The night air hung heavy over Oakhaven, thick with the smell of river silt and the faint, acrid scent of curing mortar from the southern wall. For Lord Cassian, the night was not for rest, but for the invisible machinery of war to churn.
His focus was Specialist Four Victor 'Vic' Ruiz, his S-4 Logistics Chief, currently operating under the merchant cover of Brandt. Ruiz's current mission was the 'Black Cat, Silver Coin' acquisition: securing the volatile components for Staff Sergeant Blake's improvised incendiaries without alerting the heavily policed market.
Deacon stood at the eastern window of his private chambers, watching the sky for any telltale signal. He had arranged a direct visual feed: his S-2 Scout, Staff Sergeant Tate (Balthasar), was positioned on a rooftop overlooking the main market square, ready to relay the code.
Just past midnight, a faint glow appeared in the market square below—the lighting of a new stall by a vendor setting up early. Tate's signal was not long in coming: a quick sequence of light flashes from a carefully shielded lantern .
Dot-Dash-Dot-Dot. Dot-Dash.C. A. — Cat Acquired.
The high-stakes acquisition was complete.
The Secret Meeting
Deacon waited twenty minutes for the city to settle back into its uneasy sleep, then slipped out of the Hold through a rarely used stable entrance, covered by his dark wool cloak. His destination was the Old Brewery—abandoned years ago, but a perfect, centrally located dead drop.
Ruiz was already there, hunched over a canvas sack near the brewery's ruined back wall. He looked exhausted, his merchant persona peeling away to reveal the raw tension of the hidden soldier.
"Report, Specialist," Deacon whispered, stepping out of the shadows.
Ruiz snapped to attention, forgetting his cover. "SFC Hayes. Acquisition successful. I secured the potash and sulfur from the tanner's shop under the guise of buying materials for dyeing cloth—high cost, high risk. The saltpeter was tougher. Had to leverage three weeks of debt from the butcher, claiming I needed it to cure a huge shipment of phantom deer meat."
Ruiz pushed the canvas sack toward Deacon. It was heavy, containing three distinct smaller bundles. "The cost was the worst part, Sir. I had to empty the working funds of the Castellan's personal merchant accounts to cover the expenses. The market master, Gerold, is going to revolt when he sees the ledgers."
Deacon felt a surge of cold fury at the bureaucratic hurdle. "Gerold is a civilian problem. We will frame the expenditure as emergency drought relief, Specialist. Did you maintain deniability?"
"Yes, Sir. I acquired them using Brandt's established black market contacts. No one saw me move the material. They all think Brandt is just expanding his trading network, maybe into cheap dyes."
"Good. Now, the final requisition. Master Elian—Staff Sergeant Blake—needs clean scrap iron and acid for his initiators. He can't make the detonators without a corrosive agent."
Ruiz rubbed his temples. "Acid? They have vinegar and sour milk, Sir. Nothing strong enough to etch metal. The only reliable acid source is the alchemists at the Temple, but they guard their stores like gold."
"Then you must get creative, Specialist. Look for copper smelting run-off, or perhaps find the nearest source of urine from a wealthy household—stale urine is a strong source of ammonia and nitrates that Blake might be able to refine."
Ruiz's face pinched in disgust, but his military discipline won out. "Understood, Sir. I will run a sweep of the wealthy estates tomorrow under the cover of a 'refuse collection contract.' I'll call the acquisition code: 'Empty Chamber Pot.'"
Deacon nodded. The filthier the task, the better the cover.
The Friction with Gerold
The next morning, the financial consequences of Ruiz's acquisitions erupted, providing Deacon with the perfect opportunity to address the rising friction within the civilian administration.
The Market Master, Gerold, was waiting outside the Castellan's Office, his face puffy with indignation. He burst in, waving a set of ledgers.
"My Lord Cassian! These expenditures are insane! Brandt, the cart driver, has emptied our reserves for a ridiculous amount of useless materials—dyes, charcoal, and saltpeter! He claims it was for a 'phantom meat shipment.' We are facing famine, and you allow this theft!"
Deacon did not rise. He fixed Gerold with a look that was icy and dangerous. "You question the authority of the Castellan, Gerold?"
"I question the wisdom! I am the keeper of Oakhaven's wealth! This town is starving, and you are buying powder!"
Deacon slammed his fist onto the desk, rattling the inkpots. "Listen to me, Master Gerold. You are the keeper of the coin. I am the keeper of Oakhaven's continued existence."
Deacon leaned across the desk, lowering his voice into a dangerous rasp. "The funds were used to acquire reserves that will secure our food supply against the Goblins. That saltpeter is not for meat; it is a preservative against the plague that those savage beasts carry. That sulfur is to clean the drinking water. I will not have my people die of sickness while fighting a war."
This was a masterful use of modern knowledge (germ theory/disinfectant) applied to medieval fear (plague/sickness).
"Furthermore," Deacon continued, "the phantom meat that Brandt purchased is currently being distributed to the Northern Watch under cover of night. It is a covert food supply that ensures the militia does not abandon their posts out of hunger. Brandt is not a thief; he is a patriot running a vital operation under my direct, sealed order."
Deacon stood, pulling rank and projecting absolute conviction. .
"You will write off these expenditures as 'Emergency War Preservation Reserves.' If you question my authority again, Gerold, I will assume you are collaborating with the Goblins. You may keep the coins, but you will not keep your neck."
Gerold crumpled, his ledgers slipping from his grasp. The sheer weight of the Castellan's authority, coupled with a plausible, terrifying explanation rooted in public health fear, was enough.
"Forgive me, My Lord. I will amend the books immediately. I… I did not understand the urgency of the plague threat."
"Now you do. Go."
The Unseen Toll
As Gerold stumbled out, Deacon felt a wave of exhaustion. He had saved the acquisition pipeline, but at the cost of terrifying a loyal civilian administrator. Every tactical move he made carried a political risk.
He called for Elara. "I require a new directive regarding the use of water. Effective immediately, all water drawn from the river must be boiled for ten minutes before consumption. Tell the people it is a ritual purification against the plague-bearing Goblins."
Deacon knew he couldn't filter the water, but he could enforce boiling, a simple, covert application of germ theory (S-5/Kiley's input) that would save countless lives from medieval disease.
Later that evening, Staff Sergeant Tate (Balthasar) returned to the Hold. He passed a small, tightly folded piece of paper to Deacon under the cover of helping clear dinner plates. It was the first Vigenère Cipher message, decoded.
It read: SFC Hayes. Goblins' main force confirmed on King's Road. They move faster than expected. I need the acid for the detonators now, or the defensive plan is compromised. —Blake.
The panic was setting in. The timeline had shrunk. Deacon had 48 hours, not 72.
He knew what had to be done. He immediately sought out Specialist Ruiz. The 'Empty Chamber Pot' acquisition could not wait. The mission now demanded that his Sergeant, the Castellan of Oakhaven, go begging for urine.