76. End of battle

The battlefield was still soaked in blood when the last of the noble forces retreated beyond the hills. The iron tang of death clung to the wind, carried over the charred earth and broken bodies. Smoke drifted across the valley in lazy plumes, masking the full extent of the carnage. Yet, beneath the smoldering ruin, the seeds of rebellion had already taken root.

Harsh stood by the edge of the field, his arms crossed over his chest, his cloak heavy with dried blood and dust. The ragged survivors of his militia moved through the corpses, pulling their own dead into carts, leaving the noblemen's bodies to rot where they fell. The bitter scent of burnt flesh lingered in the air. A small cluster of children and women, their faces streaked with ash and dried tears, watched in silence.

His knuckles were stiff around the hilt of his sword. He hadn't released it since the battle ended. Even now, with the sun sinking low behind the hills, he kept his grip tight, the leather-wrapped handle slick with blood.

Behind him, Ishani approached, her footsteps measured but purposeful. Her tunic was torn at the sleeve, a long gash staining the fabric at her side. Her hands were still red with blood, some of it her own, but most belonged to the men she had cut down without mercy.

She stopped beside him, her breath heavy but steady.

"We've driven them back," she said, her voice low, barely above a whisper.

"But they'll return."

Harsh exhaled through his nose. His eyes remained on the horizon, unmoving. "They will," he agreed, his tone flat, devoid of emotion. His voice had lost its warmth, hardened into steel. "But next time, they won't be able to run."

A strained silence stretched between them. Ishani watched him out of the corner of her eye, noting the stiff line of his jaw, the blankness in his eyes. She had seen men become like this before—cold, hollow, emptied of everything except the drive to kill. The part of her that should have been afraid wasn't.

She glanced at his hand. His knuckles were white, his grip unyielding.

"Let it go," she murmured, her fingers brushing lightly against the hilt of his sword.

He didn't.

She exhaled sharply.

"Harsh."

Finally, his fingers uncurled, releasing the sword. It fell to the blood-soaked earth with a dull, heavy thud. The weight of it leaving his grip should have felt like relief. It didn't.

Without another word, he turned and walked away from the battlefield. He didn't look back.

---

The camp was quiet, save for the crackle of firewood and the soft murmurs of men and women tending to their wounded. The crude tents stood in uneven rows, barely holding together with frayed ropes and patchwork hides.

A group of young women moved through the rows of injured, pressing damp cloths to split lips and swollen eyes. They cut away ruined garments, tying crude bandages over gaping wounds. The scent of burnt herbs clung to the cold evening air, masking the smell of festering flesh.

Near the center of the camp, a man knelt in front of a pile of bodies. His hands, black with soot, meticulously wiped dirt from the faces of the dead. His lips moved silently, mouthing the names of the fallen as he pressed his fingers to their brows.

A thin woman with streaks of gray in her hair clutched the hand of her husband, her knuckles bone white. His chest barely moved, each breath a strangled gasp. Blood-soaked linen was pressed against his side, but the wound was too deep. She didn't cry. Her eyes were dry and hollow, too tired for tears.

Harsh moved among them silently. He crouched by the wounded man and placed a hand against his shoulder. The man's eyes cracked open, glazed and unfocused. He tried to speak, but his lips were parched, tongue heavy with thirst. Harsh gently pressed a waterskin to his lips, tipping it just enough for him to drink.

The man's gaze cleared slightly, his eyes locking on Harsh's face. He smiled faintly.

"You came back…" the man rasped, his voice barely more than a breath.

Harsh didn't answer.

The man's grip tightened weakly around Harsh's wrist. "We fought because you asked us to," he whispered, his eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused. "Don't let them win, Lord Harsh. Not now."

The title stung in his chest. Harsh shook his head slowly, deliberately.

"No," he said firmly. "Don't call me that."

The man's gaze fluttered. "But you—"

Harsh squeezed his wrist. His voice was low but steady.

"I'm not a lord. I'm one of you."

The man's breath stuttered once, then slowed. His hand slipped from Harsh's wrist, falling limply against the dirt. The woman beside him clutched his hand, leaning forward, her thin shoulders trembling, but still, she didn't weep. She simply pressed her forehead to her husband's hand and whispered something too low for anyone to hear.

Harsh stared at the man's face for a long moment, then slowly lowered his hand over the man's eyes, closing them.

---

As the fires burned low and the moon rose high, Harsh sat alone by the ridge, watching the distant hills. His cloak was damp with blood, stiffening against the cold wind. He felt every cut and bruise on his body, each one a dull, constant ache. Yet none of them hurt as much as the faces of the men and women who would not wake.

Footsteps approached behind him. He didn't need to turn to know it was Ishani. She sat down heavily beside him, pulling her cloak tight around her shoulders. She held a flask in her hand and offered it to him.

He accepted it silently, lifting it to his lips. The liquid burned down his throat, harsh and biting, but he welcomed the sting. He handed the flask back without a word.

They sat in silence for a long while, neither speaking. Only the sound of the crackling fire and the distant wail of a grieving mother filled the night.

After a long moment, Ishani finally spoke.

"You should rest," she murmured. "You haven't slept since the battle."

Harsh didn't answer right away. His eyes remained on the horizon, watching the faint silhouettes of their scouts riding along the ridgeline. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and rough.

"Do you think they'll ever stop kneeling?"

Ishani blinked, confused. She glanced at him, but his face was unreadable.

"What?"

His knuckles curled into fists against his knees.

"They keep kneeling," he said softly. "Even after everything. After we fight together, bleed together, they still kneel. Even when I tell them not to."

She was quiet for a moment.

"They were taught to kneel," she finally said. "Taught from the moment they could walk. They were beaten into obedience. That kind of lesson doesn't vanish overnight."

Harsh let out a slow breath.

"They should kneel to no one but their gods and their parents," he murmured. "Not to me. Not to anyone."

She didn't answer. Instead, she reached out and lightly touched his hand.

"You'll make them understand," she said softly. "One day."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head.

"Not if they're all dead before then."

Her fingers tightened slightly around his.

"They won't be," she said quietly. "Because you won't let that happen."

He glanced at her, and for the briefest moment, something softened behind his eyes. She held his gaze, unwavering, steady. Then he looked away.

The horizon was dark, but he didn't turn from it.

Because tomorrow, the sun would rise on another battle.

And he would still be standing.

And so would they.