It had been three days since he'd infiltrated Dawn's Breath.
Three days since he'd beheaded the platoon commander who had caught him and vanished into the folds of the city like smoke. Three days of moving like a shadow between courtyards, prayer houses, and barracks, studying the patterns of soldiers, priests, and citizens alike to set up the final touches of Phase Three of the plan, albeit a heavily modified plan.
And in those three days, Phase Two: the poisoning, had already begun to take hold.
From his perch atop the balustrade of a hidden watchtower, Deacon watched soldiers trudging through the dark recesses of the kingdom, knights marching stiffly through the streets to prop up morale, priests and occasionally catching sight of the three bishops of the Holy Human Kingdom performing dawn rites at the fountain squares and blessing people in droves, and peddlers hawking food no one looked hungry enough to buy.
All of them were breathing shallowly, eyes bloodshot, skin turning a sickly shade of gray with each passing day. Their stomachs bulged unnaturally, and every hour or so, they'd vomit—then crap out nothing but liquid while barely clinging to the will to do anything.
"System… If Bonehead was able to make this in half a day's work, then…" He exhaled, the sound muffled behind the helmet as he looked over the horizon to just barely look over the Outer Wall of Dawn's Breath and see the obscene amount of Flare Towers and Trebuchets that had been set up since he'd last seen them. "… Never piss off an alchemist and builders."
Turning thoughtful for a brief period, Deacon was reminded of Valorie's twin brother, Leon, and how the both of them were dealing with the Floors so far.
"I should shoot them a text to see how they've been holding up," Deacon mused, lounging atop a watchtower he'd taken over. It was the fifth-highest tower in Dawn's Breath's Lower Bailey—one of the quieter towers, rarely patrolled because of its reclusive location, and, going off of his own assumptions, it was for surveilling any underground activity that could occur nearby.
In other words, it was perfect for wrapping up Phase Three in the morning while laying its foundation under the cover of night.
Deacon sat lazily against the balustrade, one leg slung over the ledge, fingers tracing the rim of a dent along the stolen gauntlet. From a distance, he looked just like another tired soldier with too many hours on shift.
The city below shimmered under the soft gold light of the holy lanterns, and the bells from the distant Cathedral of Azul tolled seven long notes – somehow still audible under the constant explosive barrages on the Mana Dome protecting their kingdom from the undead kingdom on their doorstep.
It had been three days since Deacon crawled out of the tunnel his Party had dug, and by some miracle, he'd barely managed to poison five of the seven water wells in Dawn's Breath.
Three minutes after poisoning the fifth water well and slipping back into the sewers, the last two vials Bonehead had given him dissolved clean through their glass and the pouch on his hip, spilling their contents into the shit-filled muck of the sewers below.
And if he was being honest, every morning when he descended back into the sewers, he noticed the muck flowing through them looked less and less like shit, and more like actual water. How a poison designed to make people experience extreme discomfort ended up cleaning an entire sewer system, he had no idea – and, quite literally, didn't want to know.
Pulled from his thoughts, Deacon heard a low thudding and scratching echoing from below, along with muffled shouting, and something ringing.
Letting out a slow exhale through his nose, Deacon begrudgingly pushed himself off the pillar he'd been leaning against and off the balustrade he'd rested atop and stepped through the nearest empty archway of the domed top of the tower.
As he descended down the spiral staircase, he went past the rather empty and bare kitchen floor and the communications floor – its walls lined with flickering runes and blinking devices that together made up the tower's radio system. From that floor, the sharp, shrill tone of the communicator rang out, echoing up the stairwell.
"Right," he muttered to himself. "Six-hour check-ins."
Two more flights down and reaching the rec hall, Deacon found his captive, who was causing a ruckus.
Said captive sat bound upright in a chair, stripped to his briefs, and wrapped in more rope and duct tape than seemed physically necessary to hold someone with his physical might
"Good morning to you, too, fuckhead," Deacon drawled, stepping in front of him.
The soldier thrashed weakly, muffled shouts bubbling under the gag Deacon placed around his mouth.
Ignoring him, Deacon's gaze slid to the two others slumped against the wall and made his way to them to check if they were still alive, as they hadn't moved from their respective places in days, due to Deacon constantly knocking them out unconscious every time they woke up.
They were the very same two men he had put unconscious less than an hour after he had entered Dawn's Breath. After having killed the commander, stored away his corpse and the corpses of the soldiers under him, and having finished poisoning the other wells, he went back to collect them to make sure they wouldn't squeal on him.
The only reason they were still breathing was simple; they'd offered to take him to the bishop's quarters, a safe place where he could get healed from any injuries he might have had and sober up. Not wanting to be a dickhead, Deacon decided that he wouldn't personally kill them and would make sure that they would be awake before Phase Four began.
After making sure the two on the ground were still breathing, Deacon walked back to the one tied to the chair.
He crouched down until he and the soldier were eye to eye, and for a long, drowned-out period, he just stared at the soldier, waiting for him to stop his shouting and cries – uncaring even about the constant shrill ringing of the communicator responder above them.
