The trade deal was finalized in the high noon sun of the Oryn central square. The parchments were thick with purple wax seals, guaranteeing Oakhaven a steady supply of high-grade coal and iron in exchange for twenty Mark I units. It was a victory that should have felt like a triumph, but the atmosphere was brittle.
Deacon stood on the limestone city walls, his hands resting on the cold stone. He wasn't looking at the celebrating merchants below; he was looking north, toward the horizon where the mountain shadows met the plains. There, a smudge of dust was rising—a smudge that didn't move like a merchant caravan.
"Brandt, get the teams hitched. Now," Deacon said, his voice dropping into a combat-low frequency that made the nearby militia jump.
"Sarge? The Count is expecting us at the victory banquet," Brandt said, squinting at the distance. "If we leave now, it looks like a slight. We need those alliances to hold."
"It's not a slight, it's a tactical withdrawal. Look at the dust, Brandt. That's not a merchant caravan. They're moving in a wedge, high-pace. That's high-tier cavalry. Probably the Rose Guard."
The Rose Guard. The name sent a chill through the air. They were the elite enforcers of the Imperial Inquisitors, men who didn't travel for audits or trade—they traveled for executions. Valois must have sent a secondary courier the moment the warehouse in Oakhaven was breached, bypassed the local bureaucracy, and gone straight to the capital's "Fast-Response" units.
"Renna! Get the Trios into a defensive wedge at the north gate!" Deacon barked, descending the stairs three at a time. "Miller, the medical sledge goes in the center. We move in five minutes!"
The panic in Oryn was instantaneous. As the first glints of Imperial armor appeared on the horizon—burnished silver and crimson plumes—the Southern Lords realized the "Northern Heretic" had brought the Empire's wrath to their doorstep. Count Valerius met Deacon in the courtyard, his face a mask of aristocratic terror, his silk robes fluttering in the wind.
"You brought them here!" Valerius shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at the horizon. "The Rose Guard! If they find the drills in my city, they'll burn Oryn to the ground for harboring heresy!"
"Then hide the drills in the grain cellars and get your men off the walls," Deacon snapped, swinging into his saddle. He didn't have time for the Count's cowardice. "They're here for me, not your grain. If you want to keep your contract and your head, keep your mouth shut and tell them we fled into the Western Woods."
The escape was a frantic, high-speed gamble. The "Iron Caravan" thundered out of the secondary gate just as the Rose Guard reached the main entrance. The sledges, designed for heavy cargo, were now being pushed to their structural limits. The iron runners sparked against the cobblestones, the sound a screeching, metallic wail.
Deacon rode at the rear, his eyes constantly checking the medical sledge. Julian was strapped down, his face pale as he watched the silver-clad knights close the distance across the flat plains.
"They're coming for you, 'Lord'!" Julian shouted over the roar of the sledges. His voice was filled with a frantic, desperate glee. "They'll take your machines and they'll take your soul! Let me go! If you leave me, they might let you run! I'm the one they want for the Regency anyway!"
"Shut up, Julian!" Deacon roared back, drawing his sword.
The Rose Guard were closing fast. They were mounted on massive, armored destriers—horses that had been bred for centuries to ignore the sounds of war. There were twenty of them—a small force, but each man was a veteran of a dozen border wars. They moved with a terrifying, mechanical precision, their lances leveled like a wall of needles.
"Blake! The 'Thunder-Claps'! Deploy on my mark!" Deacon ordered.
Blake, perched on the rear of the last sledge, pulled the pins on a row of specialized canisters Miller had been experimenting with. These weren't smoke bombs. They were "Sound-and-Flash" grenades—a crude but effective attempt at a non-lethal deterrent.
As the Rose Guard drew within fifty yards, Blake hurled the canisters into the path of the lead horses. A series of deafening, bone-shaking explosions rocked the pass. The destriers, bred for war but never for this specific sensory assault, panicked. The front rank of the Guard collapsed in a tangle of screaming horses and clattering silver armor as the ground erupted in white light and thunder.
"Keep moving! Don't look back!" Deacon urged the caravan.
They ducked into a narrow, wooded ravine—a path Tate had scouted as a contingency weeks ago. The dense trees provided cover from the cavalry, but it slowed the sledges to a crawl. The runners caught on exposed roots, and the horses strained against the steep grade. Deacon looked back. Three of the Rose Guard had recovered and were pursuing them on foot, their longswords drawn. The blades were glowing with a faint, magical hum—Inquisitor blades, enchanted to cut through physical armor.
"Renna, take the caravan and keep going. Miller, don't stop until you cross the Oakhaven border," Deacon said, his voice dropping into a finality that brooked no argument.
"David, you can't fight three Rose Guards alone," Renna said, her hand on her axe.
"I'm not fighting them. I'm delaying them. Now go! That's an order!"
Deacon dismounted, his heart hammering against his ribs. He stood alone in the snowy woods as the three knights emerged from the treeline. He wasn't David Hayes the Sergeant, and he wasn't Lord Cassian the Noble. He was a man standing between his past and his future, holding a sword that felt heavier than it ever had.
The lead knight raised his blade, the silver mask reflecting the dying light. "By order of the Rose, stand down, Heretic. Surrender the claimant and the machines, or be purged."
Deacon didn't respond with words. He dropped into a modern "CQC" stance, his sword held low and angled. He was going to show the Empire that while they had magic and tradition, he had the cold, uncompromising science of the kill-zone. And as Julian watched from the receding sledge, his eyes wide with a strange, burgeoning conflict, Deacon stepped forward into the path of the blades.