The morning after the battle dawned cold and quiet. The snow-covered valley bore the scars of the night’s conflict: craters pockmarked the ground, shattered fragments of Sentinels lay scattered like the skeletons of fallen beasts, and the bodies of the nobles’ soldiers—alongside a few of their own—were hastily covered with tarps until they could be buried.

Juri Winkler stood atop the ridge, the valley stretched out below him like a canvas painted with violence. His coat was singed, his gloves stained with soot, but his sharp blue eyes betrayed no hint of exhaustion. Behind him, the Thunderstrike cannon stood silent, its barrel blackened from the final, desperate shot that had turned the tide.

Halrick approached, his heavy boots crunching through the snow. “That was one hell of a fight,” he said, his tone measured.

“It was,” Juri replied without looking at him. “But it was just one fight.”

Halrick frowned. “You don’t think they’ll hit us again this soon, do you? We sent them running.”

Juri finally turned to face him, his expression grim. “Running, yes. But not broken. The nobles don’t take losses like this lying down. They’ll regroup, they’ll adapt, and next time, they’ll come back with something worse.”

Back in the camp, the rebels worked tirelessly to rebuild. Crates of ammunition were unloaded, defenses were repaired, and the wounded were tended to in makeshift infirmaries. The grim reality of the battle had taken its toll on everyone.

Garrick oversaw the recovery efforts near the southern cliffs, his sharp eyes scanning the terrain for any signs of movement. He had always been a steady presence among the rebels, but today even he seemed weighed down by the losses.

“We lost six last night,” Kira said quietly, stepping up beside him.

Garrick nodded. “And three more might not make it through the week.”

Kira folded her arms, her gaze distant. “We keep winning, but it doesn’t feel like a victory.”

“It never does,” Garrick said. “But it’s better than the alternative.”

The rebellion’s success came with a price: the growing tension within the camp.

The raid on Greystone had been bold, the defense of the valley even bolder. But whispers of discontent spread among the rebels like wildfire. Many of the recruits—farmers, blacksmiths, and others who had joined for the promise of freedom—began to question whether they were truly fighting a winnable war.

Near one of the fires, a group of recruits sat huddled together, their voices low but heated.

“This is madness,” one man muttered, poking at the fire with a stick. “Every time we win, we lose more people. At this rate, there won’t be anyone left to fight.”

Another recruit, a wiry woman with short-cropped hair, scowled. “You think the nobles will let you live if you quit? They’ll string you up as an example.”

“Better than freezing to death out here or getting crushed by one of those damned machines,” the man shot back.

The argument drew Garrick’s attention, and he strode over, his voice sharp. “Enough. You’ve got doubts? Fine. Keep them to yourselves. The rest of us are busy keeping you alive.”

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The recruits fell silent, their expressions sullen but subdued.

In his workshop, Juri buried himself in his work, refusing to let exhaustion or doubt slow him down. The remains of the destroyed Sentinels had been hauled into the camp, and Juri wasted no time dismantling them, analyzing every component, every rune, every flaw.

“These designs are sloppy,” he muttered, examining the core of one machine. “Too much reliance on magical redundancy. They’re compensating for instability instead of fixing it.”

Kira entered the workshop, watching him from the doorway. “You’ve been in here since dawn. You should get some rest.”

“I don’t have time to rest,” Juri replied, his hands flying over the exposed circuitry of the Sentinel core. “The nobles are already working on their next move. If we don’t stay ahead of them, we lose.”

Kira frowned, stepping closer. “You can’t do this alone, Juri. We need you out there, with the others. They’re starting to lose faith.”

Juri set down his tools and looked at her, his expression hard. “Faith doesn’t win wars. Machines do.”

“Machines don’t lead people,” Kira said sharply. “You do.”

For a moment, Juri said nothing. Then he exhaled, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “I’ll speak to them. But only after I finish this.”

He gestured toward a new design on the table—a blueprint for a smaller, more efficient machine that could operate autonomously in the field.

“What is it?” Kira asked.

“An Adaptive Drone,” Juri said. “It can scout, sabotage, or even engage targets depending on the situation. If I can get this working, we’ll have a way to strike without risking more lives.”

Kira studied the blueprint, her expression softening. “You really think this can make a difference?”

Juri smirked faintly. “I don’t think. I know.”

Far away, in the gilded halls of the Royal Academy, the nobles convened once more. The defeat at the valley had stung their pride, and now their patience was wearing thin.

Lorian Vehr stood before the council, his coat immaculate despite the strain in his posture.

“The new Sentinels performed better than the prototypes,” Lorian said. “But the rebels’ leader—Winkler—has proven more resourceful than anticipated. He anticipated our nullification magic and used it against us.”

Lady Alarice Vorell, seated at the head of the table, leaned forward, her green eyes narrowing. “Excuses, Lorian. Every defeat is another crack in our authority. What are you doing to ensure this rebellion is crushed?”

Lorian’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice steady. “The next generation of Sentinels is nearly complete. I’ve also secured reinforcements from House Ilvaren—Arcanists trained specifically in counter-sabotage tactics. With their support, we can isolate the rebels and eliminate them before they can spread further.”

“And what of Winkler himself?” Alarice asked.

“He will fall,” Lorian said coldly. “One way or another.”

That evening, as the rebels settled into uneasy quiet, Juri called a meeting of his core team: Halrick, Garrick, Kira, and a few others.

“We don’t have much time,” Juri began, his voice steady. “The nobles will come back, and they’ll come back harder. But we’re not going to wait for them.”

Halrick raised an eyebrow. “You’re planning another raid already?”

“Not a raid,” Juri said. “An excavation.”

The others exchanged confused glances.

“There’s a site east of here,” Juri explained, pulling out a map. “An old mining operation abandoned years ago. According to my research, the nobles used it to extract rare metals for their experiments. If the records are accurate, there’s still a stockpile buried there—and it’s exactly what we need to strengthen our machines.”

Kira frowned. “And if it’s not there?”

“Then we’ll adapt,” Juri said. “But if it is, it could give us the edge we need to turn this war in our favor.”

Garrick leaned over the map, his expression skeptical. “You’re asking us to gamble everything on a hunch.”

Juri met his gaze. “It’s not a hunch. It’s a calculated risk. And if we don’t take risks, we lose.”

After a long moment, Garrick nodded. “Fine. But if this goes south, it’s on you.”

“It always is,” Juri said with a faint smirk.

The rebels spent the next day preparing for the expedition. Teams were organized, supplies were packed, and Juri made final adjustments to the new Adaptive Drones he had designed.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the valley in shadows, Juri stood on the ridge overlooking the camp. His mind was a storm of ideas, calculations, and doubts.

Kira joined him, her voice quiet. “You sure about this?”

“No,” Juri admitted. “But I don’t have to be. I just have to make it work.”