The scent of iron and oil clung to the air like a ghost.
Emil stood beside the workbench, sleeves rolled up, his fingers darkened by gunpowder soot. One hammer strike after another echoed through the modest workshop — no longer the empty husk of a granary, but the heart of something greater. Something dangerous.
Behind him, five villagers worked in tight silence. Two filed barrels. One packed powder. One affixed bayonets. And a lanky boy barely sixteen — the one Emil called "Wilf" — shaped stocks out of wood with calloused fingers and wide, curious eyes.
They were not blacksmiths. Not gunsmiths. Not soldiers.
They were believers now. Not in gods or kings — but in him.
"How many barrels complete?" Emil asked, not looking up.
"Seven this morning, two more almost done," said Bran, the ex-soldier, between puffs of breath. "With a bit of spit and prayer, we'll have a dozen by sundown."
"Then double the tempo," Emil said, walking to a row of finished flintlocks. "The moment they find out we exist, this won't be a workshop anymore. It'll be a battlefield."
"You're sounding dramatic again," chuckled Harst, one of the guards, wiping his brow. "We're makin' poppers, not cathedrals."
Emil glanced at him. "They're not just weapons. They're equalizers."
Harst paused. Bran gave a low whistle.
"Shit," he muttered, "you're serious about this revolution thing."
Emil didn't answer. Instead, he walked to the blackboard he'd nailed up near the rear wall. Chalk lines divided it into segments: names, assignments, quotas. At the bottom, written in his sharp, deliberate hand:
UNION CELL: VILLAGE 1 - STRUCTURE
"Remember," he said, turning to the workers. "This isn't a guild. This is a union. We don't serve a lord. We don't beg from nobles. We make and protect each other."
Father Alric, the priest, leaned against the doorframe, sipping from a tin mug. "And we're still keeping it secret from the mayor?"
"Yes," Emil said flatly.
"But she's sympathetic."
"She's still a monarchist."
Alric shrugged. "Suit yourself."
Then the door slammed open.
A boy — no more than ten — ran in breathlessly, cheeks flushed red.
"Scout's back!" he yelped. "From the north road! He's not alone!"
Five men stood behind the scout, clad in black half-plate and bearing the crest of the Loyalist Militia — a red lion devouring wheat.
At the head was a man like a butcher, broad-shouldered, dead-eyed. His hand rested lazily on the hilt of a sabre crusted with old blood.
"I am Enforcer Clauth," he declared before even entering the village square. "By order of the crown, all village militias must disband. Any gathering of armed men is subject to purification."
The village chief, an old woman who once admired Emil's manners, hesitated.
"Good people of Branntor," Clauth sneered, "do not test the patience of your rightful liege."
From the shadow of the barn, Emil watched.
He turned to Bran.
"They've come sooner than expected."
Bran spat. "Too soon."
Emil raised his hand. "Call the five. Bring your rifles."
They struck at dusk.
No glorious banners. No speeches. No fanfare.
Just smoke, and fire, and the scream of Clauth as the musket ball tore into his chest. He didn't even fall like a man — just crumpled, gasping.
Two guards died in the first volley. The other three tried to flee.
They never made it out of the village.
When the smoke cleared, Emil stood over Clauth's body. He looked to his companions — Bran, Harst, Alric, and the others.
"Now," he said quietly, "they'll come."
Father Alric approached, gaze grim. "We're marked men now."
"No," Emil replied. "We're freemen. And they're going to learn what that means."