The relocation of Corporal Thorne took place under the heavy, oppressive cover of a freezing autumn rain, the kind of downpour that turned Oakhaven's unpaved streets into a treacherous slurry of mud, ash, and animal waste. The sky was a bruised purple, and the wind whipped through the narrow alleyways with a mournful, hollow whistle. Staff Sergeant Rodriguez personally oversaw the transport, utilizing a heavy, covered wagon typically used for hauling Miller's crushed stone and bags of lime. To any casual observer or Watch guard huddled in a doorway, it was merely the Castellan's work crews moving construction materials for the ongoing repairs, but inside, huddled in a nest of damp wool blankets and muttering in a language he had never studied, was the unit's greatest liability.
The southern granary was a stark, vertical monolith of weathered stone and massive oak timber, standing in the long, cold shadow of the southern wall. It was a utilitarian structure, designed for defense and storage rather than comfort, and its thick walls provided a natural acoustic barrier against the outside world. Corporal Miller had already spent the afternoon preparing the interior, clearing out piles of gravel and creating a small, insulated living space on the third floor, accessible only by a retractable wooden ladder. It was a prison disguised as a sanctuary, a place where a man could disappear into the shadows of the rafters.
Deacon met the wagon at the base of the granary, the rain lashing against his heavy cloak. The smell of wet horse and damp earth was overwhelming. Rodriguez hopped down from the driver's bench, her face a mask of grim professional focus beneath her dripping hood.
Is he stable? Deacon asked, his voice barely audible over the drumming of the rain.
He's quiet, for the moment, Rodriguez reported, her jaw set tight. But the second we crossed the market square, he started reciting names. Not just names, Hayes. Lists of them. Dates of birth, land deeds, and something about an 'Iron Seal' hidden beneath the stones of the chapel floor. It didn't sound like a man talking in his sleep. It sounded like a ledger. A spoken record of every bribe, every forged signature, and every secret tithe the Church took to keep the House of Cassian standing. He's reading the host body's files, and the files are full of dirt.
Deacon climbed the ladder to the third floor, the wood groaning under his weight. The air up here was dry and smelled of old dust and grain dust. The room was dim, illuminated only by a single, flickering oil lamp placed on a low crate. Corporal Thorne—or the frail, pale body of young Timon—sat in the corner on a straw pallet. He wasn't rocking with the frantic energy of his first days in the dispensary. Instead, he was eerily still, his back pressed against the stone wall, his eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance that no one else could see. His lips moved in a steady, rhythmic cadence, a soft drone of sound that filled the small space.
In nomine patris, et filii, et heredis silentio, Thorne whispered. The Latin flowed from his throat with a natural, practiced inflection, the vowels round and the consonants sharp, a linguistic fluidity that Thorne the Marine could never have achieved even with years of study. His voice lacked any of the stuttering fear Deacon had heard before; it was the voice of a professional scribe reciting a legal deposition.
He's not in there anymore, is he? Miller asked from the top of the ladder, his voice heavy with the particular pity of a soldier watching a comrade fall to a wound that couldn't be bandaged. It's like the host is taking over the cockpit because the pilot checked out from the stress.
He's still in there, Deacon insisted, though he felt a cold knot of doubt tightening in his chest. He's just using the host's hard drive to store the trauma. He's processing. Miller, I need this floor soundproofed immediately. Use the heavy textile remnants the Widow Elms delivered as part of her 'trade agreement.' I don't care if it looks like a carpet shop in here; if he starts shouting in the middle of the night, I don't want the guards on the battlements hearing Latin or names they recognize. Rodriguez, you're the primary handler. You spend four hours a day here, alternating with Tate when he can get away from the Widow. You listen, you record, and you bring every name and every location to me or the Major. This is intelligence gathering now, not just medical care.
As Deacon turned to leave, Thorne's head snapped up with a sudden, violent speed. For a brief, terrifying second, the vacant, glassy look vanished from his eyes, replaced by a flash of the raw, lucid terror of the young corporal who had seen the green light at Bastion.
Sergeant? Thorne croaked, his voice cracking and thin. The numbers... the numbers don't add up, Sir. The logistics... the Lord was stealing. He was taking the grain. Before the Goblins even showed up, he was moving the reserves out through the river gate at night. He was selling Oakhaven's survival to the South. He was making a profit on the famine.
The connection clicked into place in Deacon's mind with the jarring force of a puzzle piece being hammered home. The famine that was currently strangling Oakhaven wasn't just a result of poor soil management or the pressure of the Goblins; it was a deliberate, criminal extraction of resources by the very man whose life Deacon was now living. The former 'Lord Cassian' hadn't just been a dynastic bastard; he had been a traitor to his own people, a man who had gutted the city's lifeblood for gold.
Hold the line, Thorne, Deacon said, his voice dropping into the firm, commanding tone of an NCO stabilizing a panicked private. We're fixing the numbers now. We're going to find where it went. You just keep talking. Tell us where the grain went. Tell us about the Iron Seal.
Thorne's eyes went blank again, and he slumped back against the wall, the Latin drone resuming as if someone had flicked a switch. Et in pecunia ecclesiae, fides est perdita...
Deacon descended the ladder, his mind spinning. The mission had just expanded into a new, darker territory. He wasn't just fighting an external war against Goblins, a long-term fight against soil depletion, and a desperate cover-up of a dynastic fraud. He was now investigating a massive, internal embezzlement scheme that had left Oakhaven hollowed out and vulnerable. If the previous Lord had been selling grain to the South, there were records. There were buyers. And if the Church held the 'Iron Seal' Thorne had mentioned, they held the evidence of the theft.
He stepped out into the rain, the cold water soaking through his noble silks. He looked toward the chapel in the distance, its spire a dark, accusatory needle against the weeping sky. The Shadow Command was no longer just a defensive military unit; they were now deep-cover investigators in a conspiracy that likely spanned the entire southern reach of the kingdom. He needed Tate's intelligence skills to find the physical evidence, but Tate was now the Widow Elms' property. He would have to rely on Blake's new semaphore system to signal the Major. The complexity of the command was becoming a logistical and political nightmare, and the first snow of winter was only weeks away. He had saved the city from a siege, but now he had to save it from the ghost of the man he was supposed to be.