The day after his tense meeting with Major Kiley, Lord Cassian focused ruthlessly on the supply problem. The Goblins might take three days to arrive, but famine was already eating Oakhaven from the inside out.
Deacon walked down to the main storage cellars of the Hold, the air growing cold and thick with the smell of moldering grain and damp stone. He brought only Elara, instructing her to fetch the market master and the chief grain warden.
The cellars were dark, illuminated by a handful of sputtering oil lamps. The sight confirmed the Steward's gloomy reports: dozens of silos lay nearly empty, and what little wheat remained was poor quality, riddled with weevils and pale with mildew.
"How long can this feed the population?" Deacon asked, taking a handful of the dusty grain.
The market master, a nervous, sweating man named Gerold, wrung his hands. "Five days, My Lord, maybe six, if we ration severely. The previous Lord took too much. The farmers had nothing to seed the last harvest. We are truly at the mercy of the gods."
Mercy of the gods. Deacon shook his head. "The gods won't fix this. Logistics will."
The Famine Fix
Deacon needed a rapid, three-pronged logistics solution: Damage Control, Reallocation, and Planning.
First, Damage Control. He pointed to the weevil-infested sacks. "Separate every moldy sack. We will not use it for bread. We will boil it into a thin porridge and distribute it to the livestock—the horses and pigs. We can't afford to lose our last source of meat or draft power."
Second, Reallocation. He looked at the remaining good grain. "We will cut the Castellan's personal stores by half. We will cut the militia's rations by a quarter. The militia needs strength, but they must see that the nobility is suffering alongside them. Distribute the saved portions to the oldest citizens and the youngest children first."
This move was a calculated risk. It would infuriate the Steward, but it would buy instant, powerful goodwill among the long-abused common people.
Third, Planning. This required his most crucial resource: the hidden skills of the lily pad.
"Gerold," Deacon said, fixing the market master with his intense blue gaze. "The land surrounding Oakhaven is mostly fallow. We need seeds, and we need fertile land. Find me the five most respected and successful farmers who own land outside the walls. Bring them to me tomorrow morning. They will be given emergency loans of our remaining grain to purchase seeds and will be tasked with experimenting with different planting methods."
Deacon knew that somewhere among those five farmers, he would find his former agricultural experts—the soldiers who had worked on local outreach and sustenance projects back at FOB Bastion, who were trained in modern crop rotation, soil composition, and basic irrigation. The assignment would be their covert order to take command of the famine response.
As he was issuing orders, Deacon noticed a large wooden chest, bound with rusted iron, tucked in a far, damp corner.
"What is in there?" he demanded.
"Old records, My Lord. Bills of lading, deeds, ancient military gear. Mostly junk."
Deacon walked over and placed his hand on the wood. This was not junk. This was Field Acquisition.
"Have this chest delivered to my personal quarters immediately. Tell the Steward it is for 'historical preservation.' Only I am to touch it." It was a long shot, but if the world had somehow absorbed military gear along with the soldiers, he had to check.
The Call of Duty (The Doctor's House, Evening)
The sun was setting by the time Deacon found the excuse to leave the Hold a second time, claiming exhaustion and a need for silence. He returned to the small, discreet house of Dr. Kelly.
He did not knock. He entered using the key he had covertly requested from Elara (claiming he needed the physician on call for his 'recent illness').
Major Kiley, still inhabiting Dr. Kelly, was in the parlor, hunched over a medieval ledger filled with handwritten medical notes. He was dressed in a simple tunic, but his movements were stiff, like a man forced to wear an ill-fitting costume.
He didn't look up when Deacon entered. "You are reckless, Sergeant. You were seen leaving the Hold. You risk exposure."
"Operational security is secondary to casualty extraction, Major," Deacon said, pulling the hood of his dark cloak down. "Status report on Thorne."
"Corporal Thorne is secured," Kiley replied, his voice flat. "Ruiz—Brandt—managed to convince the boy's new mother that Thorne's body—'young Timon'—was suffering from a severe case of 'brain fever,' possibly contagious. He is in the quiet room."
"And the quiet room is?"
