77. Convoy

The morning sun rose pale and sluggish, barely managing to cut through the thick veil of smoke that still lingered over the scorched earth. The battlefield from the day before had grown quieter, the dead carted away or left to feed the carrion birds. Yet, the scent of burnt flesh and blood still clung to the ground like a stain.

The camp was already stirring by the time Harsh stepped out of his tent. His cloak was damp with morning dew, and his boots sank slightly into the softened mud as he moved. Around him, soldiers stirred—some sharpening their blades in grim silence, others tending to their wounds with stony faces. The remnants of the battle still clung to them. Torn leather, blood-crusted armor, and bandages seeping with red.

But there was no rest. Not for any of them.

Harsh's gaze drifted over the camp. Groups of commoners, farmers, and smiths who had once been villagers now moved with the weary gait of soldiers. Their eyes were dull but determined, their faces hardened by what they had seen and done. The weight of blood clung to them just as heavily as it did to him.

Nearby, Ishani stood with a group of his officers, her hair pulled back into a loose braid, her face marked with the faint grime of yesterday's battle. She wore a fresh set of leather armor, but the sword at her hip was still stained with blood. When her eyes met his, she gave a slight nod, her face unreadable.

He walked toward her, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth with every step. As he approached, the men speaking with her fell silent. They turned and bowed slightly, but he waved them off with an irritated flick of his wrist.

"No more of that," he said sharply. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

The men hesitated, then slowly straightened, their gazes avoiding his. One of them—a broad-shouldered man with a weathered face—cleared his throat.

"Force of habit," he mumbled.

Harsh's eyes narrowed slightly. His voice was low but firm.

"Break the habit."

The man stiffened but didn't respond. The others glanced at each other uneasily. Even now, after everything, they still couldn't shed the impulse to kneel.

Harsh ground his teeth. He hated it—the sight of men bowing their heads as if they were born to be lesser, to shrink before power. It gnawed at him with a slow, bitter rage.

Ishani's voice broke through his thoughts.

"Scouts have returned," she said evenly, her tone businesslike. "We need to talk."

She turned without another word and led him toward his tent.

---

Inside the tent, a large map was spread out over the wooden table. Parchment weights held the corners in place, though the edges were still slightly curled from age. The crude markings on it traced the lands held by the nobles—the cities and villages still loyal to the old order. Harsh's forces were marked with small stones, scattered in irregular formations.

Ishani placed her hands on the edge of the table, her knuckles pale with pressure.

"The nobles are regrouping faster than we anticipated," she began without preamble. "Three separate forces have started moving north from the river provinces."

Harsh's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Three?"

She nodded grimly.

"Our scouts spotted their banners along the eastern ridge." She tapped a point on the map. "They've fortified the high ground. If they dig in, they'll have the advantage."

He studied the map for a long moment, his jaw tight.

"They're spreading thin," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His fingers traced the lines of the nearby terrain. The hills. The forest. The narrow river crossing.

He glanced up at her.

"They're not trying to defend—they're trying to lure us out."

Ishani's eyes narrowed.

"What?"

He exhaled sharply.

"They know we'll see them moving north," he said, his voice flat and certain. "They're counting on us to strike first. To think they're weak."

She stared at the map, her expression hardening.

"And when we do…" she trailed off, realization dawning.

"They'll spring the trap."

His lips pressed into a thin line.

"Yes."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the faint crackle of the campfires outside and the distant shouts of the soldiers drilling.

Finally, Ishani spoke again.

"If they take the high ground, they'll cut us off from the river supply lines," she murmured. "We'll be surrounded."

He nodded slowly. His eyes were distant, calculating.

"Then we don't let them."

She blinked, frowning slightly.

"Harsh, we can't afford—"

"We can't afford to let them hold the high ground," he cut her off sharply. His voice was low, but his eyes were sharp. "If we do, they'll bleed us dry."

He turned back to the map, his gaze narrowing.

"They expect us to take the bait," he murmured. "So we won't."

Ishani crossed her arms, regarding him warily.

"What are you planning?"

His gaze remained on the map.

"We'll move through the forests here." He pointed to the heavily wooded area near the river's bend. "We'll hit their supply lines before they reach the hills. Take out their food and water first. Then their horses."

Her brow furrowed.

"That'll take time. We can't move fast through the forest."

He shook his head slightly.

"We won't. But we don't have to. We just need to slow them down. Make them think we're scattered. Force them to split their forces. When they do, we hit them."

Ishani's eyes narrowed slightly.

"You're planning to stretch them thin…"

His eyes were cold, calculated.

"No," he corrected quietly. "I'm going to break them."

---

The following night, Harsh rode with a vanguard of two hundred men, weaving through the dense forest. The trees were thick and gnarled, their branches scraping against their armor as they moved through the underbrush. The damp earth muffled the sound of their footsteps, the scent of wet leaves clinging to the air.

At the rear of the line, Ishani rode beside him, her face partially obscured by the shadows cast by the trees.

"Scouts say they're only a day behind us," she murmured, her voice low. "If we don't slow them, they'll reach the high ground by dusk tomorrow."

Harsh's grip on the reins tightened slightly.

"They won't."

Ahead of them, the forest gradually thinned, giving way to a stretch of open grassland. The noble supply convoy was barely a mile away. Their torches flickered in the distance, moving slowly along the winding road.

He pulled his horse to a halt. The men behind him stopped as well, waiting in tense silence. Harsh stared at the distant convoy, his eyes hard and cold.

Then, without a word, he drew his sword. The faint moonlight glimmered against the bloodied steel.

He turned to his men, his voice low but steady.

"Quiet and fast," he said. "No mercy."

There was no battle cry. No shouted orders. Only the silent glint of steel and the sound of hooves cutting through the damp grass.

The first wave struck the convoy like a blade through flesh. The guards barely had time to draw their weapons before they were cut down. Blood sprayed against the grass, staining the earth red. Horses screamed, breaking into panicked gallops as the soldiers slit their throats to prevent their escape.

Harsh's blade cleaved through the first guard's throat with a single, brutal stroke. He didn't slow. His sword caught another man in the chest, driving him back against the supply cart with a wet, splintering crack.

Within minutes, the convoy was reduced to ruin—scattered bodies, burning carts, and dying horses. The nobles' supplies lay in tatters, their food and water scattered across the bloodied earth.

Harsh dismounted, his boots slick with blood as he strode through the wreckage. He stared down at one of the noble officers, the man's bloodied face twisted in pain.

The officer's eyes flickered with recognition and terror.

"Mercy," he rasped.

Harsh's gaze was cold, unyielding.

"No."

And then he drove his blade through the man's throat.