Under the weight of Deacon's blank gaze, the soldier was forced to stop his sobbing and shouting; allowing the tower to once again be silent from his tantrum.
"Don't make this hard for me," Deacon muttered to the soldier in a low tone. "You remember what happened last time you tried to be clever, right? I'll keep going where I left off, and I'll use water magic again. Or maybe you want me to snip off your last remaining bitty. Do you want that?"
The soldier's shoulders tensed, and he shook his head frantically, muffled sobs bubbling under the gag. The chair creaked under his trembling.
"Good," Deacon said flatly as he stared at the soldier in disgust. I'm so gonna fucking enjoy killing you after what I saw when I first found this place, Deacon thought to himself as he recalled the scene of him entering the watch tower from above and stealthily descending down it and finding this very soldier having done things to a bound woman in the prison cells in the basement of the watch tower.
He reached over and unhooked the communicator horn hanging from the ceiling. The long, rune-lined cable snaked down like a serpent as he tugged it loose, the crystalline horn crackling faintly with static. Holding the communicator with his own hands and letting it be held between the both of them, Deacon pressed the button on the back of the communicator and answered the call from the Control Tower.
The rune on the crystalline horn flickered green for a second as the connection between the Control Tower and Watch Tower 5 was made, and both Deacon and the soldier were greeted with an irritated and sharp voice that blared through the receiver.
"W5? What in Azul's name took you so long to answer the communicator?"
The volume and anger of the man on the other end of the communicator made the bound soldier flinch. Deacon's eyes slid from the communicator to the bound soldier in front of him. The soldier stammered out an answer, but nothing intelligible came out as the gag on his mouth was still in place.
Sighing, Deacon tugged the gag loose and nodded for him to speak.
"I–" the man croaked, his voice rasping from disuse. "I was in the shitter, sorry."
"For the–" The voice on the other end started to shout, but the sound abruptly turned into a harsh fit of coughing that devolved into wet retching.
The bound soldier's eyes darted upward in confusion while Deacon stood utterly still, listening to the communicator.
"–by Azul above," came the faint sound of someone muttering on the other side. A shuffle of movement, then quick, panicked footsteps echoed faintly through the receiver before another voice, one that was far calmer, took over.
"CT Speaker Flet speaking," the new man said. "My apologies, but it seems like CT Speaker Tyron had caught that sickness that's been spreading through the city as of late and will be unable to continue."
Deacon's lips twitched faintly under the helmet. That tracks.
The man on the other end sighed, the sound crackling faintly through the static. "As such, I'll be taking over for him for now. Can you report to me your findings in the last six hours?"
"Talk," Deacon wordlessly said to the soldier as, with his other hand, he took out a dagger and pressed it against the soldier's neck, just above his Adam's Apple.
The soldier nodded rapidly, voice trembling as he spoke into the communicator horn. "A-All clear, sir. South sector's still running patrols on schedule. No signs of any undead around or any of the Troval rebels in sight. I assume due to the undead a-at our doors, they have quieted down."
There was a pause on the other end, the faint scratch of a quill against parchment. "Understood," Speaker Flet said. "The last thing we need, other than the undead at our doorsteps and this illness going around, is the Trovals up our asses… Have you spotted any potential causes for the illness?"
The bound soldier looked up, eyes wide, clearly unsure what to say. Deacon's hand slid from the chair's back to his shoulder, the pressure gentle — then not.
"No," the man stammered, quickly choking out the lie as sweat began to mat his forehead. "It could be the sheer amount of undead miasma at our doorsteps doing it – I think maybe rest and good food should put it under us."
"I hope so," A faint sigh came through the receiver. "Keep monitoring and report any changes or observations you see while on duty."
"On a lighter note, it seems the Bishops themselves have decided to take on personal charge of the purification processes, and Azul willing, they'll be able to cleanse whatever rot's causing this before it spreads to the entire kingdom."
"Y-Yes, sir," said the captive soldier as his eyes darted downwards anxiously.
"Excellent. You're dismissed, W5. And make sure to get some rest — the sickness is spreading faster through the unblessed."
"Wait!" Deacon's captive shouted into the communicator just as Deacon began to slowly press the dagger's blade into his neck, drawing a sharp yelp from the man.
"…Yes?" came Speaker Flet's voice, confused by the sudden shift in tone. "Is there something wrong?"
Deacon stared at the bound man and silently mouthed, How bad?
The captive hesitated, then repeated the question aloud. Papers rustled faintly on the other end before Flet sighed.
"Bad. Really bad. It's spreading faster than we can track — two, maybe three out of every five have it now. And no one knows what the hell to do. Even after they're healed and cleansed, the sickness comes back hours later. It's like…" The man trailed off, voice cracking. "I don't know. But I do know the undead have someth—"
The voice cut off with a sharp snap as Deacon rose from his crouch and sliced clean through the communicator cord. The line went dead.
Ignoring the captive's startled yelp, Deacon turned on his heel and climbed the stairs, boots thudding softly as he made his way up to the top of the watchtower.