"The local equivalent of a sanitarium cell. Soundproof, stone, designed to contain the mentally ill or those with plague. It's behind my house. It's clean." Kiley finally looked up, his face etched with genuine pain. "He is catatonic, Hayes. He just rocks and whispers for his wife, for the hum of the TOC. He thinks he's dead."
Deacon felt the professional, cold shell around his heart crack slightly. Thorne was barely 20, a Marine reservist on his first deployment.
"My job is logistics, Major, not therapy. But I'm going in."
Kiley stood up, the rigid Major reasserting himself over the doctor. "No, Sergeant. I am the medical expert. I go in. You maintain Command and Control."
"This isn't about medicine, Sir. This is about Echelon Leadership. Thorne needs to see his Command structure is intact. He needs to see a familiar face, even if it's in a Lord's body. You are a Major; your presence would just remind him of the chain of command we lost. I'm his Sergeant. He knows my voice."
Deacon's logic was brutal and correct. The Major stepped back, a flicker of grudging respect mixing with his fury. "Fine. But you have three minutes. If he escalates, you back off. Do not compromise the mission, Hayes."
The Quiet Room
The quiet room was a small, cylindrical stone outbuilding, accessed through a heavy, padded wooden door in the back garden. It smelled of disinfectant and damp moss.
Deacon opened the door and stepped into the gloom. The only light came from a high, narrow slit in the wall.
Corporal Thorne—or 'Timon'—was huddled in the corner on a straw pallet. The body was frail, almost childlike, a stark contrast to the massive, young Marine who had occupied it hours ago.
Thorne didn't look up. He was rocking, muttering ceaselessly.
Deacon approached slowly, then dropped to his knees, ignoring the rich noble clothing.
"Corporal Thorne," Deacon whispered, using the low, calming voice he reserved for shell-shocked soldiers. "This is Sergeant First Class Hayes. I am here. You are not alone."
The rocking stopped. Thorne's head snapped up. The eyes that met Deacon's were wide, terrified, and swimming with tears. He saw the face of Lord Cassian, but he heard the voice of his Sergeant.
"S-S-S-Sergeant?" Thorne stammered, the local body trying to form the American words. "S-Sergeant, I'm stuck. I'm stuck in here. Where are the wires? Where is the comms gear? I can't feel my hands, Sergeant. I can't feel my body."
Deacon maintained eye contact, transmitting calm. "I know, Corporal. The comms are down. The entire FOB took a hit. But the unit is operational. You are on Rest and Recovery (R&R) status. Your only job right now is to hold your position."
He reached out slowly, placing his pale, aristocratic hand on Thorne's shoulder, mimicking the firm, familiar pressure of an NCO giving encouragement.
"You have a new name now, Corporal. Timon. You have a new mother. Your mission is survival and deep cover. Do you understand? The mission is everything. We need you strong when we call you up."
Thorne swallowed, his tears slowing. He was grasping for the only anchor he had left: the Chain of Command.
"The mission, Sergeant," Thorne repeated, his voice weak but stabilizing. "Covert status. R&R."
"That's right, Corporal. You hold that line. No one knows we are here. Now, I need you to focus on the doctor. Dr. Kelly is Major Kiley. He will take care of your body. You listen to him. You follow his medical orders. Do you understand?"
"Major Kiley," Thorne whispered, the authority of the name snapping a vestige of discipline back into place. "Understood, Sergeant. I hold."
"That's my Corporal." Deacon squeezed his shoulder once more. "Now sleep. I'll check on you when I can."
Deacon stood and backed out, leaving Thorne rocking again, but the rhythm was slower, steadier. The catatonia was breaking.
He returned to the Major, who was leaning against the doorway, his face pale.
"Three minutes, Hayes," Kiley muttered. "You were exactly three minutes."
Deacon just nodded. "He's stabilized, Sir. He's operating under R&R orders. You're Command, I'm Control. We stick to the script. Now, if you'll excuse me, Major, I have a town to save and a war to plan. Keep him quiet."
With that, Lord Cassian left the doctor's house, the immediate trauma contained, but the long, impossible mission stretching out before him. The life of a Sergeant was simple: follow orders. The life of a Castellan required giving them, even when the person receiving them was his superior.