78. Fires of Defiance

The sun barely touched the horizon before the first scouts returned, carrying word of the nobles' scattered forces. The previous night's assault on their supply lines had struck deep. With their provisions burned and their horses butchered, the once-formidable noble regiments now crawled through the hills like broken beasts, weakened and disorganized.

At dawn, Harsh sat astride his black warhorse at the edge of a forested ridge. His armor was still spattered with blood from the night before, the dried red streaks dark against the iron plates. His sword hung loosely at his side, but his grip on the reins was tight, knuckles white with pressure.

Below him, the noble armies moved sluggishly along the valley. Their formations were uneven, their steps weighed down by hunger and exhaustion. It was not the fearsome force it had once been—it was a wounded beast, sluggish and vulnerable.

A group of Harsh's men gathered near the treeline, waiting for orders. Their faces were grim but steady, their eyes hardened by blood and fire. These were not the unsure, wary fighters of his first battles. They were veterans now—weathered by death, shaped by war.

Ishani rode up beside him, her expression sharp. She didn't need to say anything—he could read the question in her eyes.

Do we strike now?

He exhaled slowly, letting his gaze sweep over the enemy forces below.

"No," he said finally, his voice low but firm.

Ishani's brows furrowed slightly. She glanced at the vulnerable enemy below.

"Why wait?" she asked, her voice measured but questioning. "We could end this today."

Harsh's eyes didn't leave the valley.

"Not yet," he said. His tone was calm, but resolute. "Let them suffer first."

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded slowly.

He turned to his officers and gestured toward the forest.

"Pull the men back into the tree line," he ordered. "No fires. No banners. Let them wonder if we're still here."

The officers exchanged brief glances, but none questioned him. With sharp nods, they turned and dispersed, leading their companies back into the forest's shadows.

Harsh remained for a moment longer, watching the noble forces stumble onward. Their banners drooped limply in the faint morning breeze. Their armor glinted weakly in the pale light. He could feel their fear from where he sat—the dread of men walking blind, uncertain if death waited behind the next tree.

And he intended to let that fear grow.

---

The War Council

By midday, Harsh sat in his tent, surrounded by his commanders. The canvas walls flapped slightly in the afternoon breeze, though the interior remained warm and heavy with the scent of damp earth and oiled steel.

Maps and ledgers lay sprawled across the central table, marked with the latest movements of their forces. Around him, Ishani, Vyasa, and several officers stood with grim faces, listening in silence.

Harsh's eyes traced the map, studying the narrow ridges and slopes surrounding the valley where the nobles were now trapped. His fingers drummed slowly against the wooden table.

"The forest gives us cover," he began, his voice steady and measured, "and the river cuts off their retreat. They have nowhere to run. If they hold the hills, they might try to fortify the slopes. But they won't last long without food or water."

Vyasa, his beard still damp from the morning dew, nodded slowly.

"They're already weakening," he said. "We've seen deserters slipping away under the cover of darkness. Some of their men are even turning to the peasants for food."

Harsh's lips pressed into a thin line.

"Good," he muttered. "Let them starve."

One of the commanders, a grizzled man named Darpak, cleared his throat.

"Some of their officers sent an envoy this morning," he said. His voice was rough, hoarse from years of barking orders. "They're offering terms of surrender."

Ishani's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Surrender?" she repeated, her tone sharp. "They think they still have the right to negotiate?"

Harsh's eyes darkened. He glanced at Darpak.

"What did you tell them?"

The older man's lips curled into a grim smile.

"I sent them back with their messenger's head," he said flatly.

For a moment, the tent fell silent. Ishani's eyes flickered with a faint glimmer of satisfaction. She didn't approve of unnecessary cruelty—but she knew that in this war, mercy was weakness.

Harsh let out a slow breath, leaning forward slightly over the table.

"Good," he said softly. His voice was calm, but there was an edge of steel beneath it.

"Tomorrow, we finish this."

---

Nightfall: The March of the Forgotten

When night fell, Harsh rode at the head of his forces. The forest pressed in around them, the trees casting jagged shadows beneath the faint sliver of moonlight. Their torches were extinguished—there would be no warning lights tonight.

The men moved in silence, their footsteps muffled by the damp earth. The only sound was the faint clink of armor and the soft creak of leather saddles.

Harsh's eyes were hard as they approached the valley's edge. His heart pounded steadily in his chest, but his hands were steady on the reins. He glanced back at his men—soldiers, peasants, former slaves—all marching together.

Not bowing. Not kneeling.

When he first led them, he had struggled to convince them to abandon their old ways. Even as he fought for them, they still bowed. Still lowered their eyes. It had taken months of war and blood, but now, when they looked at him, they met his gaze as equals.

And he would not let them become subjects.

He raised his hand, signaling for the men to halt. The entire column slowed, weapons sliding quietly from their scabbards. Bows were drawn, arrows nocked. Spearmen shifted into loose, ready formations.

The nobles' forces were just ahead—sleeping in their makeshift camp, barely guarded, weakened by hunger and fear.

Harsh slid from his saddle. His boots hit the earth softly, noiselessly. He drew his sword, the steel catching the faint moonlight.

He turned to the men beside him, his voice low but clear.

"No mercy," he said softly. "Not for them."

And then he moved.

They descended on the noble camp like a flood. The first arrows fell in silent arcs, cutting into the sleeping soldiers before they could rise. The startled shouts of the sentries were quickly swallowed by blades slicing their throats.

Harsh led the charge himself, his sword a blur of steel in the dark. He moved with ruthless efficiency, striking with precision and ferocity. His twice-strong physique made him a whirlwind of death—cutting through armor and bone with every stroke.

He saw the terror in the nobles' eyes as they realized what was happening. They had expected to fight peasants and scattered rebels. They had not expected disciplined, hardened warriors with the strength of men who had learned not only to fight—but to win.

Ishani fought at his side, her blade a streak of silver in the dark. Her movements were fluid and swift, her strikes cutting down any who stood before her.

The battle was over in minutes. The noble army, weakened and starved, had no chance. Their lines broke, their banners fell. The survivors fled into the darkness, their shouts swallowed by the night.

When the dawn came, the valley was theirs.

Harsh stood amidst the wreckage, blood dripping from his sword. His cloak was heavy with soot and ash, his hands streaked with blood. His chest rose and fell steadily, his eyes calm despite the carnage.

The soldiers around him did not kneel. They did not bow. They saluted him with bloodied fists and steel.

And Harsh met their eyes, his voice low but unwavering.

"This is how we win," he said.

"Not with crowns. Not with thrones."

He gestured to the bloodied ground.

"But with fire and iron."

And the men roared.