The dawn over the Oryn Marches did not break so much as it bled—a thin, anemic smear of gray light across a sky the color of a bruised plum. In the fields stretching out from the city's limestone walls, the frost was so thick it looked like a fall of salt. This was the "breadbasket" of the South, a vast expanse of alluvial soil that had sustained the Empire for centuries. But today, it was a stage.
Deacon stood at the edge of the demonstration plot, his boots sinking into the rime-crusted earth. He was flanked by Miller and Brandt, a trio that looked entirely out of place among the silk-clad Southern Lords who had gathered at the edge of the field. The Lords were shivering, clutching their fur-lined cloaks and clutching cups of warmed wine, their expressions ranging from amused skepticism to outright hostility.
"I've seen better theater in a tavern, Cassian," Count Valerius remarked, his breath misting in the air. He was a man of sixty, with a face like parchment and eyes that saw everything as a transaction. "You claim this... machine... can do the work of forty men? My father's father relied on the broadcast method, and his father before him. The gods dictate the yield, not a collection of gears."
Deacon didn't look at him. He was watching Miller perform the final pre-flight check on the Mark I Seed Drill. "The gods gave you a brain, Count. I suggest you start using it. Miller? Status."
Miller, looking like a soot-stained titan, wiped a layer of grease from the drill's primary drive-chain. "Internal hoppers are primed with the Oryn winter-wheat, Sir. The coulters are set for a three-inch depth—any deeper and the frost-heave will kill the sprout. We're ready to engage the axle-clutch."
"Do it," Deacon commanded.
The demonstration began not with a roar, but with a rhythmic, mechanical clack-clack-clack. As the draft horses began to pull the heavy sledge, the internal gears—milled to tolerances that the Southern blacksmiths couldn't even dream of—engaged.
To the lords, it was black magic. The machine didn't just move; it performed a symphony of industrial efficiency. The front-mounted coulters sliced through the frozen earth with surgical precision. Directly behind them, the seed-tubes dropped individual grains at a mathematical cadence, followed immediately by the closing-wheels that packed the soil back into place.
In ten minutes, the machine had traversed a hundred yards. Behind it lay ten perfectly straight, perfectly spaced rows of buried potential. It was the end of the "Broadcaster," the man who threw seed to the wind and the birds. It was the birth of the "Farmer," the man who managed a system.
Deacon watched the lords. He saw the exact moment the mockery died. It happened when Valerius stepped into the furrow and poked his finger into the dirt, finding a seed exactly where the machine said it would be. The Count's face went pale. He wasn't seeing a machine; he was seeing the devaluation of his entire labor force. He was seeing a world where he didn't need ten thousand peasants to stay wealthy—he only needed ten machines and a few men who knew how to turn a wrench.
"The demonstration is over," Deacon announced, his voice carrying across the silent field. "We feast tonight. We talk terms tomorrow."
The Vipers' Nest
The Great Hall of Count Valerius was a cathedral of excess. To Deacon, it felt like a gilded cage. The air was thick with the scent of roasted pheasant, heavy perfumes, and the cloying sweetness of spiced wine. Hundreds of candles flickered in wrought-iron chandeliers, casting long, wavering shadows across the tapestries that depicted the "Great Harvests" of the past.
Deacon sat at the mahogany table, his spine a rigid line of military discipline. He had traded his travel-stained silks for a formal doublet of midnight-charcoal, but he refused to remove his leather sword-belt. The weight of the longsword against his thigh was his only comfort in a room full of men who fought with whispers and poison.
"You speak of 'closed-loop' economies, Lord Cassian," Valerius said, swirling a glass of deep crimson wine. "But what you're describing is a monopoly. You provide the machines, you provide the technicians, and you provide the 'consecrated' parts. What, then, do the Lords of the South provide? Aside from the iron to build your next army?"
"You provide the stability," Deacon replied, his voice level and hard. He didn't touch his wine. "The Empire is a dying beast, Count. The winter is stripping away the illusion of central control. When the grain fails in the capital, the Governor will come south. He won't come to trade. He'll come to seize. If you have the Mark I, you have the surplus to buy your independence. If you don't... you're just another province waiting to be bled dry."
"And what of the Church?" a younger lord, Baron Elric, asked from across the table. He was a man with a thin, cruel mouth and eyes that never stayed still. "They call your machines 'heretical.' They say the soil must be blessed by a priest, not scarred by an iron tooth."
