The sound of metal thudding against dirt echoed through the quiet stretch of land.
The farmer shoved his foot forward, trying to wedge the blade between the stones in the rocky soil. A half-baked effort—easier than hauling the rocks out properly. The morning was cold, and anything that kept him from lingering in it too long was worth trying.
The shovel barely sank a few centimeters in response.
He hesitated. Then pressed harder. A sharp breath of cold air filled his lungs.
It wasn't about time. Not really. It was just another excuse—another way to put off seeing what lay beneath.
He kept going anyway, his old joints groaning with the effort. The shovel barely budged, the earth resisting him. He leaned forward, pressing his weight against the handle, forcing it against a stubborn rock wedged deep in the dirt.
It didn't want to move.
Neither did his legs.
His knees buckled before he realized what was happening. He pitched forward, his forearms striking the cold earth. A sharp jolt ran through his bones, but he didn't rise.
For a moment, he just lay there, breath misting in the morning air. The wilted plant loomed over him, its brittle stalk swaying slightly as he knelt.
Then his hands started moving. Slowly, blindly, he worked at the dirt, pulling at stones with stiff, aching fingers. The soil was rough, cold, clinging to his skin. Then—something else.
Soft. Too soft.
His fingers pressed into the tuber, and it yielded.
He went still. Then, carefully, he peeled away at the skin. The crop disintegrated in his grasp, flesh collapsing into rot. A thick black ichor oozed from what remained.
He stared at it. The blackened pulp clung to his fingers, seeping into the lines of his skin. Without thinking, he tightened his grip, feeling the ruined thing collapse further.
Slowly, he leaned back into his seat in the poor soil. His breath came shallow. His hands drifted up, pressing against the sides of his head, smearing dirt and rot across his face.
The sound of rustling broke the stillness.
His gaze lifted. Across the ruined field, the blackened stalks of wheat swayed.
A single, pale horse stood among them, mouthing at the blighted grain. Its skin clung to its ribs, stretched thin over a frame that looked barely alive. It did not chew. It only stood there, teeth grazing the husks.
For a moment, it seemed to look at him.
Winter would take what it could get.
"And of the failure of farms in the villages near the outer borders of Arvania, futility has been the noted response of the appraisers to the wretched work put into the harsh soil of these lands. The land's worth has been nothing in decades past, and the settled lands have now been determined to be worth nothing. It is the opinion of this advisor that the administration simply has no reason to grant reprieve at the expense of their lack of effort.
Over the cycles of seasons, the villagers who were granted land have done nothing to improve the worth of what allowed them to stay in lands where they are not wanted and have been nothing but a burden to the hardworking knights, who continue to give blood and sweat to keep their settlements safe and supplied. Our generosity has aligned with Ness's guiding hand, yet they have given nothing in return—no thanks, nothing. Providence has granted that their souls improve and their families strengthen, yet a deep-rooted social evil lies at their very core, binding them to poverty and starvation no matter what hand feeds them. Rather than freely handing out relief, they must learn how to care for themselves, and anything given must be used to teach a lesson rather than to feed—"
Costica blinked, his focus ripped from him.
Literally.
The yellowed paper, plastered like a stain, was slashed to hang down from the notice board. The man in front of him had torn his fingers across it, sparing the others from whatever was left. No more information that they could scrounge for.
The others grumbled. Costica couldn't care less.
Ever since the air got colder, it had only been ill-news. And Ill-news was the only thing he had an abundance of.
A voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"Tata!"
Costica looked up, his eyes settling on his son. The boy bumbled through the crowd like a fish pushing upstream, sleeves snagging on coats too big for the bones beneath them.
He didn't respond. He hadn't really looked at the boy in days. Not properly.
The teen was stocky once. Always moving.
Now, the shape of his face had changed. Costica almost asked if he'd eaten. Almost.
Leonte's voice cracked louder than it should have, too sharp for the cold air. "No longer selling at cost!"
The crowd stirred around them. Quiet outrage, but again, Costica didn't move.
Ill-news was abundant, after all.
"Decentralization and the nature of growth." Duchess Morgannan Society Department of Civics and Mercantile Studies; 26/4/300, Irvellen
"..thus, necessary evolution toward a freer and more productive market structure.
Take, for example, the provinces of Vardazhë and the river valley districts surrounding Selca. Historically, these areas have relied on insular, inefficient systems of small-plot cultivation—sufficient for local consumption, but ill-suited to the demands of modern trade.
Under the new reforms, foodstuffs such as barley, maize, and the regional tuber crops are no longer mandated for local sale at static prices. Instead, their value is to be determined dynamically by market conditions, encouraging producers to align their output with national needs, rather than parochial consumption patterns.
Admittedly, transitional periods may produce dislocations, particularly among subsistence farmers in the highland bands, where traditional practices remain entrenched. In Vardazhë, for instance, preliminary reports indicate a notable decline in rural retention rates, with an estimated 17% of the agricultural population already seeking employment opportunities in the manufacturing sectors of eastern Arvania.
This is not a failure to lament. It is, rather, a correction long overdue. A controlled contraction of outdated agricultural labor will, over time, release necessary human capital toward industrial centers such as Korcëvar and Tivarë, where infrastructural investments promise higher returns on labor.
Stability, while once paramount, can no longer be the highest good. Growth is. Productivity is. The future demands it.
"Costica I—"
"PIZDA—SPIT IT OUT!"
