The smoke from the fragmentation grenades still drifted through the shattered courtyard as the Revolutionary Guard rounded up the surviving knights. The Cumbrian warriors, once the proudest symbols of the Crown's power, sat on the cold stone, their ornate plate armor dented and useless against the modern lead that had torn through their ranks. They looked at the farmers and craftsmen—men they had once stepped over in the streets—who now stood over them in modern military apparel and reinforced helmets, holding assault rifles.
The squad leader, a former blacksmith named Kael, stepped forward. He didn't look at the knights with hatred, but with a cold, revolutionary clarity. He pulled a sealed parchment from his tactical vest—a document outlining the principles of a Republic and the demand for the King's abdication.
"We are not here to take your lives today," Kael said, his voice echoing off the scorched walls of the fort. "We are here to end an era. Your steel belongs to a world that died the moment the people decided they no longer needed a master."
He signaled to his men, who stepped forward to strip the knights of their swords and shields. The weapons were tossed into a heap to be melted down for scrap. Kael then handed the parchment to the highest-ranking knight, a man whose gilded breastplate was scarred by a burst from a submachine gun.
"Go back to the capital," Kael commanded. "Walk through the gates of the palace and place this in the hands of King Praetor. Tell him that his borders no longer exist. Tell him that the people have found a new logic, and it does not include a throne."
The knight stared at the document, his hands trembling. "You speak of treason. The King is the soul of Cumbria."
"Cumbria doesn't need a king," Kael replied, his hand resting on the grip of his modern pistol. "It needs a President. It needs Democracy. Tell Praetor to look out from his balcony at the horizon. The fire he sees isn't a raid—it's the sunrise of a Republic. If he does not abdicate, we will bring this lead storm to his front door."
The revolutionaries kept the existence of Alex and the laboratory-ship a total secret; the knights saw only an army of commoners armed with the future. The gates were hauled open, and the defeated knights were ushered out into the morning light. They began the long, humiliating march toward the capital, carrying the news that would shatter the monarchy forever.
Back at the laboratory-ship, Alex watched the thermal feed of the retreating knights. He turned to his monitors, his youthful face reflecting the scrolling data of the world he was rewriting. "The message has been sent," he murmured. "Now, we see if the King is as stubborn as the math predicts."
******
The heavy oak doors of the Great Hall in Dernholm swung open as the battered survivors of the border fort stumbled into the royal court. The sound of their dented plate armor scraping against the stone floor silenced the bickering nobles. At the far end of the hall, seated upon the ancient throne of Cumbria, King Praetor watched with growing fury as the lead knight knelt and presented the scorched parchment.
The court descended into an uproar as the message was read aloud. Words like Republic, Democracy, and President echoed off the vaulted ceilings like blasphemies. To the assembled lords, the idea that commoners—farmers and smiths—could dictate the terms of the realm was an existential threat to the divine right of kings.
"They claim they no longer need a crown," the King thundered, his face flushing a deep, dangerous crimson. "They hide behind these 'modern' cowards' weapons because they lack the stomach for a true knight's steel. If it is a Republic they want, they shall find it only in the silence of their graves."
The mobilization began within the hour. Praetor's most loyal Knights, encased in polished steel and mounted on heavy warhorses, began to gather in the courtyard, their lances gleaming in the sun. Beside them stood the Mages of the Court, their robes shimmering with arcane energy as they prepared spells of fire and lightning to counter the "unlicensed technology" of the south.
The King's decree was absolute: every able-bodied noble and sorcerer was to march south to crush this insolence. They believed that the sheer weight of their tradition and the power of their magick would be enough to sweep away the peasant rabble.
But as the royal army marched out of the gates of Dernholm, they were not entering a simple skirmish. They were stepping into a Civil War.
Across the border, the Revolutionary Guard prepared their defenses. They dug into the earth, setting their landmines and positioning their miniguns on the high ridges. They didn't have spells or horses; they had the cold, unwavering logic of the assault rifle and the sniper's scope.
The first shots of the Cumbrian Civil War were about to be fired. The old world of magick and monarchy was on a direct collision course with a future of lead and liberty.