The wind had changed.
Not just the change from winter to summer, but something deeper—more silent, more dangerous. It was in the way the villagers now greeted Emil not just with curiosity, but with respect. It was in the way the hammering sounds from his newly built workshop rang out like war drums instead of metalwork. And it was most certainly in the silence that had followed the "disappearance" of the Crown's enforcer.
The village had grown cautious, but not out of fear. Out of anticipation.
Emil stood inside the one-room schoolhouse they had hastily converted out of an abandoned grain barn. Straw still littered the edges of the beams, but the walls now bore chalk drawings of letters, and young villagers squinted under candlelight, learning to form the words Emil had brought with him:
"Worker."
"Rights."
"Union."
Most of them had never held a quill. Some didn't know their own age. But Emil was patient. He spoke to them like equals.
He turned to the class, mostly teenagers, and asked, "Why do we read?"
A scrawny boy—Ferlan, son of a field plower—hesitated. "Because... you said words are power?"
Emil nodded. "More than swords. More than gold. You can take land from a man, but not his knowledge. If you can read, you cannot be ruled so easily."
The priest, leaning against the doorway, arms folded and a smile on his face, chuckled. "Our new prophet, Emil. Saints save us."
"Don't start calling me that," Emil said without turning. "I'm building citizens, not disciples."
In the evenings, under lanternlight, Emil held meetings. They weren't public, and they weren't yet illegal. But they felt like the start of something dangerous.
The ex-soldier, Gerwin, had trained five younger men in basic musket usage. Emil taught them formation basics and drilled discipline. "Only fire when I say," he reminded them. "We are not brigands. We're a union, not a mob."
He had even created uniforms—plain brown tunics with a red stitched band around the arm. Nothing fancy. But symbols mattered.
"We can't march like an army," said the serious guard, Aldric, "but we can still look like one."
The bodies of the enforcer and his men had been buried quietly, deep in the forest. The villagers didn't ask questions. Some didn't want to know.
But others began bringing Emil bread, or milk, or eggs—not as taxes, but as thanks.
His influence grew like moss over stone—slow but inevitable.
Then came the day he arrived.
The horse was black, tall, its rider armored but not ostentatious. His retinue—a small band of royal soldiers, not more than a dozen—rode behind with disciplined silence.
The Baron of Norwick was not a fool. When one of the Crown's enforcers failed to return, someone was going to ask questions.
He dismounted near the village square, and the villagers instinctively drew back.
Emil stepped forward, outwardly calm, inwardly burning.
The Baron's cold eyes scanned him. "You. Stranger. Are you the 'teacher' they speak of?"
"I am," Emil answered.
"Then I ask plainly. Where is Sir Koltz and his men?"
Emil didn't flinch. "He never arrived."
Silence fell over the square. One of the Baron's knights twitched a hand near his hilt.
"He was supposed to visit every village east of the River Vost. I've received reports from none. You expect me to believe bandits took down six armed men?"
Emil shrugged. "I believe your men feared this forest too much. Or perhaps they mistook some lord's deer and paid the price."
The Baron stepped closer, studying Emil's face.
"You speak like a noble," he said. "But smell like rebellion."
"And you wear your titles like armor," Emil said evenly. "But forget that they are rusting."
Gasps echoed. Even the priest took a half-step forward.
The Baron turned to the villagers. "If I find out anyone is hiding the Crown's men—or harboring ideas that spit on our King's order—there will be punishment. For all."
He mounted his horse.
"Remember this, villagers. The King may be far, but he sees. And the Crown never forgets."
As they rode off, Gerwin muttered under his breath, "That went well."
That night, Emil gathered his inner circle.
"They'll come back. Not with questions, but with torches. We have a few weeks. A month if we're lucky."
The ex-soldier cracked his knuckles. "Then we hit first."
Emil shook his head. "No. We prepare. I'm not interested in martyrdom. I want to win."
He pointed at the table—his crude map of the region, marked with parchment pieces, charcoal lines, and notes.
"We send a letter. To the other village chief across the river. The man who hates the Crown."
Aldric nodded slowly. "And if he refuses?"
Emil's voice hardened.
"Then I'll remind him that the Crown already treats him like a criminal. Might as well make it true."