The journey to Solstice was no longer a grueling multi-week trek on horseback. By utilizing the Oakhaven & Western to the coast and then an Imperial fast-packet ship, Deacon reached the capital in under six days. Yet, stepping onto the marble docks of the Imperial City felt like stepping backward in time. While Oakhaven hummed with the high-pitched whistle of high-pressure steam and the staccato clicks of the telegraph, Solstice remained a city of slow, rhythmic tradition, where power was measured in lineage rather than horsepower.
The High Court of Alchemical Patents sat in a vaulted chamber of obsidian and gold, a space designed to intimidate the "uninitiated." The Coal-Lords, represented by a phalanx of lawyers in heavy velvet robes, had filed a massive injunction against the Oakhaven Standard. They claimed that "Railway Time" was a theft of the Imperial prerogative to measure the heavens, and that "Mechanical Interlocking" was a dangerous automation that replaced the "moral judgment" of Imperial subjects with the "soulless coldness" of iron.
"The defendant, Lord Cassian, seeks to monopolize the very passage of time," the lead advocate for the Coal-Lords argued, his voice echoing toward the high ceiling. "By enforcing a 'Standard Time,' he renders the sun itself a secondary authority to his master clocks. This is not engineering; it is a coup against the natural order of the Empire."
Deacon sat at the defense table, his hands resting on a heavy leather case. He didn't look like a petitioner; he looked like a man who was already bored with the outcome. Beside him, Julian looked tense, his eyes scanning the gallery for familiar faces from the Imperial Court.
"The Coal-Lords aren't worried about the sun," Deacon said, standing up when his turn to speak arrived. He didn't address the judges; he addressed the crowd. "They are worried about the fact that an Oakhaven train can move more coal in a day than their mule-trains can move in a year. They want to break the 'Standard' because the Standard is what makes the North faster than the South."
He opened his case and pulled out a series of brass gears—the heart of the Interlocking Frame.
"You call this a 'soulless machine,'" Deacon continued, holding a notched cam aloft. "I call it a guarantee of life. This machine doesn't have a moral judgment, but it also doesn't get tired. it doesn't get drunk. And unlike the Coal-Lords, it doesn't care whose logo is on the side of the train. It only cares that the rails are clear."
The trial lasted three days, a gritty slog of legal hair-splitting and alchemical definitions. But on the fourth day, the mood of the court shifted. The Chief Inquisitor, a man who had been notoriously hostile to Deacon, suddenly dismissed the Coal-Lords' injunction with a perfunctory wave of his hand.
"The Court finds that 'Standard Time' is an administrative necessity for the safety of the rails," the Inquisitor announced. "The patents are granted to the Oakhaven & Western, subject to the Crown's right of 'Military Oversight.'"
Julian let out a breath of relief, but Deacon felt the "Logistical Insight" in his mind flagging a warning. The dismissal was too quick. The Coal-Lords were too quiet.
"They didn't give up, Julian," Deacon whispered as they exited the obsidian hall. "They were told to stand down. Someone higher up already has what they want."
The confirmation came that evening at a private dinner in the Palace of Shadows. Deacon was summoned not by the Emperor, but by the Lord High Steward, the man responsible for the Empire's internal security. The Steward led Deacon to a hidden gallery overlooking the Imperial testing grounds.
Below them, in the flickering light of gas-lamps, a crew of Imperial engineers was laying track. It wasn't the broad gauge of the Board of Works. It was the exact, four-foot, eight-and-a-half-inch Oakhaven Standard. And sitting on those rails was a locomotive that was a distorted, heavier reflection of the Pathfinder.
"We call it the Imperial Sovereign," the Steward said, his voice smooth and devoid of emotion. "Your patents were granted because the Emperor decided he liked your designs. But he didn't like the idea of Oakhaven owning the only 'Key' to the continent. This is the 'Shadow-Rail,' Lord Cassian. A parallel line that will run from Solstice to the Eastern Front, bypassing your territory entirely."
"You stole the blueprints from the patent filings," Deacon said, his jaw tightening.
"We 'adapted' them for the national interest," the Steward corrected. "But we have a problem. Your engines use a specific alloy for the boiler-tubes that our smiths can't replicate. The Sovereign keeps blowing its seals at high pressure. You are going to give us the formula for that alloy, and in exchange, the Coal-Lords will be forbidden from harassing your lines."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then the Coal-Lords will be encouraged to burn every mile of your track, and the Imperial Patent Office will find 'prior art' that renders your Labor Notes illegal," the Steward replied. "You've built a beautiful machine, David. But you forgot that in Solstice, the most important gear is the one that turns the king's head."
Deacon looked down at the Sovereign. It was a clumsy imitation, over-built and under-engineered, but it was a sign that the "Oakhaven Standard" was no longer his secret. He had started an industrial revolution, and now the Empire was trying to weaponize it.
"I'll give you the alloy," Deacon said, a cold plan forming in the back of his mind. "But I won't give it to you in a scroll. I'll send a team of Oakhaven 'Consultants' to oversee the casting. If you want the Sovereign to run, you're going to have to let my people into the heart of your secret works."
As he walked away from the gallery, Deacon realized that the "Shadow-Rail" was the greatest threat he had ever faced. If the Empire succeeded in building its own network, Oakhaven would become an irrelevant outpost. He had to ensure that the Sovereign—and the Empire's entire rail project—was subtly, mathematically dependent on Oakhaven for its very survival.