The snow came late that year.
Even as the highlands around Dünrath remained dusted in early frost, the valleys of the Northern Lands burned—not with fire, but with the kindling sparks of dissent.
It began small.
A tax caravan headed for Baron Luthren's keep was turned back near the village of Redstone. Armed villagers with flintlocks and a crude barricade halted the soldiers, citing "community necessity" and "self-governance." The baron's men left without violence.
Two weeks later, however, a second caravan did not return.
Its escort was found disarmed and stripped of armor, tied to trees along the forest paths. The local commander wrote the report with shaking hands, and one word repeated again and again in the margins:
"Unionist."
Within a month, similar skirmishes broke out near Halten and Brenmark, small towns once loyal to the crown. Garrison patrols began to disappear. Armories were found looted. Roads bore graffiti in red chalk: crude fists, muskets, and the slogan Emil once spoke in a speech never meant for the wider world:
"He who works shall rule."
Inside the tunnels of Dünrath, Emil stood over a detailed hand-drawn map of the north. Markers had shifted. Dozens of village dots had been colored with crimson ink.
He was no longer simply organizing.
He was managing a movement.
"Three cities and nearly fifteen hundred villages," whispered Elna, the young woman he had trained to oversee correspondence between cells. "They're organizing without direct orders now. Some have begun forming their own local councils."
"Good," Emil muttered. "But dangerous. If they move too fast, the hammer will fall."
Otmar leaned against the stone wall, loading a musket.
"It's already falling," he said grimly. "There were riots in Kelthar last week. The guards opened fire. Dozens dead. Some of them just… hungry."
"And the king?" Emil asked.
Elna grimaced. "Rumors say he's barely conscious most days. The priests keep announcing 'fasts for his recovery.' But everyone knows—he's dying."
"And the Crown Prince?" Emil's voice dropped.
"He's furious. They say he's at odds with Duke Hallen—the same Duke who's been stalling army reinforcements and leaking grain to the rebellious towns."
"So it begins," Emil whispered.
The kingdom's heart trembled.
The Crown Prince, barely past thirty, had begun assembling Loyalist Battalions—noble-born cavalry and hastily raised conscripts loyal only to him. But the Duke of Hallen controlled the northern road networks, and the border cities that fed the capital's grain supply.
And across it all, the Union spread like a silent flood.
Three months after the first skirmish, Brenmark declared itself a Free People's Commune. A red banner flew from the church tower.
When the king's soldiers came, they were met not with ambush, but with thousands of shouting peasants, armed with muskets and pitchforks, marching in defiance through the muddy streets. A single gunshot triggered chaos.
Dozens died. More joined the cause.
The revolution had not been declared.
But it had begun.
Back in Dünrath, a hastily convened night meeting filled the stone hall of the Revolutionary Congress.
Chief Alric stood again.
"We can't control it anymore," he said. "These aren't sparks—they're flames. If we don't shape this movement, others will."
Emil looked at the flickering torchlight, face unreadable. The teachings had spread. The literacy programs had taken root. The muskets were in the hands of thousands.
But he knew the people were not yet ready for war.
Not yet.
"Then we must shape it from the shadows," Emil said. "Teach discipline. Strategy. Temper the flame so it doesn't burn us, too."
"And if the Crown sends its full wrath?" asked a younger chief.
Emil stared at the map. At the roads. At the loyalist strongholds.
Then, softly:
"Then we fight. But not yet."