The confrontation with Father Marius was not a matter of if, but a matter of when, and as the blizzard finally tapered off into a crystalline, biting stillness, Deacon decided the time was now. The snow lay thick and heavy across Oakhaven, a white shroud that muffled the city's sounds but could not hide its mounting desperation. The cold had become a physical weight, a silent predator that sat in every unheated hearth and every empty larder. Deacon dressed in his most formal Castellan attire—heavy furs over a tunic of deep charcoal wool—and tucked the Iron Seal, wrapped in a coarse linen cloth, beneath his arm. Its cold, metal-bound edges bit into his side, a constant reminder of the explosive potential of its contents.
He walked to the chapel alone. He did not want the presence of Rodriguez or Harl to signal a military intent. This was a psychological engagement, a skirmish of leverage and legacies. The chapel's main sanctuary was empty, the air smelling of cold stone and the lingering, sweet-sickly scent of incense. The high, vaulted ceilings were lost in shadow, and the only light came from the guttering votive candles that flickered like dying stars around the perimeter.
Father Marius was found in the sacristy, surrounded by the warmth of a small, efficient brazier. He was meticulously cleaning a silver chalice, his soft, fleshy hands moving with a practiced, rhythmic grace. He looked up as Deacon entered, his expression a carefully neutral mask of religious greeting, though his eyes immediately dropped to the heavy, wrapped object under the Castellan's arm. He knew. In that split second of recognition, Deacon saw the mask of the holy man slip just enough to reveal the calculating bookkeeper beneath.
"A cold morning for a visit, My Lord," Marius said, his voice smooth and devoid of any real warmth. "I trust the vigil in the crypts provided the spiritual clarity you sought? The sub-prior mentioned you left rather abruptly, through a... less traditional exit."
"The crypts provided more than clarity, Father," Deacon replied, stepping into the warmth of the brazier. He did not wait for an invitation to sit. He placed the linen-wrapped bundle on the small table between them. The iron clattered against the wood with a final, heavy thud. "They provided the truth. I found the 'Altar of the Silent Heir.' And I found what the Silent Heir was guarding."
Deacon reached out and pulled the linen back, revealing the iron-bound ledger. The sight of it seemed to suck the heat from the room. Marius's hands froze on the silver chalice. He didn't speak. He didn't even breathe for several seconds. The silence in the sacristy became absolute, a vacuum where the only sound was the faint, rhythmic crackle of the charcoal in the brazier.
"This is the Iron Seal, Marius," Deacon said, his voice low and devoid of emotion, the tone of a Sergeant delivering a terminal report. "I've spent the last three days with my... scholars. We've read every entry. We've mapped every bushel of grain and every copper coin that was moved through the southern gate while the people of this city were eating grass and leather. We've recorded the names of the factors in Oryn. We've recorded the 'tithes' paid to this chapel to ensure the ledgers remained in the crypts. And we've recorded the forged papers that brought me into this House."
Marius finally looked up, and the oily confidence of the priest was gone, replaced by the sharp, desperate survival instinct of a cornered animal. "You are playing a dangerous game, Cassian. Or whoever you are. That book is a death warrant. For the Church, yes, but for you as well. If the Imperial Crown sees those names, they won't just purge the chapel; they will seize the Hold. They will declare this land an empty fief and put every official to the sword."
"I'm not taking it to the Crown, Marius," Deacon stated, leaning forward until he was mere inches from the priest's face. "Not yet. I'm an NCO—a logistics man. I don't want a purge; I want the grain. I know about the secret silos beneath the southern tithe-barn. I know exactly how much grain is stored there, held back to 'stabilize' the market when the prices hit their peak. You are going to release that grain today. All of it. You will announce it as a 'Divine Provision' for the faithful during the winter of the Holy Relic."
"And if I refuse?" Marius whispered, his eyes darting to the door.
"If you refuse, the Iron Seal goes to the Widow Elms," Deacon lied, knowing that the mention of the smuggler queen would strike more fear into Marius than the abstract threat of the Crown. "She has the routes to the capital. She has the contacts. She will have those pages on the Governor's desk before the snow melts. And you, Father, will be the first man to hang from the North Gate. Your secret silos for Oakhaven's survival. That's the trade. You keep your life and your station, and my people don't starve. Do we have an agreement, or do I go visit the Widow?"
Marius slumped back in his chair, the silver chalice slipping from his fingers and clattering to the floor. He looked old, suddenly, the weight of decades of corruption finally catching up to him. He looked at the Iron Seal, then at the man wearing the stolen fur of House Cassian.
"You are a devil," Marius whispered.
"No, Father," Deacon replied, standing and re-wrapping the ledger. "I'm just the man who's actually going to save this city. Start the distribution at noon. I'll be watching from the tower."