While the Alchemist Guild tower was a hive of technological birth, the dispensary had become a cold, quiet fortress of medical and psychological attrition. Major Kiley, the former Commanding Officer and now the city's primary healer, sat in his darkened study, the only light coming from the dying embers in the hearth. The first snow had brought a new influx of patients—not from battle, but from the brutal realities of a medieval winter. Respiratory infections, frostbite, and the slow, grinding malnutrition of the famine were filling his beds, stretching his limited supplies of boiled water and herbal tinctures to the breaking point.
The pressure of the 'Blue Fever' deception was also beginning to take a visible toll on Kiley's composure. He had spent the afternoon performing a 'cleansing ritual' at the seminary, a theatrical display of masks, incense, and technical-sounding Latin designed to keep Father Marius at a distance. But Kiley was a man of science and a man of rank; living a lie this large, this consistently, was eroding his sense of self. He felt less like a doctor and more like a high-stakes con artist, a feeling that was exacerbated by every groaning militiaman who looked at him with the desperate, unquestioning faith of a man seeking a miracle.
Deacon arrived at the dispensary late, his cloak caked in frozen sleet. He found Kiley staring at a tray of surgical instruments, his hands trembling slightly. It was the first sign of a crack in the Major's professional armor.
"The first snow is on the ground, Major," Deacon said softly, closing the door behind him. "The town is settling in. How are the numbers?"
"The numbers are a tragedy, Hayes," Kiley replied, his voice a dry rasp. "I have forty-two cases of pneumonia in the lower districts. The fuel shortage means they can't keep their homes dry. I'm losing the children first. Your 'manure tea' and 'seed drills' are a fine long-term plan, but people are dying today because they don't have enough grain to make a thin porridge. The Iron Seal you found—the record of the theft—it's a list of dead people, Sergeant. Every bushel the previous Lord sold was a life he traded for gold."
Deacon sat across from him, the weight of the command inversion pressing down on both of them. "I know. That's why we're using the Seal. I'm meeting Marius tomorrow. I'm going to show him the ledger. I'm going to demand he opens the Church's secret reserves—the 'tithe' grain they've been hiding for a rainy day. Or in this case, a snowy one."
Kiley looked up, a flash of his old command authority returning to his eyes. "You're going to blackmail the High Priest during a blizzard? That's a bold move, Hayes. If he calls your bluff, or if he has his own 'Holy Relic' to strike you down, the city will tear itself apart. The people are already on edge. They see the smoke from the Alchemist tower, they hear the bells from the semaphore, and they see the Castellan visiting the crypts. They know something is changing, and they're afraid."
"Let them be afraid of me, Major. It's better than being afraid of the hunger," Deacon said. "I need you to stay focused on the triage. Keep the 'Blue Fever' narrative going for three more days. Once Marius releases the grain, the fever will 'miraculously' subside. It will be seen as a dual blessing—the Lord provides the food, and the Church provides the cure. We maintain the status quo while we gut the corruption from the inside." .
"And what about Tate?" Kiley asked, his voice softening. "He's been with the Widow for a week now. He sent a message through the medical runner. She's testing him, Hayes. She's having him analyze the cargo routes of her rivals. She's using him as a weapon, not just a runner. He's becoming a part of her world."
Deacon felt a pang of guilt. He had sacrificed Tate to the Widow to secure the logistics, and he knew the psychological cost of deep-cover work. "Tate is a professional. He knows the mission. He's our eyes inside the only network that can keep us supplied through the winter. We have to trust him."
As Deacon left the dispensary, he looked back at the small stone building. It was the heart of the Lily Pad's moral legitimacy, the place where they actually did the good they claimed to be doing. But as the snow continued to fall, burying Oakhaven in a cold, white silence, he realized that every victory they won was built on a foundation of increasingly complex and dangerous lies. He had the telescope to see the enemy, the clocks to measure the time, and the ledger to prove the crime, but the winter was a foe that didn't care about logistics or legitimacy. It only cared about the heat and the grain, and Deacon was about to play his most dangerous hand yet to secure both.