The wind howled through the stony caverns of Dünrath as the first Revolutionary Congress came to a tense close. Flickering torches lit the wide granite hall, casting long shadows over the assembled village chiefs. Dozens of men and women, hardened by toil and tempered by grief, stood in semi-circle rows beneath the arched mountain ceiling.
Emil sat at the central dais, his black coat lined with red stitching now faded from weeks of travel and sweat. His eyes scanned the gathered faces—young and old, hopeful and skeptical.
A hand rose. It belonged to Chief Alric, a scar-faced elder from Mülheim, one of the largest villages near the river basin. His voice was sharp and deep, carrying the weight of three generations' worth of peasant memory.
"You speak of rights, of union, of schooling and muskets. You speak like one who's seen a better world," Alric began. "But we are still men who plough and bleed under banners not our own. You call us the People's Union, but I ask you, Emil—from one chief to another... is this truly a revolution?"
Murmurs stirred across the chamber. A few chiefs nodded slowly, while others glanced toward Emil, waiting.
Emil didn't answer immediately. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled. He could feel the weight of Alric's words settle on his shoulders. He remembered the screams of the enforcer's men in the woods. He remembered burying them quietly in the frozen ground. He remembered the muskets lined up in rows, still too few, still too fragile.
Then he stood.
"No," Emil said clearly. "It is not a revolution. Not yet."
Silence fell.
"We have seeds. A thousand of them. Villages who have cast aside their taxes, who have trained with rifles, who have started to write their names. But seeds are not trees. Not yet."
He stepped down from the dais and walked among them.
"The Empire will not stay asleep forever. Its barons already ask questions. Its priests are whispering heresy in our name. If we call this a revolution now, we burn before we're ready."
"So we'll continue. Quietly. Patiently. We send teachers, not banners. Muskets, not manifestos. For every baron's village that joins us, we ask nothing but peace, and a promise to educate their own."
"And when the time comes—when every man and woman from the mountains to the rivers can read, can write, and can shoot—then we'll raise the red banner. And it won't fall."
The room held its breath.
Then Alric gave a long exhale. He nodded once, and others slowly followed. Not with cheers. Not with cries of freedom.
But with resolve.
Later, as the congress slowly dispersed into smaller discussions, Emil stood at the balcony overlooking the tunnels. Otmar, the ex-soldier, walked beside him, chewing on dried venison.
"Not bad for a speech," Otmar said. "Still think we should've declared it. I'd look great in a revolutionary flag."
"You'd be dead in a week," Emil replied, smirking.
"Fair."
They stood in silence for a while, the torches below illuminating teachers organizing crates of musket parts and paper. Children from nearby villages were being taught how to hold a pen for the first time.
"How long do you think we have before the Empire sends someone serious?" Otmar asked.
"Not long. But we've got one thing they don't," Emil said.
Otmar raised an eyebrow.
"Time and patience."