Deacon leaned forward, the shadows of the flickering candles deepening the hollows of his face. "Then let the priests bless the machines. I'll even let them paint a cross on the hopper if it makes them feel better. But a blessing won't fill a granary. I will."
The political fencing was exhausting. Deacon felt the "David Hayes" side of him screaming for a simple extraction—a clear target and a hot LZ. But here, the target was an entire social class. He had to convince these men to abandon a thousand years of tradition in favor of a technology they barely understood, all while keeping his own unit's survival at the forefront.
Brandt, sitting to Deacon's right, was a master of this theater. He was laughing with the lords, telling bawdy stories of the North, and subtly slipping "cost-benefit analyses" into the conversation between jokes. He was the velvet glove to Deacon's iron fist. But even Brandt's charm was wearing thin. The Southern Lords were starting to realize that the "Northern Barbarian" wasn't just selling them a plow; he was selling them a revolution.
"We need a commitment, Valerius," Deacon said, cutting through a story Brandt was telling. "I have six sledges in your courtyard. They can stay here, and your smiths can begin the iron-refinement for the next batch tomorrow. Or, I can take them to the Oryn Marches' rival, House Thorne. They seemed quite interested in my messengers last week."
It was a blatant lie—the "Thorne" messengers didn't exist—but it worked. Valerius's eyes sharpened. "You wouldn't dare. The Thornes are bandits."
"In a winter this long, everyone is a bandit, Count," Deacon said, standing up. "I'll leave you to your wine. My terms are on the parchment Brandt gave you. No gold. Only raw materials, labor, and a mutual defense pact. You have until the sun touches the limestone walls tomorrow morning."
Deacon walked out of the hall, the sound of his boots echoing like a drumbeat on the stone floor. He didn't look back. He had played the Lord. He had played the Merchant. But as he stepped into the cold air of the hallway, he felt the mask slipping. He needed to see Julian. He needed to see the one person in this world who actually shared his face, even if that person wanted him dead.
He navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the guest wing, his mind racing through the tactical implications of the trade deal. If Valerius signed, Oakhaven would have enough iron to begin producing the Mark II—a drill that could handle the rocky soil of the northern highlands. They would also have a buffer zone against the Empire. But if Valerius was talking to the Herald...
He reached the heavy oak doors of the medical suite. Two of Rodriguez's militia stood guard, their spears crossed. They snapped to attention as Deacon approached.
"Status?" Deacon asked.
"Major Kiley is still inside, My Lord," the guard replied. "The prisoner... he's been shouting. Fever-dreams, mostly."
Deacon pushed the door open. The room was dim, lit only by a dying fire. The smell of copper and stale sweat was thick in the air. Julian was thrashing on the bed, his silk tunic soaked with perspiration. Kiley was leaning over him, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead.
"David..." Julian groaned, his voice a dry, agonizing wheeze. "David... the bridge... don't go to the bridge..."
Deacon froze in the doorway. The name—his real name—felt like a physical blow. Julian couldn't know that name. He shouldn't know anything about a bridge in Georgia or a life in another world.
"Is he still hallucinating?" Deacon asked, his voice shaking.
"It's worse, Hayes," Kiley said, not looking up. "He's talking about things that don't exist. Bridges of steel. Flying birds made of iron. He's... he's seeing through the gap, David. The fever is tearing down the wall between the Cassian memories and... whatever is left of you."
Deacon walked to the bedside and looked down at his brother. Julian's eyes were open, but they weren't seeing the room. They were seeing a different sky.
"I'm here, Julian," Deacon whispered, reaching out to grab the boy's hand. "I'm right here."
Julian's hand clamped onto Deacon's wrist with a sudden, desperate strength. He looked straight at Deacon, his sapphire eyes clear for a fleeting second.
"You aren't him," Julian hissed, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly lucid whisper. "You're the thing that ate my brother. You're the ghost in the machine. And the Empire... the Empire knows. They aren't coming for the drills, David. They're coming for you."
The room went silent, save for the crackle of the fire. Deacon felt a cold sweat break out on his neck. The "Dinner of Vipers" had been a distraction. The trade deal was a sideshow. The real war was much deeper, and the enemy wasn't the Count—it was the very world itself, trying to purge the foreign body that had dared to change its history.