The revelation regarding Lord Cassian's true lineage sat in the stagnant air of the dispensary like a physical weight, heavier and more dangerous than any Goblin steel that had battered their gates. Deacon stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the Latin transcriptions in Major Kiley's ledger. The script was neat and clinical, the hallmark of a man who used professional distance to shield himself from the insanity of their situation, but the content was a slow-burning fuse. If Corporal Thorne was indeed channeling the dormant memories of his host body, then the very foundation upon which Deacon had built his command was not just a facade, but a catastrophic liability.
Major Kiley moved to the window, pulling the heavy wool curtains shut against the prying eyes of the street. The light in the room dimmed to a sickly amber, cast by a single, sputtering oil lamp that smelled of rancid tallow. He turned back to Deacon, his face etched with a fatigue that went deeper than the skin. The Major looked less like a United States Army officer and more like a man who had spent a lifetime in the trenches of a forgotten war.
The boy, Timon, was more than just a peripheral student at the seminary, Kiley began, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper that barely carried across the small desk. He was the personal scribe to the late Castellan's chaplain, a man named Father Eustace. Timon wasn't just a witness to rumors; he was the hand that recorded the legal depositions and the secret correspondence of the Church. According to these notes, the true heir to Oakhaven, the legitimate son of the previous Lord, died in a hunting accident nearly six years ago. The host body you occupy, Cassian, was an unacknowledged bastard brought in from a distant, crumbling estate in the northern reaches to prevent the title and the land from reverting to the Imperial Crown. The Church brokered the deal, forging the papers and the lineage to maintain their direct influence over the local grain tithes. If Oakhaven had become an Imperial territory, the Church would have lost their tax-exempt status on the primary silos.
Deacon paced the small, cramped room, the wooden floorboards creaking under his noble boots—boots that felt more like a thief's shoes with every passing second. His mind, trained in the cold logic of logistics and resource management, immediately began running through the devastating implications of this data. In a feudal society, legitimacy was the only currency that held the structure of the world together. It was the glue that bound the peasants to the land and the minor lords to the King. If an Imperial Inquisitor, a rival claimant, or even a local noble like the Widow Elms discovered that the current Castellan was a manufactured noble, Oakhaven would be declared an occupied territory. The Shadow Command would lose its legal shield, the unit would be hunted as foreign usurpers, and the mission would end in an Imperial execution square.
We aren't just hiding our modern origins now, Major, Deacon stated, his voice tight. He stopped his pacing and leaned over the desk, staring at the Latin phrases as if he could force them to reveal more. We are hiding a dynastic fraud. If Thorne starts reciting this in the streets, or if the wrong person hears him speaking the chaplain's secrets, the Church will have him executed to protect their own involvement in the cover-up. They won't care about a 'Holy Relic' or a victory over Goblins if their own survival is at stake. We need to move him. He can't stay in that attic near the market where voices carry through the rafters.
Kiley nodded, his medical concern shifting into tactical alignment, a transition that always seemed to cost him a piece of his soul. He needs a secure environment, but one that looks like medical isolation to any passerby. I can't keep him here in the dispensary; the traffic of wounded and sick is too high, and the walls are thin. We need a location that is under your direct control but physically isolated from the Hold's servants and the gossip of the town square. I suggest the old granary near the southern wall. Miller has been using it as a temporary supply depot for his hydraulic cement and stone scraps. It's fortified, it's quiet, and most importantly, it's a dead end. We can staff it with a single, loyal guard who doesn't ask questions.
Not just a guard, Deacon countered, his eyes hardening. We need a handler who can monitor his speech twenty-four hours a day. If Thorne is reciting the history of the House of Cassian, we need to record every syllable. That Latin is our only map of the political minefield we're standing in. It tells us who knows the secret, where the papers are hidden, and who we need to neutralize or buy. I'll task Rodriguez with finding a soldier who can handle the psychological strain of watching a man lose his mind while maintaining total silence. Someone from the S-2 scout pool who can stay awake in the dark.
The logistical move of a high-value patient required a cover story that wouldn't alert the Steward's network of spies or the Widow Elms' mercantile eyes. Deacon spent the next hour under Kiley's silent observation, drafting a formal decree on heavy parchment. He cited a residual miasma—a lingering, invisible pestilence from the North Gate breach—that required the immediate relocation of certain fever-prone citizens to the dryer, more elevated air of the southern granary for specialized treatment. It was a thin, desperate lie, but in the chaotic aftermath of a magical explosion and a victory that felt like a miracle, the people of Oakhaven were psychologically primed to believe anything the Castellan told them about unseen threats.
As Deacon signed the decree with the stolen signet ring of House Cassian, he felt the weight of the metal on his finger like a shackle. He wasn't just a sergeant anymore; he was a counterfeit lord in a world that burned counterfeiters alive. He looked at Kiley, who was already preparing a sedative for Thorne's transport.
Major, Deacon said, his voice low. If the Church brokered this deal, Father Marius knows. He's the one who gave me the consecration for the North Gate. He's been playing me since the day I woke up.
Kiley paused, his hand hovering over a glass vial. Marius is a politician in a robe, Hayes. He doesn't just know. He's likely waiting for the right moment to remind you who really owns the chair you're sitting in. We need that Latin translated, and we need it yesterday.
Deacon left the dispensary, the cool night air doing nothing to clear the feeling of being hunted. He made his way toward the barracks to find Rodriguez. The shadow of the North Gate loomed in the distance, a blackened jagged tooth against the stars. He had saved the walls, but he was starting to realize that the real war wasn't at the gates—it was in the bloodlines and the ledgers of the men who called him Lord.