Lord Cassian was no engineer, but he knew the principles of material science. The fact that the world had produced the precisely cast ammunition he found in the Hold's chest meant that the required industrial foundation—extreme heat, standardized molds, and specialized knowledge—was possible here. He was betting that Staff Sergeant Andrew 'Andy' Blake, an S-6 tech known for his mechanical brilliance, would instinctively gravitate toward such a place.
Deacon sent his final command via Staff Sergeant Tate (Balthasar) that morning: S-6 activation and immediate materials analysis.
The Glassmaker's Shack
Deacon arrived at the glassmaker's shop under the guise of commissioning a set of rare, tinted panes for the Hold's private chambers. The shop was a standalone structure near the river, chosen for its access to water and the constant need for roaring furnaces.
The building was grimy and hot, filled with the sharp smell of soot and burnt silica. The Master Alchemist, Elian, looked like a man who hadn't slept in three days. He was tall, thin, and covered in fine, black ash. His eyes, though bleary, were constantly moving, analyzing every shadow, every thermal shift.
Deacon recognized the signs of a soldier running on pure adrenaline and intellectual obsession. Blake was trapped in the body of a Master Alchemist.
"Master Elian," Deacon said, using the authoritative voice of the Castellan. "I require your immediate services. My Hold is too dull. I require blue glass, and red glass, tinted with the finest pigments."
Elian bowed stiffly, his hands—which were large and powerful, despite the fragile work they performed—tightening into fists. "My Lord, pigments are scarce, and my current commission is for the temple. I cannot spare the focus."
Deacon ignored the refusal and leaned close to the raging furnace, pretending to examine the heat. "Master Elian. I have a more urgent commission. I require a very special kind of pigment. We will call it Project Grog."
Blake's head snapped up. 'Grog' was the old, half-joking codeword for 'Highly Classified Weapons Development' back at FOB Bastion.
Deacon spoke low, his voice swallowed by the furnace's roar. "The Major—Dr. Kelly—sent the word. Project Grog is a go. Your mission is Materials Production and Improvised Ordnance. Your expertise is needed to turn local materials into defense assets. We need two things, Elian: Precision casting and chemical accelerants."
Blake dropped his voice to a terrified whisper. "SFC Hayes. This body—Elian—he's a glassmaker, not a metallurgist! I can get heat, Sir, but I can't refine iron ore into workable steel in three days. And chemicals? They have sulfur and potash, nothing more!"
"You're S-6, Sergeant. You improvise," Deacon insisted. "The Major confirmed the presence of saltpeter in the town's waste stores—used for curing meat. I need you to show me what happens when you mix saltpeter (potassium nitrate), sulfur, and charcoal dust. I need a powder that burns fast and hot."
Blake, though trembling, recognized the formula instantly. "That's crude gunpowder, Sir! It's unstable! And it won't fire a projectile; it will just be smoke and flash."
"I don't need a projectile, Elian. I need fear and noise. I need to detonate charges near the walls to break the Goblins' attack cohesion. I need flashbangs and shock charges. Can you make me fifty charges?"
Blake's fear gave way to the obsessive focus of the true tech soldier. "The saltpeter is pure, Sir, but drying the mixture takes time. I can do it. And the precision casting—I can make standardized molds for your Field Expedient Explosives casings using clay and wax. But I need supplies moved covertly."
The Acquisition Pipeline
This was where the Shadow Command had to connect. Deacon was placing a production order, and Blake/Elian had to request raw materials through the logistics pipeline.
"Ruiz—Brandt—is your S-4. You will not talk to him," Deacon instructed. "You will pass your supply requests to Balthasar—Sergeant Tate—who will encode them and relay them to me, and I will issue the supply order through the Castellan's Office."
Deacon pulled out a small, custom-made ink vial. "I need your supply order immediately. Use a substitution cipher based on the cost of glass. Example: If I need saltpeter, you commission five panes of clear glass and one pane of red glass—the number five means saltpeter, the color red means high-priority chemical."
Blake was already processing the complexity. "Understood, My Lord. I will generate a coded work order. I need charcoal, saltpeter, and crushed clay now, or Project Grog is a bust."
Deacon smiled grimly. "Consider it ordered, Master Elian. Now, focus on your heat. The town's survival depends on your ability to make fire and noise. I'll send the request for the 'glass components' through the Steward's office."
The Final 48 Hours
Leaving the searing heat of the glassmaker's shop, Deacon felt a new surge of confidence. The Shadow Command was fully deployed and functioning through multiple layers of deception .
S-3 (Renna/Rodriguez): The militia was now drilling in small, cohesive fireteams, learning to trust their neighbor and use the tight city streets as fighting positions.
S-7 (Miller): The southern wall was sealed with rough, but effective hydraulic cement, fortified with a stinking, solid berm of packed earth and waste.
S-4 (Ruiz/Brandt): The logistics pipeline was active, funneling cordage, fats, and now chemicals, all under the cover of market purchases.
S-6 (Blake/Elian): The most critical piece—weapons development—was underway, using medieval chemistry to create modern shock weapons.
S-5 (Kiley/Kelly): The Major was handling the psychological casualty (Thorne) and providing crucial, high-level intelligence on the local geography and customs.
Deacon's last stop of the day was the Hold's front gate, where he placed his final covert order before the siege.
He called over Commander Harl. "Harl, I want you to take twenty of Renna's most trustworthy fireteams. I want them to gather every large stone, every piece of hard, heavy debris, and every heavy piece of furniture that can be moved. Place these assets high on the rooftops along the main North Road."
"Rooftops, My Lord? They are too exposed!" Harl objected.
"They are not exposed, Commander," Deacon corrected, his voice iron. "They are going to be my Heavy Artillery platforms. When the Goblins break through the gate, they will be funnelled into a kill box of falling stone. It is a one-time shot, but it will shatter their formation. Do it quietly. I want the Goblins to think the rooftops are empty."
Harl, finally grasping the brutal logic of the plan—sacrificing the front line to ensure the annihilation of the center—shuddered, but obeyed.
Deacon stood back and surveyed Oakhaven. The chaos of panic had been replaced by the ordered chaos of preparation. The town now bristled with invisible defenses: coded mortar, hidden powder, disciplined soldiers disguised as civilians, and stone artillery waiting on the roofs.
The siege was no longer a question of if, but when. And Lord Cassian, the former Sergeant First Class, was ready to meet it.