74. Iron Convent
The dawn mist clung to the fields like a lingering ghost, and the first light of morning cast a pale, bloodless hue over the encampment. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, iron, and old blood.
The village, once a place of humble farmers, was now a hardened military camp.
Spears leaned against mud-brick walls.
Blades were sharpened in the courtyards.
And the people's eyes—once filled with warmth and innocence—were now cold and sharp.
---
Harsh stood by the blacksmith's hut, his broad shoulders bare except for the band of leather across his chest. His muscles were taut, still slick from the morning drills.
The forges roared behind him, spewing orange firelight as the blacksmiths pounded iron into deadlier forms.
The metal sang with every strike, the sound sharp and rhythmic.
Harsh watched as his people labored, sweat pouring down their faces, knuckles raw from the forge hammers.
Their hands were blistered from wielding iron, but none of them stopped.
Even the women, who once sewed fabric and tended to the hearth, now smelted iron with bare hands, forging daggers and spearheads with grim determination.
---
"You're building more than just weapons," Viram said, walking up beside Harsh.
The former blacksmith wiped his hands on his leather apron, his arms still streaked with soot.
"You're forging them into something far more dangerous."
Harsh's eyes narrowed.
He lifted a freshly forged blade, examining the edge with a slow, calculating eye.
"No, Viram," he murmured, his voice low and unyielding.
"They're forging themselves. I'm only showing them how."
The iron in his hands felt cold, even as the forge behind him roared with heat.
---
The day's training began under the bleeding sun.
Harsh stood at the front of the ranks, dressed in leather armor, his arms bare and dusted with dirt.
His voice was calm but sharp, cutting through the droning heat of the afternoon.
"Form ranks! Shields high! Close the line!"
The villagers obeyed with brutal efficiency, their movements crisp and disciplined.
The wooden shields slammed together, forming a solid wall of protection.
The sound was like a drumbeat—hard, rhythmic, unyielding.
---
"Charge!" Harsh roared.
The line surged forward, boots kicking up dirt, spears thrusting in unison.
The wooden dummies splintered beneath their charge, and the banners hanging in the practice yard were shredded by their merciless strikes.
Harsh didn't smile.
There was no pride in his eyes—only calculation.
These people had become soldiers, but they were still villagers in their hearts.
They needed more.
---
As the sun dipped low, Harsh sat with his inner circle.
The firelight danced across their faces, casting long, flickering shadows.
Viram sat to his right, his hands still blackened from the forge.
Beside him, Ravi, the once-docile herdsman, who now wielded a sword with deadly proficiency, leaned forward, his eyes sharp and cold.
Across the fire, Ishani stood with her arms folded, her dagger gleaming at her hip.
Her face was expressionless, but her eyes were alive with cunning.
---
"The scouts returned from the east," Viram began, his voice low but steady.
"The noble forces are gathering. A thousand at least. They will strike within days."
The fire cracked, and Harsh's face was grim.
He traced the edge of his blade with his thumb, feeling the cold iron bite into his skin.
"And the western nobles?" Harsh asked.
Ishani's lips pressed into a thin line.
"Marching with twice that number."
The camp fell silent, the only sound the snapping of the firewood.
---
"We'll be surrounded."
Viram's voice was matter-of-fact, but his eyes were hard.
Harsh's jaw tightened, but he showed no fear.
Instead, he leaned forward, his hands gripping the map that lay across the rough wooden table.
"Then we'll break them in the east first," he said, his voice sharp and commanding.
"Before the western force can arrive."
He pointed to a narrow valley where the eastern nobles would be forced to march.
"We lure them in here. The terrain will slow them. Then we hit them from both sides."
---
By nightfall, the entire village stood before him.
The men and women, once meek and voiceless, now stood tall and resolute.
Torches flickered in their hands, the flames casting jagged shadows against their hardened faces.
Harsh walked among them, his boots heavy against the dirt.
When he spoke, his voice was steady and sharp.
"The nobles are coming."
He turned slowly, meeting their eyes, one by one.
"They will burn your homes. They will take your children. They will break your families."
His eyes narrowed, his voice cold as iron.
"Unless you stop them. Unless you make them bleed."
---
He drew his sword.
The steel gleamed in the firelight.
"No man here will kneel again. No woman will be dragged from her home."
His eyes burned.
"No one will be owned. Not by a king. Not by a god. And not by fate."
The crowd was silent—unmoving, breathless.
And then, without a word, one man knelt.
An old farmer, his hands wrinkled and cracked with age, bent his knee.
Harsh strode forward and gripped the man's arms, pulling him back to his feet.
"No more kneeling."
His voice was harsh and unyielding.
"Never again. You will bow to no one—not even me."
The old man's eyes hardened, and he rose slowly, his hands trembling but defiant.
---
One by one, the villagers stepped forward, their faces solemn.
They clasped their hands over their hearts, their fists clenching with iron resolve.
"We fight for no king."
"We fight for no god."
"We fight for our own."
The words rang out, hard and sharp.
Harsh's hands curled into fists.
He could feel his heart pounding, but his eyes remained steady.
They were no longer villagers.
They were no longer rebels.
They were free men, and they would die on their feet.
---
That night, Harsh stood alone on the ridge overlooking the camp.
The firelight flickered in the distance, and the wind carried the distant cries of owls.
He watched his people—his army—as they prepared for the storm.
Iron and blood were their only companions now.
He closed his eyes, feeling the wind bite his skin, and knew—
Tomorrow, the nobles would bleed.
---