Lord Cassian's first day as Castellan felt less like governing a city and more like running a severely under-resourced combat engineering project.
The moment Commander Harl's boots stopped echoing down the corridor, Deacon was issuing new orders. He had Elara fetch the overseer of the local quarry, the master mason, and the town supervisor responsible for waste disposal.
His objective was simple: fix the crumbling southern wall section Harl had identified. His method, however, was revolutionary by Oakhaven's standards.
"Forget the brittle lime mortar they use here," Deacon muttered to himself, pacing the office. He needed stronger bonding agents. He needed Roman cement.
When the three officials arrived—grumbling, suspicious, and deferential in turns—Deacon gave them no time to argue.
"The southern wall near the river gate is a breach waiting to happen. We will reinforce it immediately," he stated, pointing to the map. "Master Mason, I need lime, but I also need finely crushed, volcanic ash, or failing that, clay bricks fired until they are nearly vitrified, then crushed and sifted. You will mix these elements with the lime to create a hydraulic cement—a mortar that cures under water and cures hard."
The Mason, a man named Tarl, blinked slowly. "My Lord, that sounds like a waste of fine clay. The lime mortar is tradition."
"Tradition will not stop Goblins, Tarl. Water will seep into traditional mortar, freeze in the winter, and crack the stone. Hydraulic mortar seals it permanently. If we have no volcanic ash, use the crushed clay, mix in ground stone and sand, and burn wood or charcoal until the ash is white, then add that to the mix. It will be the strongest wall in Oakhaven."
Deacon then turned to the quarry overseer. "I need large, square blocks of the hardest stone you have, cut to uniform size. No more haphazard piling. These blocks must be seated tightly, with minimal mortar gaps."
Finally, he addressed the supervisor of waste. "I need every ounce of dried animal manure, human waste, and leftover charcoal ash in the city delivered to the wall site. We will use the manure mixed with dirt and ash to create a hard-packed berm at the base of the wall, giving us added defensive height and preventing tunneling."
The three men exchanged horrified glances. Using filth for construction was not only untraditional; it was seen as beneath a noble effort.
"My Lord, the smell—" Tarl protested.
"The smell of feces is preferable to the smell of your children burning," Deacon interrupted flatly. "This is an emergency. Get the laborers. Work starts immediately and does not stop until the wall is sealed. If I find any man shirking, he will be assisting Commander Harl's militia training at dawn."
The threat of militia training—widely known to be boring and physically demanding—was apparently enough. The officials bowed deeply and scrambled out, their traditional methods overturned by the new Lord's ruthless pragmatism.
The Northern Watch
Deacon used the wall inspection as his cover. He took Elara with him, knowing she served as both an effective shield against interruptions and a critical source of local information. He needed to be seen doing "Castellan business."
As they reached the northern ramparts—the section Harl intended to defend—Deacon climbed onto the walkway, his unfamiliar noble boots slipping slightly on the uneven stone.
The view was dismal. The wall was wide enough for maybe three men abreast, but the crenellations were chipped, offering poor cover. The fields outside were mostly clear, leading into the distant, menacing darkness of the Blackwood Forest.
"Who maintains this section, Elara?" Deacon asked, his eyes sweeping the wall, looking less for structural issues and more for faces.
"The Northern Watch is led by Commander Harl, but the regular patrols are mostly the town elders' sons, My Lord. Look, there is young Jaryn now."
A lean, gangly young man in a worn helmet shuffled past, his spear dragging listlessly. Deacon barely glanced at him.
Instead, his eyes fixed on a stout, older man sweeping debris near the corner tower—a vital position. The man was whistling a thin, off-key tune. His face was round, deeply tanned, and unremarkable, yet the way he held the broom—shoulders square, weight balanced—spoke of disciplined movement. He was moving a negligible amount of dust, but he was doing it with a soldier's efficient repetition.
Deacon walked past Elara, moving toward the sweeper. "You," he called out, using the demanding voice of a noble.
The man froze, dropping his head instantly. "My Lord?"
"This corner tower is vital. Why are you merely sweeping dust? Should you not be checking the readiness of the archer points?"
"I sweep because I was told to sweep, My Lord," the man replied, his voice deliberately gruff and dull, the perfect mask of the simple laborer.
"Well, you are wasting the Castellan's time and Oakhaven's resources. You look like a man capable of lifting heavy things. Find the Master Mason and report to the southern wall. Tell him Lord Cassian ordered you to the heaviest labor."
The man bowed deep, but before he turned, he lifted his head just enough for Deacon to see the quick flicker of professional acknowledgement in his eyes.
Deacon walked away, speaking low to Elara. "That man is reliable. He will work tirelessly."
Mental Roster Update: Confirmed: Two soldiers. Specialist Four Ruiz (Brandt, Logistics, Cart Driver). Corporal First Class Miller (Jaryn's Father, Combat Engineer, Wall Sweeper).
