The departure of Lord Malakor was like the passing of a storm front. The oppressive, threatening atmosphere lifted, replaced by a feverish, clandestine energy. Oakhaven now had a singular, unifying purpose that transcended survival or prosperity: deception. Every citizen, from the elders on my council to the children learning their letters, became a willing conspirator in the great lie.
My first order was the implementation of the "Hidden Harvest" doctrine. The construction of the secret granaries began immediately. I chose locations that were naturally defensible and easily concealed: a deep, dry cave system in the hills behind the city, and a massive, excavated cellar beneath the floor of our new Market Hall. The work was done in rotating shifts, often at night, the sounds of digging muffled and the earth carried away to be dispersed far from the site. The engineering knowledge from the system allowed me to design supports and ventilation shafts that would keep the grain safe and dry for years. On the surface, our main granary remained prominent but never quite full. Below ground, the true wealth of our nation began to accumulate.
My second order was the transformation of our militia. The knowledge from the [Basic Defensive Fortifications & Militia Tactics] packet was no longer just for static defense. I now began to apply its principles to mobile warfare.
"The King's army fights on open plains," I told Borin and our twenty guards, now the core of our nascent army. "They are a hammer, designed to crush. We will not be the anvil. We will be the scorpion, hidden in the sand. We will sting, and we will disappear."
I took them into the winding canyons and rocky mesas where Borin had traveled. I taught them the art of the ambush, of the fighting retreat, of using the terrain as their greatest ally. We developed a new style of fighting, unique to Oakhaven. Our men, armed with their light iron spears and powerful bows, learned to strike from the high ground, to harry supply lines, to lure smaller patrols into cleverly prepared traps and then melt back into the desert that only they knew as home. We were not building an army to win a battle; we were building an insurgency to win a war.
But our greatest weapon would not be our swords or our secrecy. It would be our alliances. A single city, no matter how clever, could not stand against a kingdom forever. We needed to transform the desert from a wasteland into a network of allies.
I dispatched two messengers. The first was Ren, the pathfinder. I sent him back to the Ashen tribe, not with goods for trade, but with a simple, stark message for Chieftainess Anya. "A great power stirs in the east," the message read. "They see all the peoples of the desert as assets to be taxed or obstacles to be removed. Oakhaven will stand against them. We offer the Ashen tribe a pact of mutual defense. Your eyes in the south and our strength in the north. Together, we can remain free. Alone, their shadow will eventually fall upon your herds."
The second messenger was one of Borin's most trusted men, sent on the perilous journey back to Ironpeak. His message to Grak was more direct, appealing to the smith-chief's brutish pragmatism. "The King who claims ownership of Oakhaven will soon claim ownership of the mountain that gives you your iron. He will send his own governors and his own soldiers, and you will become slaves in your own forge. I am fighting them. I can provide your people with a limitless supply of food and beer in exchange for a steady supply of iron to arm our soldiers. Help me arm Oakhaven, and I will ensure your forge remains your own."
It was an audacious gamble. I was attempting to unite the disparate, feuding peoples of the wastes—the farmers, the nomads, and the miners—into a single confederacy against a common enemy. I was positioning myself not merely as the Lord of Oakhaven, but as the potential leader of a new desert nation.
Days turned into weeks. Oakhaven operated on two levels. The public face was one of quiet, diligent work. The citizens tended the fields, herded the goats, and prepared for the arrival of the King's tax collectors. They knew their roles, rehearsing what they would say, how they would act—poor, but hardworking and loyal.
Beneath this placid surface, however, a secret, revolutionary state was taking shape. The hidden granaries filled. The militia drilled in the canyons, their skills growing with each passing day. The blacksmith forged swords instead of plowshares in the dead of night. We were a city with two identities: the meek, subservient vassal the kingdom saw, and the hardened, defiant nation we were becoming.
The system's interface reflected this new, dual reality.
[STATUS: VASSAL (Official)][STATUS: INSURGENCY (Covert)][OBJECTIVE: Prepare for Royal Tax Caravan (ETA: 12 weeks)][DIPLOMATIC STATUS: Ashen Tribe (Pending), Ironpeak (Pending)]
The clock was ticking. Twelve weeks until the first tax caravan arrived. Twelve weeks to cement our alliances, to hide our wealth, and to sharpen our swords. I stood on the walls, looking out at the vast desert. It was no longer just a wasteland to be conquered. It was our greatest defense, our sanctuary, the crucible in which our freedom would be forged. The King thought he was sending tax collectors to a remote outpost. He had no idea he was sending them into the heart of a budding rebellion, led by the bastard son he had so carelessly thrown away.