The return to Oakhaven was not the triumphal parade the militia had envisioned during the cold nights in the Oryn Marches. As the "Iron Caravan" crested the final ridge of the valley, the sight that greeted them was a grim tableau of occupation. The Alchemist Guild tower, the crown jewel of Deacon's industrial revolution, was no longer puffing the steady, reassuring steam of the foundries. Instead, it was surrounded by a ring of crimson-and-gold pavilions—the field camp of the Imperial Inquisitorial detachment.
Deacon pulled his mount to a halt, his hand instinctively tightening on the reins. Beside him, Julian sat slumped on the medical sledge, his sapphire eyes wide as he took in the sight of his "allies" besieging his home. The younger brother's face was a map of conflicting emotions: the lingering spite of a claimant and the dawning realization that the Empire's "protection" looked remarkably like an executioner's block.
"Miller, Brandt, pull the sledges into a defensive circle in the lower groves," Deacon commanded, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "Renna, take the Trios and screen our rear. If those pavilions move, I want a wall of shields between them and the cargo."
"Sarge, look at the battlements," Blake whispered, pointing a gloved finger toward the top of the tower.
Through his "Glass Eye" telescope—the very lens that had once projected the "God-Light"—Deacon saw a figure draped in the white-and-gold vestments of the High Church. It was Father Marius. He wasn't standing as a leader; he was bound to the stone railing, his head bowed. Beside him stood the Imperial Herald, Valois, looking down at the valley with the predatory patience of a vulture.
"They've taken the tower," Deacon hissed. "And they're using the Church as a human shield. Valois isn't auditing us anymore. He's liquidating us."
The situation was a tactical nightmare. The tower was designed to be a fortress against the external world, but its internal defenses were optimized for a small, elite team, not a siege from within. If Deacon attacked the pavilions, Valois would drop Marius from the height. If he surrendered, the Seed Drills—and the men who built them—would be dismantled and shipped to the Capital as spoils of war.
"Hayes, we can't take that gate without a battering ram, and we don't have the numbers for a frontal assault," Renna said, her eyes scanning the Imperial camp. "The Rose Guard is already fanning out. They know we're here."
Deacon looked at Julian. The boy was watching the tower, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. This was the moment of the "Inversion." Julian had spent his life believing the Empire was his path to restoration. Now, he was seeing the reality of that bargain.
"Julian," Deacon said, his voice dropping into a rare, quiet intimacy. "You know the service tunnels. The ones our father used to hide his 'heretical' books. Does Valois know about the drainage grate near the riverbank?"
Julian looked at Deacon, his sapphire eyes searching the Sergeant's face for a lie. He saw only the cold, uncompromising focus of a man who was willing to walk into hell for his people. And for the first time, Julian saw himself as part of that "people."
"The grate is rusted shut," Julian rasped, his voice still thin from the fever. "But there is a secondary flue for the old furnace. It's too small for a man in armor."
"I don't need a man in armor," Deacon said, looking toward the Pepper Twins, who were already checking their weighted chains and silk masks. "I need a ghost."
The plan was a desperate "Shadow-Op." While the main body of the Shadow Command made a loud, distracting show of "negotiating" with Valois at the main gate, the Twins would infiltrate the tower through the furnace flue. Their objective: secure Father Marius and disable the internal portcullis.
"Miller, get the 'Thunder-Claps' ready," Deacon ordered. "We're going to give Valois a demonstration of Oakhaven's 'divine' wrath. Brandt, get your finest silks on. You're going to go to that gate and offer them a trade they can't refuse—until I'm behind them."
As the sun began to dip behind the peaks, Oakhaven prepared for its most dangerous night. The "Trade Corridor" had provided the iron and the allies, but the tower would provide the reckoning.
Deacon watched as Pyper and Elan vanished into the gray mists of the riverbank, their movements perfectly synchronized, a two-headed shadow against the stone. He felt the weight of his longsword, and more importantly, the weight of the "David" memories. He was no longer just protecting a base; he was reclaiming a home.
"Julian," Deacon said as he prepared to mount his horse. "Stay with the sledges. If this goes south, take the horses and run for the Oryn border. Tell Count Valerius that the contract is still valid."
Julian reached out, his fingers catching Deacon's sleeve. "Don't... don't die, Brother. I haven't finished telling you how much I hate you yet."
Deacon gave a grim, lopsided smile—the first true smile Julian had seen on his face. "I'll hold you to that, kid. Just make sure you're alive to say it."
With a sharp whistle, the Shadow Command moved. The "Iron Homecoming" had officially transitioned into a rescue mission, and the Imperial Rose was about to find out that Oakhaven's thorns were made of modern steel.