The adrenaline of the "Warehouse Incident" didn't fade with the morning light; instead, it curdled into a cold, metabolic exhaustion that settled over the Alchemist Guild tower like a thick fog. In the aftermath of the searchlight's flare, the Shadow Command found themselves huddled in the "War Room"—a repurposed map chamber on the tower's third floor—surrounded by the flickering ghosts of their own technological ambition.
Deacon sat at the head of the heavy oak table, the brass chronometer on his wrist ticking with a rhythmic, mechanical judgment. Across from him, Major Kiley looked older than the stone walls surrounding them. The "Elegant Physician" was gone, replaced by a man whose hands were stained with the soot of Blake's smoke canisters and the metaphorical blood of a deception that was growing too large to contain.
"We just crossed the Rubicon, Hayes," Kiley said, his voice a dry rasp that barely carried across the room. He wasn't looking at Deacon; he was staring at a half-melted silver mask one of the Imperial guards had dropped in his panic. "Up until tonight, we were survivors. We were a lost unit trying to keep a town from starving. But that display in the warehouse? That was a declaration of supernatural status. You didn't just scare Valois; you challenged the fundamental order of the Imperial Church."
"I did what was necessary to protect the Seed Drill, Major," Deacon replied, his tone hard and uncompromising. "If they had seized that machine, they would have had the blueprint for our economic independence. We would have been reduced to serfs in our own hold."
"And instead, we've become monsters," Kiley countered, finally looking up. His emerald eyes were clouded with a deep, ethical fatigue. "I spent the morning at the dispensary, Deacon. The rumors are already flying. The townspeople aren't talking about 'Lord Cassian the Liberator' anymore. They're talking about the 'Iron Shadow.' They saw the light from the warehouse windows. They heard the screams. They think we've summoned a demon to protect the grain. How am I supposed to 'heal' a population that is terrified to look me in the eye?"
The room fell into a heavy, uncomfortable silence. This was the fracture Deacon had feared. The unit was no longer a cohesive fireteam; they were becoming the very "Lords" they had once mocked.
Staff Sergeant Rodriguez broke the tension, her hand resting on the hilt of the heavy axe she had leaned against the table. "With all due respect, Major, fear is a tactical asset. The militia is finally standing straight because they think the 'Castellan' has the power of the sun in his pocket. They aren't deserting. They aren't questioning orders. If being 'monsters' keeps the Goblins in the woods and the Empire at the gates, then I'll take the horns and the tail."
"It's not just about the town, Renna," Miller added from the corner, where he was tinkering with a broken gear from the searchlight. "It's about us. Look at this." He held up a piece of the parabolic reflector. "This isn't military grade. It's a bodge job. We're pushing the tech too hard, too fast. We're building a foundation of glass. If we keep using 'miracles' to solve our problems, eventually the physics will fail us in front of a thousand witnesses. What happens when the 'God-Light' doesn't turn on because a leather belt snapped?"
Deacon stood and walked to the narrow window, looking out over the snowy sprawl of Oakhaven. From here, the city looked like a model—a toy set he was trying to rearrange while the house was on fire.
"We are no longer soldiers in a war zone," Deacon said, his back to them. "We are the architects of a new reality. The 'Lily Pad' doctrine was designed for temporary occupation, but we're building a permanent state. The psychological toll you're feeling? That's the weight of the crown. It's the realization that there is no 'Extraction Team' coming for us. There is no higher command to bail us out. We are the highest command."
He turned back to face them, his face a mask of iron-hard resolve. "Major, I need you to lean into the 'mysticism.' If the people are afraid, give that fear a structure. Tell them the light is a 'Sanctifying Flame' that only appears to purge corruption. Blake, I want the semaphore network expanded to the southern outposts by the end of the week. If Valois is sending word to the capital, I want to know exactly which courier is carrying the message so Tate can intercept him."
"And if we can't intercept the message?" Brandt asked, his golden-amber eyes sharp with calculation. "The Governor isn't going to let a 'supernatural' challenge to his authority go unanswered. He'll send the Inquisitors, and they won't be scared of smoke bombs."
"Then we make Oakhaven too expensive to attack," Deacon stated. "We accelerate the trade. I want the Seed Drills in the hands of every rival Lord in the Marches. We turn our technology into a virus. If every major estate is using our tools, the Governor can't burn Oakhaven without collapsing the regional economy. We aren't fighting with steel anymore, people. We're fighting with the bottom line."
As the meeting adjourned, the members of the Shadow Command filed out, their movements heavy with the realization that their old lives were truly dead. They were the "Lords of the Iron Cathedral" now, trapped in a web of their own weaving.
Deacon stayed behind, the brass chronometer ticking on the table. He picked up the silver mask the guard had dropped. It was cold, empty, and featureless—a perfect mirror of the man he was becoming. He had saved the city, but in doing so, he had become the ghost that haunted it. The winter was far from over, and the "Audit" had only just begun.