The fires of battle still smoldered as dawn broke over Ironhold. Smoke curled into the sky, blotting out the rising sun, and the once-proud fortress now bore the scars of a brutal siege. The outer walls were cracked and blackened, the gates reduced to splinters, and the courtyard was littered with debris and bodies.

Juri Winkler stood at the edge of the battlements, his hands resting on the cold stone. His sharp blue eyes scanned the forest beyond, searching for any sign of movement. The Arcanists had retreated under the cover of night, but Juri knew better than to assume they were gone for good.

Behind him, Halrick approached with a heavy tread, his armor battered and streaked with blood. He leaned against the battlements, letting out a weary sigh.

“They’re gone,” Halrick said. “What’s left of them, anyway. We drove them off.”

Juri didn’t look away from the horizon. “For now.”

Halrick glanced at him, frowning. “We won, kid. Take the victory where you can get it.”

Juri exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cold morning air. “A victory that cost us half our forces and left the fortress barely standing. It doesn’t feel like much of a win.”

“It is to them,” Halrick said, gesturing toward the courtyard below.

The remaining rebels were hard at work clearing the wreckage, their faces etched with exhaustion but also determination. Garrick moved among them, barking orders and offering words of encouragement. The wounded were being tended to in makeshift infirmaries, while others worked to patch the gaping holes in the walls.

Juri watched them in silence for a moment before finally stepping back from the edge. “We’ll need to move quickly. The Arcanists won’t take this lightly. They’ll be back with more men, stronger spells, and better plans.”

Halrick raised an eyebrow. “Move quickly? You’re talking about rebuilding the whole damn fortress.”

Juri smirked faintly. “I’m not talking about rebuilding Ironhold. I’m talking about leaving it behind.”

Halrick blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Leave? After all we just fought for?”

“This place served its purpose,” Juri said, his tone calm but firm. “It gave us a foothold, a chance to prove that we’re not helpless. But it’s a crumbling ruin in the middle of nowhere. If we stay here, we’ll be surrounded and destroyed. We need to think bigger.”

Halrick folded his arms. “And where exactly do you plan to go?”

Juri’s smirk widened. “Somewhere they’ll never expect.”

As the morning wore on, Juri made his way through the fortress, taking stock of the damage and assessing the state of his people.

The courtyard was a grim sight. The dead had been laid out in neat rows, their bodies covered with tattered cloaks and blankets. Juri paused beside the makeshift memorial, his gaze lingering on the faces of those who had fallen.

One of the younger recruits, a boy barely old enough to hold a weapon, lay among them. Juri recognized him as Marcus—a farmhand from a nearby village who had joined the rebellion with stars in his eyes.

Garrick approached quietly, his face lined with grief. “We lost thirty-seven,” he said. “Another twenty are wounded. Some of them won’t make it through the week.”

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Juri didn’t respond immediately. He crouched beside Marcus’s body, his fingers brushing against the boy’s blood-streaked hair.

“He was just a kid,” Juri said softly.

“They all were,” Garrick replied. “Most of them didn’t know how to fight before they came here. But they believed in you.”

Juri stood, his expression hardening. “Then I’ll make sure their sacrifice wasn’t in vain.”

Later that afternoon, Juri gathered his closest allies in the fortress’s war room—a dimly lit chamber with a battered table at its center. Halrick, Garrick, and a few other key figures crowded around the table, their faces tense.

Juri unrolled a map of the region, his fingers tracing a path through the northern mountains.

“We can’t stay here,” he said, breaking the silence. “Ironhold is too exposed, and we don’t have the resources to defend it against another attack. We need to relocate.”

“Relocate to where?” Garrick asked. “The northern mountains are treacherous, and the villages up there are barely holding on as it is.”

“Which makes it the perfect place to disappear,” Juri replied. “The Academy won’t expect us to move into such inhospitable terrain. We’ll be able to regroup and rebuild without constant harassment.”

“And what about the people who joined us because of Ironhold?” one of the rebels asked. “You think they’ll follow us into the mountains?”

“They’ll follow if they believe it’s the only way to survive,” Juri said. “Ironhold gave them hope, but it’s not a home. It’s a symbol. And symbols can move.”

Halrick leaned forward, his voice low. “And what happens when the Academy finds us again? Because they will, eventually.”

Juri’s smirk returned, sharp and cold. “Then we make sure we’re ready for them.”

After the meeting, Juri returned to the workshop to assess the damage to the Mechanized Soldier. The machine’s frame was dented and scorched, its joints stiff from the strain of battle. The cockpit smelled of burnt oil and smoke, and several of the internal mechanisms were beyond repair.

Garrick entered the workshop, his expression skeptical. “That thing saved us, but it’s falling apart. Are you really planning to drag it into the mountains?”

Juri didn’t look up. “Of course not. This version served its purpose. The next one will be better.”

“The next one?” Garrick asked.

Juri stepped back from the machine, his eyes gleaming with ambition. “This was just the beginning. A prototype. The next version will be faster, stronger, and more versatile. It’ll make this one look like a child’s toy.”

Garrick hesitated, then nodded slowly. “You really think machines like this can win a war?”

Juri’s smirk widened. “I don’t think they can. I know they will.”

By the end of the week, the rebels were ready to move. Supplies were packed, weapons were distributed, and the wounded were loaded onto carts.

Juri stood at the gates of Ironhold, watching as the last of his people prepared to leave. The fortress loomed behind him, its battered walls a stark reminder of the price they had paid for their first victory.

Halrick joined him, his sword slung across his back. “You sure about this? Once we leave, there’s no coming back.”

Juri nodded. “Ironhold was never meant to be permanent. It was a stepping stone, nothing more.”

“And what happens when the Arcanists find it abandoned?”

Juri smirked faintly. “Let them. By the time they figure out where we’ve gone, we’ll be too far ahead for them to catch us.”

Halrick chuckled. “You’re a cocky little bastard, you know that?”

“Confidence isn’t cockiness when you’re right,” Juri replied.

The rebels began their march into the northern mountains, their steps heavy with exhaustion but their spirits lifted by the hope of a new beginning.

Juri walked at the head of the column, his gaze fixed on the distant peaks. The road ahead would be long and dangerous, but he welcomed the challenge.

This was only the beginning.

Far away, in the grand halls of the Royal Academy, Lorian Vehr stood before a council of robed mages. The chamber was vast, its walls lined with glowing runes and towering shelves of ancient tomes.

“You failed,” one of the council members said, her voice sharp.

Lorian’s jaw tightened. “Ironhold was a minor setback. The boy is resourceful, but he cannot run forever.”

“And yet, he has done what no one else has dared,” another council member said. “He has defied us and lived to tell the tale. That is unacceptable.”

Lorian’s gray eyes burned with quiet fury. “I will find him. And when I do, there will be nothing left of him or his machines.”

The council exchanged wary glances before the eldest among them spoke.

“See that you do. The balance of power must be maintained. If this rebellion grows, it could threaten everything we’ve built.”

Lorian nodded, his expression cold. “It won’t.”