The ceremonial bonfire was Lord Cassian's grand masterstroke of political theater and chemical concealment, a necessary public performance to maintain the illusion of divine favor and mask the reality of chemical warfare. As the sun set, casting long, bloody shadows across the western walls, the entire city watched from the confines of the curfew as a massive, pungent pyre of pitch-soaked pine and scavenged herbs—all collected by Miller's exhausted crews—was set ablaze directly in front of the shattered North Gate.
Father Marius, his fear of the plague slightly mollified by the promised funds, led the ritual. He chanted ancient, repetitive prayers over the cleansing fire, his voice amplified by the quiet dread of the city. The heavy, sweet smoke of burning pine sap, intentionally overwhelming, drifted through the city on a low wind. This pervasive, organic scent successfully masked any lingering sulfur traces from the Thunder Claps, while simultaneously achieving its primary political objective: soothing the populace with the illusion of divine cleansing and consecration after the terrifying intervention of the 'Holy Relic.'
While the city was distracted by the purifying fire, Deacon executed the surgical strike against the Alchemist Guild, the organization holding the intellectual key to exposing his weapons manufacturing. Early that morning, Major Kiley, inhabiting the body of Dr. Kelly, had made his dramatic entrance. Wearing an exaggerated, beak-like plague mask and carrying a loud, insistent bell, the Major had marched through the city and personally delivered the diagnosis to Master Lykos. The "Sudden Putrefaction of the Humors"—a terrifying, contagious, and entirely fictional disease invented by Kiley—was delivered with such chilling, authoritative conviction that the terrified Lykos immediately collapsed into absolute, terrified quarantine. Kiley had sealed him in the repurposed Quiet Room, effectively neutralizing the intellectual threat without shedding blood.
With Lykos safely isolated, Deacon executed the formal transfer of power. He declared the Alchemist Guild's assets and workshops to be under the emergency control of the Castellan, citing the immediate, critical need for "pure components" to create the antitoxins necessary to treat the rising post-battle fever.
Staff Sergeant Blake, the former glassmaker now masquerading as Master Elian, suddenly found himself elevated from a solitary artisan to the head of the city's entire chemical and glassmaking industry. Deacon found him at the Guild's main workshop—a sprawling, organized facility filled with glassware, complex crucibles, and shelves of organized chemical powders. Blake was overwhelmed by the sudden authority but energized by the sheer volume of resources now at his disposal.
"Report, S-6. What exactly did we just acquire, and what is the immediate threat?" Deacon asked, surveying the complex chemical lab.
Blake's eyes were shining with a professional hunger that replaced his previous terror. "Sir, this is a goldmine. Lykos was meticulous. He was obsessed with mineral purity, which means he has high-grade potassium nitrate—saltpeter—and finely refined sulfur. We don't have to rely on manure scraping and tanner's remnants anymore. We can produce stable, predictable powder now, capable of delivering a precise yield. Furthermore, he has a fully functional forge, proper ventilation, and, most importantly, acid baths used for etching glass and refining mineral purity. The Major's request for acid is fulfilled, and Project Grog is instantly upgraded to a predictable, military-grade asset."
"Project Grog is upgraded to stable," Deacon confirmed, feeling a profound surge of relief. The largest variable in his military arsenal was now contained and controlled. "Now, the political threat. I need you to find the Widow Elms' contraband. Kiley warned she was a spy, but I suspect she is a logistical one. Lykos was her supplier."
Blake began sifting through Lykos's private inventory, looking for anything out of place—anything that spoke of foreign luxury or anachronism. It didn't take long. Lykos wasn't a spy; he was a fence for high-value goods that bypassed Imperial taxation.
"Sir, look at this." Blake pulled out a false-bottom crate hidden beneath a pile of dried reagents. Inside were dozens of small, intricately designed objects wrapped in linen.
Deacon unwrapped one. It was a pocket watch. Not a simple medieval hourglass or sun dial, but a perfectly manufactured, late 19th-century mechanical pocket watch, complete with brass plates, tiny gears, and a coiled mainspring. .
"Contraband," Deacon breathed, turning the watch over in his palm. It was cold, clean, and impossibly complex for this world. "But not military. These are modern mechanisms. The Widow Elms isn't spying for a noble; she's running a luxury goods smuggling ring that trades in anachronistic items. Lykos was her chemist and her fence, likely synthesizing compounds or cleaning these pieces."
The realization was a strategic windfall. The Widow Elms was not a political enemy to be neutralized; she was a logistical partner to be leveraged. Her network of smugglers and contacts, driven purely by profit, offered a ready-made, covert supply line that bypassed Imperial authority.
"The Widow gets her tax exemption back immediately," Deacon decided. "But she now works for us. Blake, you are to analyze the internal mechanisms of these watches. Focus on the springs and the gears. Can you replicate the tension and the precision? This is our first step toward a covert clockwork industry. We need precise timekeeping for future operations, and the Widow's network just delivered the blueprint."
Deacon left Blake to his new, expansive workshop, the silence of the lab broken only by the technician's focused tapping. The immediate crisis was contained, but the personal exhaustion was crushing.
He returned to the Hold, the heavy burden of command settling on his shoulders. He made quick stops to check his essential personnel. Corporal Thorne, though psychologically withdrawn, was stable in his attic room. He was alive, which was all that mattered.
He then rode past the South Wall. Corporal Miller's crew was still working, their fatigue masked by sheer professional obstinance, repairing the stress cracks caused by the explosion. Miller was the backbone of the recovery, turning medieval rubble into modern engineering.
Deacon's final duty was to Staff Sergeant Rodriguez. He found Renna sharing a meager meal with her two surviving fireteam members. They were deafened, bruised, but their survival had forged them into the disciplined, cohesive unit Deacon had intended.
Deacon handed Renna a small pouch of silver—the money the Castellan had promised The Pepper Twins.
"The Twins earned their pay. Their strike saved the city," Deacon said. "Your Trios will receive double rations for the next month. Now, take two days rest. The Goblins are not the biggest threat now."
"Who is, My Lord?" Renna asked, rubbing her aching ears.
"The plague," Deacon lied easily, knowing that political stability required a perpetual, manageable external threat. "And the famine. The siege may be over, but the work is just beginning. The walls will hold, but the people will starve without our intervention." Deacon had successfully transitioned his command from military defense to civilian infrastructure, demanding the same fierce dedication from his weary Shadow Command.