The realization hit him: Miller, a career engineer, would be invaluable for the hydraulic mortar project. Deacon's order to transfer him to the southern wall was an immediate, covert deployment of an expert. He had issued his second field command without anyone knowing.
But the relief was tempered by the constant, low-grade fear that came with recognizing his men. Every stern eye, every precisely balanced gait, every face with too much discipline could be one of his former soldiers. He had to be hyper-vigilant.
The Doctor's House
The most critical and dangerous task remained.
Deacon dismissed Elara, claiming he needed a quiet afternoon to review old tax documents. He changed out of his ceremonial tunic into a simple, dark wool cloak he found in the closet—clothing more suitable for a discreet walk through town.
He headed toward the northern residential district, an area of small, clean stone houses. He knew, thanks to Specialist Ruiz's covert warning, that Major Miles Kiley's body was housed in this section, currently living as Dr. Alistair Kelly, the town's physician.
Dr. Kelly. Major Mack Kiley. My former CO.
Major Kiley was a textbook officer: ambitious, aggressive, highly competent, and absolutely intolerant of any insubordination or failure of command structure. The idea that his former Sergeant, Deacon, was now his social and political superior was an explosive situation.
Deacon found the house easily—a small structure with a neatly kept herb garden. He knocked twice, an authority knock that demanded attention.
The door opened after a delay. The man standing there was tall, with severe dark hair pulled back from his face. His hands, though pale, moved with the deliberate precision of a surgeon. His face, however, held a deep, exhausted confusion, the aristocratic features marred by sleeplessness.
It was not the boisterous, demanding face of Major Kiley, but the body of Dr. Alistair Kelly.
"Yes? I am Dr. Kelly. I am very busy. If it is not a matter of life or death, return later." Kelly's voice was sharp, educated, but lacked the Major's distinctive Southern drawl. He hadn't recognized Deacon.
Deacon stepped forward, forcing his way into the small entryway, which smelled of bitter herbs and sickness.
"It is a matter of life and death, Doctor," Deacon stated, shutting the door firmly behind him. He removed the cloak's hood, revealing Lord Cassian's piercing blue eyes. "And I assure you, I am not here to discuss your patients."
Kelly stiffened. "Lord Cassian. Forgive me. I did not recognize you out of court." He bowed, but the movement was stiff, an imitation of respect, not the real thing.
Deacon leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper that only the Major's former sergeant would use.
"At ease, Major. This is Sergeant First Class Hayes. I need to know your operational status. Right now."
The effect was instantaneous and profound. The Major's new body went rigid, his eyes widening in horror and disbelief. His discipline fought against the physical reality of seeing his former junior officer standing over him, wearing a Lord's tunic, and issuing orders.
"Hayes," Kelly/Kiley hissed, his voice tight with suppressed panic and rage. "What in God's name... how did you end up in the Castellan? You need to call Elara and tell her I'm sick. You need to get out. This is not your command, Sergeant."
Deacon felt the immediate friction of the inverted chain of command. The Major was trying to re-establish the old hierarchy.
"Sir," Deacon said, using the formal address to maintain a veneer of military respect while denying the substance of the rank. "You are Dr. Kelly. I am Lord Cassian. Your operational status is Covert Civilian until I order otherwise. The Goblins are attacking in three days. We have an unconfirmed psychological casualty—Corporal Thorne—in the north end. We have a total collapse of command and control. I am running the show, Sir. The mission is survival. Now, give me a sitrep on your new body's skills, Doctor."
The Major stared, his chest heaving, trapped by his loyalty to the military and the sheer insanity of the situation. He was a Major trapped in a Doctor's body, receiving orders from his SFC who was trapped in a Lord's body.
"Medical training," Kelly/Kiley finally grated out, his voice hoarse. "Advanced anatomy. Knows all the town's secrets. And he has access to a quiet room in the back."
A quiet room. Deacon felt a chill. That was where Major Kiley would isolate Corporal Thorne to prevent his breakdown from compromising the mission.
"Good, Sir. I need you to focus on the quiet room and keeping your profile low. Do not move. Do not contact anyone. I will initiate contact when the time is right."
Deacon turned to leave. He paused at the door. "One last thing, Major. While you are Dr. Kelly, the people of Oakhaven hate the Castellan. If you break cover, they will kill the Castellan and the Doctor. I suggest you keep that in mind when you remember your rank."
He slipped out and pulled the hood back up, leaving Major Kiley/Dr. Kelly alone in his parlor, breathing heavily, trapped between his shattered command structure and the very real threat of medieval execution.
Deacon was still shaking from the encounter as he walked back toward the Hold, the weight of the Castellan's burden—and now the Major's grudging compliance—heavy on his shoulders.