The final night before the expected dawn assault settled over Oakhaven, not with a roar, but with a deep, pervasive anxiety. The city knew the Goblins were near.
Deacon knew that military preparation was only half the battle; the other half was sustaining civilian morale. He could not afford a panicked rout that would expose his hidden soldiers.
He gathered the remaining town leaders—Harl (the disgraced Quartermaster), Gerold (the terrified Market Master), and Father Marius (the appeased priest)—in the Hold's main hall.
"The Goblins are hours away," Deacon announced, standing beside a large, newly commissioned banner bearing the fierce, winged cat of the Castellan's House. . "The Imperial forces are gone. We stand alone."
The Public Rally
Deacon had to transform his previous harshness into inspiring resolve. He did not speak of strategy, but of communal strength and divine favor—the language the civilians understood.
"For weeks, you believed your Lord cared only for coin," Deacon said, his voice ringing with false sincerity. "But I have been preparing. I emptied the treasury not for myself, but for plague defense and covert food supplies that will sustain our defenders. The filth you saw at the southern wall is now Oakhaven's armor, blessed by the effort of every man and woman who dug the earth. The 'unholy' fire you smell is the purification of our spirit!"
He pointed to the terrified officials. "Harl has sharpened every spear. Gerold has found every last scrap of food for the children. Father Marius has prayed over the walls, sealing them with the light of the Divine. Every action taken this week was to ensure we survive this day."
Deacon ended the speech with a clear, simple order. "Tonight, you will not panic. You will go home. You will light your fires. You will trust the walls, trust your neighbors, and trust the defense that has been built. If the Goblins see fear, they win. If they see quiet resolve, they will break themselves on our walls."
The officials left, subdued but strangely reassured. Deacon had successfully leveraged their fear and redirected it into faith in his seemingly erratic decisions.
The Cost of the Creed
Later, alone in his chambers, Deacon sat before the fire, the silence oppressive. He pulled out a small, worn photograph—the only personal item he had managed to secure from the stolen civilian life of Lord Cassian. It was a picture of his own face, SFC David Hayes, standing with his wife, Sarah, on their last vacation.
He wasn't praying; he was reflecting on the crushing personal toll of the mission.
He was commanding men who were literally dying inside their stolen bodies. Corporal Thorne was catatonic. Major Kiley was teetering on a professional and psychological cliff edge. He had deployed the Thunder Claps, knowing that if they failed, the blame—and the resulting civilian casualties—would rest entirely on him.
He was SFC Hayes, logistics chief, who had assumed the terrifying mantle of a combat commander. He had broken every rule of the non-commissioned officer's handbook by taking command from a superior officer. But the Sergeant's Creed—I will never leave a fallen comrade. I will never forget that I am an American Soldier—demanded that he take command to ensure survival.
He knew that if they won, the deception would only deepen. They would have to live these lies for the rest of their lives, forever separated from the families they loved and trapped in a world they despised.
He had promised his soldiers they would cross the bridge of their new lives when the war was over. But tonight, that bridge looked impossibly long and perilous.
Kiley's Final Warning
Just before midnight, a final, tightly-coded Vigenère message arrived from Major Kiley, dropped by Tate (Balthasar). It was not tactical. It was personal.
HAYES. YOU ARE A GOOD NCO. IF YOU FALL, I WILL TAKE THE CASTEL. I WILL EXPOSE THE WIDOW. I WILL SECURE THORNE. I WILL NOT LET THIS END IN SHAME. BUT YOU ARE TOO EXPOSED. HAYES, BE SAFE. – K.
It was the closest the Major had come to an expression of loyalty—not to the Castellan, but to Hayes, the soldier. It was Major Kiley's final, grudging acceptance of the inverted command structure. He was not just ready to fight the Goblins; he was ready to inherit the consequences of Deacon's command, should it fail.
Deacon folded the note, placing it beside his personal photo. His command structure was united by duty and trauma, just in time for the final push.
He walked to the eastern ramparts, the cold stone pressing against his Lord Cassian tunic. The air was still. The only sound was the distant, rhythmic drumming—not of the city's heart, but the slow, ominous approach of the enemy.
The Goblins were here.