a young woman with matted hair and dirt-streaked cheeks. She had been among the first to join the training, and now she moved with the fluid grace of a predator.
"You hesitate before the kill," he said, his voice low but sharp.
"Don't. The enemy will not."
The girl met his gaze, her eyes hard as iron, and nodded without a word.
There was no softness left in her.
---
Later that day, Harsh sat in the shaded corner of the forge, rolling a small iron dagger in his hands.
His fingers traced the edge of the blade absentmindedly, but his thoughts were far away.
He had spent months building this army from nothing.
Months of bleeding and breaking, of bending the will of farmers into iron.
And now, he was on the precipice of war.
But was it enough?
He could teach them to fight, but could he teach them to win?
---
"Prince."
The voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
He turned to see Viram, the former blacksmith, his face coated with soot.
"We've finished the second forge," Viram said.
"More iron, more blades."
Harsh nodded slowly, feeling the weight of the moment.
The second forge meant they could double their weapon production.
But iron alone wouldn't win this war.
They needed strategy.
They needed discipline.
They needed something far more ruthless.
---
That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Harsh stood before the militia.
Their faces were streaked with dirt, their bodies coated in sweat from the day's training.
He stared into their eyes, letting the silence stretch.
When he spoke, his voice was low—calm but cold.
"The iron in your hands will not be enough."
He walked among them, his boots heavy against the dirt.
"Your weapons do not make you warriors."
The crowd stood still, eyes locked on him, waiting.
"You will not win with iron alone."
He turned sharply, his eyes like flint.
"You will win by becoming iron. By being harder. Colder. Unforgiving."
---
He raised his hand, and two prisoners were brought forward.
Both men were former noble soldiers, captured during the last skirmish. Their hands were bound, and their faces were hollow with fear.
The crowd stirred, uncertain whispers spreading.
Some of the newer recruits looked away.
Others clenched their fists, unsure.
Harsh's voice cut through the murmurs.
"You want to free your families?"
His voice was harsh and unyielding.
"You want the nobles to bleed for what they've done?"
He drew a dagger from his belt.
The blade gleamed in the torchlight, cold and lethal.
"Then you must be prepared to spill blood. To feel it on your hands."
---
He threw the dagger onto the dirt before the prisoners.
"Who among you will do it?"
The crowd stilled, their faces frozen.
Some of the older men glanced at each other, but none stepped forward.
Harsh's eyes narrowed.
His voice was like stone.
"Cowards."
The word rippled through them like a slap.
He turned to the young woman he had corrected earlier.
Her jaw tightened, but she did not look away.
"You."
He pointed at her.
"Do it."
---
For a brief moment, her fingers trembled.
But then she stepped forward.
Her bare feet stirred the dust as she walked toward the prisoners.
The dagger was heavy in her hand.
One of the prisoners began to plead, his voice choking with desperation.
"Please, mercy—"
The blade flashed.
The plea ended in a gurgle.
Blood splattered across the dirt, thick and dark.
The young woman didn't look away.
Her hands were steady.
Her face was cold.
When she turned back toward the crowd, her eyes were harder than iron.
And none of the villagers could meet her gaze.
---
After that, Harsh made no more demands.
There was no need.
By the end of the night, more than twenty prisoners lay dead, and the villagers had blood on their hands.
They were no longer farmers holding spears.
They were killers.
And Harsh knew that was what they needed to become.
---
Later that night, Harsh stood alone at the edge of the camp, staring into the dark forest.
The moonlight painted his face in silver hues, but his eyes were hard and cold.
He flexed his hands, staring at the blood still staining his fingers.
He could feel it drying on his skin.
But he felt nothing.
Not guilt.
Not remorse.
Just calm determination.
He had once thought he could win this war with ideas.
With hope and defiance.
But he knew better now.
The nobles had ruled with iron and blood.
And iron and blood would be their undoing.
---