The twenty-four-hour curfew imposed by Lord Cassian bought the Shadow Command the precious time needed to execute the forensic cleanup of the North Gate. The stench of sulfur and death hung heavy in the humid air, but the silence of the city was a strategic blessing, allowing the sounds of shovel scraping and timber shoring to dominate.
Deacon, covered in dust and soot, stood at the lip of the seven-foot breach. Corporal Miller, his S-7 Engineering Chief, was directing his labor crew, who were working with a grim, exhausted efficiency born of the terrifying victory. They were not just removing rubble; they were frantically stacking the Warg carcasses—gruesome, temporary sandbags—and erecting crude, angled timber shoring inside the gap. .
"The breach is stabilized, Sir," Miller reported, wiping grime from his face. "The clay from the Thunder Claps is hard to separate, but we are clearing the zone. The problem is the wall itself. The shockwave cracked the stone buttresses fifty feet to either side of the gate. We need time and material for proper structural repair—more than the quick hydraulic cement can handle."
"Time is a luxury we don't have. Stabilize the crack lines with the cement. Then, your priority is to repair the militia's defenses. I want every rooftop resupplied with stone, and every fire-bottle replaced. We assume the Goblins will return tonight," Deacon ordered.
The crucial task of evidence containment fell to Staff Sergeant Tate, his S-2 Scout and Comms Chief, who arrived at the gate wearing the guise of Dr. Kelly's medical assistant, collecting samples of the 'plague-ridden Wargs.' Tate was meticulous, moving through the carnage with the slow, deliberate care of a crime scene investigator. He systematically gathered every piece of clay casing, every remnant of pitch fuse, and every trace of the volatile black powder that had been scattered by the explosion.
He approached Deacon and spoke low. "SFC Hayes. The area is eighty percent clean. But Major Kiley is right—the residual sulfur signature is strong. Anyone with a basic knowledge of ancient chemistry will know that wasn't a 'thunderstone.' It was a combustion charge."
"Can you mask it?"
"Only with more odor, Sir. We need to burn something else here—something overpowering and local. I suggest pitch and pine sap. A massive, ceremonial bonfire tonight, My Lord, to 'cleanse the area of the Goblin plague.' The ritual will cover the chemical signature."
Deacon nodded, already planning the political necessity. "Tell Miller to scavenge every piece of pitch he can find. The ceremonial bonfire is a go."
Tate then produced a small, folded piece of vellum—a coded message from Major Kiley, delivered through the medical runner. The decoded message was terse: The Widow Elms' spy network may be related to the local Alchemist Guild. They are the only ones who understand complex chemical signatures. The Alchemist Guild is led by Master Lykos. Secure Lykos before he analyzes the sulfur traces.
The immediate political threat was clarified: the Widow Elms' spy network and the local Alchemist Guild—the very people who could expose Blake's weapons manufacturing—were connected.
Deacon rode back to the dispensary to check on Major Kiley, knowing the Major held the key to neutralizing the Guild. Kiley was still working, his dispensary a grim, orderly chaos.
"Your forensics are good, Major. The sulfur trace needs masking," Deacon said, speaking under the cover of examining a wounded militiaman's bandages. "The local Alchemist Guild is sniffing around. Their leader is Master Lykos. He needs to be neutralized before he analyzes the blast."
Kiley looked up, his eyes bloodshot but clear. "Lykos is an influential man, Hayes. He is a primary supplier to the Castellan's House and the Church. You can't just kill him. It will cause a political implosion."
"Then you neutralize his influence," Deacon pressed. "You are S-5. You know the weaknesses of the body. You know the language of medicine. I need a medical reason to remove Lykos—a diagnosis that puts him out of commission for a week."
Kiley glared at the Sergeant-turned-Lord, realizing the cold-blooded political maneuvering required. "Lykos is obsessed with purity. He fears the plague above all things. I can diagnose him with 'Sudden Putrefaction of the Humors'—a highly contagious, internal disease that only I, as the Castellan's physician, can treat. He will be forced into isolation in the Quiet Room."
"The Quiet Room is reserved for psychological casualties," Deacon stated, referring to Corporal Thorne.
"Thorne is stabilized. He needs a room, not the dungeon," Kiley shot back. "Lykos's isolation is our priority. I will have him quarantined by morning. But you owe me, Hayes. You owe me a direct resource to replace him."
"Done," Deacon agreed instantly. "Staff Sergeant Blake (Elian) is now the only functioning Master Alchemist in Oakhaven. All Guild assets fall under his control. Your medical authority will enforce the transfer."
Kiley gave a grim nod. The crisis had forced the Major to act as a brilliant political manipulator, using his S-5 cover to dismantle the opposition. The command inversion had solidified: Deacon set the military strategy, and Kiley ran the high-level operational security. Deacon left the dispensary, the heavy burden of command momentarily lifted by Kiley's competence. He had neutralized the immediate structural threat, the chemical threat, and the political threat, all within hours of the battle. Now, he just had to manage the final rite of purification: the bonfire.