The warehouse doors didn't just open; they were heaved aside by two armored men-at-arms, their shields clattering against the stone doorframe. Behind them stood the Imperial Herald, Valois. In the flickering, low-light environment of the warehouse, he looked less like a man and more like a predatory bird, his crimson tabard appearing like dried blood under the guttering tallow candles. He was flanked by four members of the "Inquisitorial Guard"—specialized troops tasked with "sanctifying" regional anomalies. They wore masks of polished silver, featureless and haunting, and carried heavy maces designed to crush bone rather than cut flesh.
Deacon stood his ground in the center of the clearing, the candlelight casting long, jagged shadows behind him. He didn't reach for his sword. Instead, he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, the very image of a noble caught in a moment of private meditation. Behind him, the false wall had already clicked into place, concealing the Seed Drill and Miller's team. The silence in the warehouse was absolute, save for the rhythmic drip-drip of melting snow from the guards' cloaks.
"Master Valois," Deacon said, his voice flat and devoid of the panic the Herald clearly expected. "You have a remarkable talent for dramatic timing. Though I must ask: does the Governor usually authorize the battering of merchant doors in the dead of night? The Widow Elms is a sensitive woman; she might find this... unneighborly."
Valois stepped forward, his eyes scanning the room with the practiced intensity of a forensic investigator. He stopped a few feet from Deacon, his monocle glinting. "The Widow Elms' sensitivities are of little concern to the Crown when there are reports of 'Ancient Mechanica' being traded in the dark, Cassian. My spies saw a heavy carriage enter this district. A carriage from the Alchemist tower. I want to see the cargo."
"You are standing in a textile warehouse, Valois," Deacon replied, gesturing vaguely to the towering stacks of wool. "The cargo is silk. Or perhaps you've developed a sudden, passionate interest in the embroidery of the Southern Marches?"
Valois's lip curled. "Do not play the fool with me. I know you've been at that tower. I know the Alchemist Guild has been hollowed out. And I know Father Marius is terrified of you. You possess something—a weapon, or a tool—that you haven't declared. The 'Holy Relic' was a convenient story for the peasants, but I am an Auditor of the High Court. I deal in realities."
One of the silver-masked guards stepped toward a stack of crates near the false wall. His mace was raised, ready to shatter the wood to see what lay beneath. This was the moment of maximum friction. If they found the Seed Drill, the "miracle" would be demystified into a state secret, and the Empire would seize Oakhaven to industrialize its own war machine.
Deacon didn't move to stop the guard physically. Instead, he gave a sharp, distinctive whistle—a high-low-high tone that sounded like a winter bird but was actually the "Execute" signal for the Shadow Command's psychological operation.
Suddenly, the darkness of the upper rafters erupted.
A series of small, glass spheres—Blake's "Pepper-Smoke" canisters—shattered against the floor around the Imperial guards. A thick, acrid cloud of white smoke billowed upward, smelling of sulfur and a concentrated, eye-watering spice that no one in this century had ever experienced. The guards coughed, their silver masks muffled their cries, and they stumbled back, blinded.
"What is this sorcery?" Valois hissed, covering his face with his fur-lined sleeve.
"Not sorcery, Master Valois," Deacon's voice boomed from within the smoke, sounding unnervingly calm. "Justice. The Relic is not 'consumed.' It is... protective."
High above, Tate (Balthasar) moved like a phantom. He didn't use a blade. He used a series of thin, high-tension wires to knock over a stack of empty crates on the far side of the room, creating a thunderous crash that masked the sound of Miller and Brandt retreating further into the tunnels.
Then came the centerpiece.
From the darkness of a side alcove, a beam of concentrated, brilliant white light cut through the smoke, hitting Valois square in the chest. It was the "Glass Eye" telescope's lens, repurposed. Blake had mounted a high-intensity oil lamp with a parabolic reflector—a primitive but effective searchlight—behind a series of magnifying lenses. To the medieval mind, this wasn't a lamp; it was a ray of divine judgment.
The Imperial guards fell to their knees, their hands over their eyes. The sheer intensity of the light in the dark warehouse was physically painful.
"The light of the Cassian ancestors does not care for auditors," Deacon said, his silhouette appearing as a towering, black shadow within the blinding beam. "You asked to see the reality of Oakhaven, Valois. This is the reality. We are the keepers of the Flame and the Gear. If you wish to audit us, do so in the light of day, with the proper writs and the proper respect for the House that saved this province from the Goblin tide."
Valois was trembling. He was a man of logic, but the combination of chemical smoke, the deafening crashes, and the "unholy" light was too much for his paradigm to handle. He saw Deacon as something no longer human—a warlock-knight standing in the center of a mechanical sun.
"Withdraw!" Valois shouted, his voice cracking. "Back to the garrison! We... we shall return with the Inquisitor himself!"
The Herald and his blinded guards stumbled back through the doors, retreating into the snowy night. As soon as the sound of their horses faded, Deacon signaled for the light to be extinguished. The warehouse returned to its dim, candlelit state.
Blake stepped out from the alcove, his face covered in soot, holding the cooling brass housing of the searchlight. "That was close, Sarge. The reflector nearly melted. We can't do that twice."
"We don't need to do it twice," Deacon said, finally letting out a long, ragged breath. He leaned against the oak table, his heart hammering against his ribs. "We just needed to buy time. Valois is terrified now. He won't come back with four guards; he'll wait for a regiment. That gives us until the spring thaw."
The Widow Elms emerged from the shadows of the silk-stacks, her eyes wide as she looked at the brass lamp in Blake's hands. She looked at Deacon, and for the first time, there was genuine fear—and genuine respect—in her gaze.
"You really are a devil, Cassian," she whispered. "That light... it wasn't a miracle, was it? It was a machine."
"Everything is a machine, Madame," Deacon replied, straightening his mantle. "Even a city. Even an empire. You just have to know which gears to turn to make it scream."
He looked toward the open warehouse doors, where the snow was drifting back into the room. They had won the skirmish, but the "Audit" was now a formal war. The Shadow Command had revealed too much of their hand to remain a "secret," but just enough to be terrifying. As the winter deepened, the "Lily Pad" was no longer just a base of survival; it was a beacon that the entire Empire was now watching.