The wind howled through the crumbling walls of Ironhold, carrying with it the sharp bite of the approaching winter. Juri Winkler stood at the highest battlement, his cloak whipping around him as he gazed across the distant horizon. Somewhere beyond the forested hills and winding rivers lay Greystone, and further still, the grand cities where the magical aristocracy ruled with an iron grip.

The victory at Greystone and the successful test of his upgraded Mechanized Soldier had bolstered the morale of the rebels. But Juri wasn’t celebrating. The battle hadn’t ended with their small triumph—it had only just begun.

Word of the rebellion was spreading. Garrick’s recruits spoke of outlying villages where people whispered Juri’s name with cautious hope, calling him the “magicless savior.” Others spoke of bounty hunters and Royal Academy informants moving through the countryside, seeking anyone who might know the whereabouts of the boy who dared defy magic itself.

Halrick brought the news to Juri one evening, his expression grim as he leaned against the workshop doorway.

“They’re hunting you,” Halrick said, his voice low. “The Academy’s putting up bounties in every town within a hundred miles of here. Fifty gold pieces for anyone who can bring them information about you or the fortress.”

Juri didn’t look up from the schematic he was sketching. “Fifty? That’s all I’m worth to them?”

Halrick smirked faintly. “That’s fifty more than anyone else around here is worth. They’re serious, kid. Sooner or later, someone’s going to sell you out.”

Juri paused, setting down his pen. “Let them try. I’ll make sure they regret it.”

“Not everyone’s as stubborn as you are,” Halrick said. “You’ve got a lot of scared people in this fortress, and scared people make bad decisions.”

Juri stood, crossing the room to a small chest tucked into the corner. He opened it, revealing a collection of small, handcrafted devices—grenades, smoke bombs, and other tools of sabotage.

“I’ve planned for that,” Juri said, his tone calm but firm. “And if the Academy thinks I’m going to roll over because they’ve posted a few bounties, then they’re more foolish than I thought.”

Halrick sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just don’t let your ego get you killed, kid.”

Juri smirked. “I’m not the one they need to worry about.”

Three days later, a courier arrived at Ironhold under the cover of darkness. The young man was thin and pale, his eyes darting nervously as he handed over a sealed envelope.

“This came from Greystone,” he said, his voice trembling. “I don’t know who sent it, but they paid me three silver to deliver it here.”

Garrick took the letter, eyeing it suspiciously. “You’re sure it’s safe?”

The courier nodded quickly. “I didn’t touch it, I swear. I’ll go now.”

He bolted before anyone could question him further.

Garrick brought the letter to Juri, who was in the workshop adjusting the recoil mechanism on one of the Repeaters. The envelope was fine parchment, the seal a shimmering rune that pulsed faintly with magical energy.

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“Looks like someone important wants your attention,” Garrick said, handing it over.

Juri frowned, breaking the seal carefully. As he unfolded the letter, his sharp eyes scanned the elegant script.

**To Juri Winkler,

Your reputation precedes you. It is not often that a magicless commoner attracts the attention of the Royal Academy, but your actions in Greystone have proven… disruptive.

You are clever, but cleverness is not strength. Machines may impress the simple-minded, but they will never match the elegance or power of magic. You are playing a dangerous game, boy, and I assure you, it is a game you cannot win.

Surrender yourself and your creations to the Academy, and you may yet be spared. Refuse, and I will ensure that you and your followers are erased from history.

You have three days to decide.

Sincerely,

Arcanist Lorian Vehr**

Juri read the letter twice, his expression unreadable. Finally, he set it down on the table and glanced at Garrick.

“They’re scared,” Juri said simply.

Garrick raised an eyebrow. “Scared? That doesn’t sound like fear to me. It sounds like a threat.”

“Threats are just fear dressed up in confidence,” Juri replied. He tapped the letter with his finger. “If they weren’t scared, they wouldn’t bother with a warning. They’d just attack.”

“So what do we do?” Garrick asked.

Juri smirked faintly. “We make them regret underestimating us.”

That night, Juri called a meeting in the great hall of Ironhold. The rebels gathered around the central firepit, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames. Halrick and Garrick stood near the front, their expressions grim as Juri stepped forward to address the crowd.

“The Royal Academy has issued an ultimatum,” Juri began, holding up the letter. “They want us to surrender. They want me to hand over the machines and throw myself at their mercy.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some faces showed defiance, while others were etched with fear.

“They think we’re weak,” Juri continued. “They think we’ll give up at the first sign of resistance. But they’re wrong.”

He stepped closer to the fire, his voice rising. “This isn’t just about me. It’s about all of you—everyone who’s been cast aside because you don’t fit into their perfect, magic-dominated world. They’ve had centuries to control us, to keep us in chains. But now, we have the power to fight back.”

One of the recruits, a lanky man with a nervous expression, raised his hand. “What if they’re right? What if we can’t win?”

Juri’s gaze locked onto the man, his expression cold. “Then we make them bleed for every inch they take. We show them that even without magic, we are not helpless. And when the dust settles, the world will know that we didn’t go quietly.”

The room fell silent. Slowly, one by one, the rebels nodded, their resolve hardening.

Over the next two days, Ironhold became a hive of activity. Juri worked tirelessly in the workshop, overseeing the construction of new machines and weapons. The upgraded Mechanized Soldier was outfitted with additional armor, its shoulder-mounted launcher refined for greater accuracy.

Halrick drilled the recruits, focusing on guerrilla tactics and ambush strategies. Garrick organized supply lines, ensuring the fortress was well-stocked with food, ammunition, and medical supplies.

As the rebels prepared for battle, Juri received another piece of troubling news: the Arcanists weren’t just targeting Ironhold. Reports came in of villages being burned, their inhabitants accused of harboring sympathizers.

“They’re trying to send a message,” Garrick said grimly.

Juri clenched his fists. “Then we’ll send one of our own.”

On the morning of the third day, a lone figure approached Ironhold’s gates.

Lorian Vehr was tall and imposing, his dark coat billowing in the wind. His staff glowed faintly with restrained magical energy, and his piercing gray eyes scanned the fortress with cold calculation.

The rebels watched from the battlements, their weapons at the ready. Juri stood at the front, flanked by Halrick and Garrick.

“You’re late,” Juri called down, his voice carrying across the courtyard.

Lorian smirked faintly. “I wanted to give you time to reconsider. But it seems you’ve made your choice.”

“I have,” Juri said. “And you’ve made a mistake coming here alone.”

“Alone?” Lorian raised an eyebrow. “Hardly.”

He raised his staff, and the air crackled with energy. Spells erupted from the forest as dozens of Arcanists stepped into view, their cloaks shimmering with magical wards.

The siege of Ironhold had begun.