The fires in the village forge burned low, the air thick with the scent of gunpowder and steel. A row of roughly-finished flintlocks sat cooling beside the workbench, their shapes crude but functional — proof that revolution didn't need perfection. Only direction.
Emil wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped outside, the night air sharp with the early chill of the changing season. The village, once quiet and fearful, now hummed with quiet energy. Whispers of change passed between doors, between hands clutching books Emil had started distributing — small, handwritten guides on reading, writing, and most of all: thinking.
But the fire here was only the first.
The Plan
Seated within the workshop, Emil laid out a map on the table. He tapped three points across the valley.
"North. West. South. Each of these villages has a population of at least one hundred. Farming and fishing folk. Mostly ignored by the nobility… and that means they're perfect," he said to Falk, the former soldier, and Doren, the serious town guard.
"You want to send people there?" Doren asked, arms folded. "You barely have your feet under you here."
"I won't send them unprepared," Emil said. "That's why I'm going myself. Not to incite anything yet… but to listen, observe, and plant the first seeds. Quietly."
Falk chuckled. "So, what do we do if someone there don't like this 'Union' stuff of yours?"
"We move on," Emil replied calmly. "There are always people living under bootheels. You just have to find the ones ready to stand."
The First Visit – West Village, Craymoor
Emil traveled light. No banners, no weapons except a hidden dagger and a flintlock tucked under his cloak. With him were a few spare reading scrolls and two small revolvers disassembled in a pouch.
Craymoor was poor, smaller than his home village, but more desperate. The local reeve was an absent cousin of a baron, taxes high and hands thin.
Emil stayed at a run-down inn and listened.
In the tavern, he met a stablehand named Joren — young, bitter, and smart. The kind who had too many questions and nowhere to put them.
They spoke at night by the river.
"A… union, you said?"
"Yes," Emil said. "A group of people. United. Who decide what to produce, who to help, and how to protect each other. You aren't serfs if you build your own future."
"But what if we're found out?"
Emil smiled faintly. "Then we don't get found out."
He gave Joren a copy of a short primer on organizing. At dawn, he left — with a nod, and the first cell planted.
The Second Visit – South, Denholde
This one proved harder. The village chief was an ex-knight — respected but loyal to the crown. Emil changed tactics.
Instead of talking about change, he talked about protection.
"You have no guard. The roads are crawling with monsters. What will the king do when raiders come?"
Emil offered muskets — two, assembled from spare parts — in exchange for silence and shelter.
Later, he found a woodcutter named Hale who had been jailed years ago for "disrespecting a noble." He read well, thought deeper, and had no love left for the crown. A second cell began under his guidance.
The Third Village – North, Ersendale
Ersendale was more dangerous. A loyalist knight had been stationed nearby just a week ago. Emil took no risks.
Instead of staying, he met with a merchant's daughter during market day. Her name was Liene, and her father had been executed for false charges by a corrupt baron.
Liene already organized mutual aid among the local widows. Emil simply offered structure. A secret meeting, a shared code of symbols, and the third cell took root.
Back in the Village
When Emil returned, Doren met him at the edge of the forest trail.
"You're not the only one planting seeds," the guard said, handing over a folded note. It bore no seal.
Emil unfolded it.
"A baron has requested audience with the village chief regarding the missing enforcer. You'll be expected to attend."
Emil's eyes narrowed.
"They're coming quicker than I expected."
Falk grinned grimly. "Then we'll just have to grow quicker."
Emil folded the note slowly and slipped it into his coat. The wind shifted. The Union had begun spreading.
But now, the eyes of the crown were beginning to turn.