His parents weren't emotional. Their lives never allowed them to be. Or at least, when it wasn't useful. Not today, though. It was useful today.
Leonte stood half-hidden behind the stack of empty grain sacks, watching his father speak to the depot owner. The voices weren't raised yet, but tension rolled off them in heatless waves. Every syllable snapped like dried wood.
Costica's back was stiff, broad shoulders hunched slightly against the chill that crept through the stone building. His fingers twitched at his sides—not clenched, but not still either. Leonte knew that stance. It was the one he'd seen when his father argued with men who outranked him. A posture of anger carefully sheathed in something that could still be called polite.
"You must have something," Costica said. His voice was hoarse, but clear. "Even if it's only husk meal or the old oil tins. You were selling to the Ulvan merchants just last week. We saw the wagons."
Behind the wooden counter, the depot owner shifted his weight, his face pale beneath the oil-lamp glow. Davor. That was his name. Leonte remembered now. His family used to bring seed potatoes in here, years ago, before things got worse and stayed that way.
Davor looked thinner, too. Everyone did.
"I did sell. What we had," Davor said, eyes flicking to the back room like the bags might still be there if he looked long enough. "But that was the last of it, Costica. The council's shipment isn't due 'til thaw, and they're already warning the weights'll be cut. They want to teach us 'market adjustment'." He spat the word like it tasted foul.
"Then stop saving for shipments that won't come." Costica's voice sharpened. "You've got locals here. You think the merchants'll line up to feed us when the roads ice over? You think the council gives a damn whether any of us last the season?"
"I don't know!" Davor barked, suddenly. The echo bounced off the walls like a slap.
He looked startled by his own voice, then sagged against the counter, breath fogging the wood as he leaned forward. "I don't know," he repeated, softer now. "I've been asking the same questions every night for a month. I've got two girls at home and a baby that won't eat anything unless it's soft. You think I don't hear them cry? I'm not hoarding—I'm just afraid. Just like the rest of you."
Costica didn't move at first. Then his jaw flexed. "Fear isn't a good reason to starve your neighbors."
Davor laughed bitterly. "It's the only reason I've got left."
Leonte's breath caught.
He wanted to step in, say something, ask why, ask what now, but the knot in his stomach tightened when Costica turned to leave. Not storming. Just… leaving. Like he knew there was nothing left to fight over.
"Come, Leonte," he said without looking.
Leonte fell into step beside him, his boots crunching against the salt-strewn floor. The cold outside hit harder than before, like even the air was done pretending.
They walked in silence for a long while, past the shuttered bakeries, the chapel with its boarded windows, the square where a sign still promised a spring market that would never come.
Finally, Leonte spoke, his voice thin.
"What happens now?"
Costica didn't stop walking. "We plant what we have. And hope it lies."
Hope it lies. Not we.
Leonte swallowed hard. The frost bit at the corners of his eyes, and for the first time, he wasn't sure if it was from the cold or something worse.
[Interior: A vaulted chamber of dark oak and carved stone. Hearthlight flickers in a great hall, somewhere within the borderlands of Tirgrunn and Baldmark, one cannot say which. Snow drifts past arrow-slit windows. Nobles recline in thick robes. Wine breathes in high goblets. A hush holds.]
HARTWIG VON RICHTOFEN
The frost returns, and with it, pestled grief—
The groaning bellies of the hinterfolk,
Who trade their ribs for mercy once again.
Shall hunger's echo pass for loyalty?
Is fealty so weak it needs to feed?
I say: let marrow measure worth henceforth.
AUANNEGRET VON KAHLENBACH
What loyalty have fields that birth no grain?
They till excuses, sow rebellion's seed.
The Vlach-born clods mistake neglect for cause,
As though the plough might mend a broken name.
They starve, and in their hunger, curse our gold.
GERHARD SCHWEIGL They spit on law in Baldmark. Burned a tithe-wain.
Thrashed the courier. Took his boots and seal.
The roads are mud and blood. We send no grain.
They'd trade the writ for firewood if they could.
HARTWIG VON RICHTOFEN
Then let them starve as traitors. Not as kin.
The bond of bread breaks easy in the cold.
We warm our hands on loyalty, not pleas.
Let Tirgenwend be firm, and Bos-Nen sharper.
LOTHAR BECHTEL
The census fades in ink where hunger swells.
Seventeen percent have vanished from the books—
To Korcëvar, to Tivarë's mills.
The farms grow fallow not from soil, but flight.
The headman's post in Sturrach lies unmanned.
We post the writ; we freeze the southern flow.
ALBRECHT VON MEISSEN
Yet sirs, what toll hath famine on the soul?
A man may curse when silence starves his kin.
And I have walked the southern vale in snow—
Their roofs bare-thatch, their boots patched rag on rag.
The law is stiff, but frost is crueler still.
FREIFRAU ANNEGRET
No grit. No meal. No tender mercy writ.
Let Baldmark eat its children, if it must.
The lands beyond the vale are not our keep.
Their salt was spilt—let famine be their judge.
LOTHAR BECHTEL
And if they press north?
HARTWIG VON RICHTOFEN (coolly)
Then we raise the pike.
And let them find the cost of winter steel.
We trade no peace for pity. Let them learn.
There is no warmth for those who curse the flame.
ALBRECHT VON MEISSEN (quietly)
Then are we not the cold, and they the kindling?
If justice serves but lords, not lives—what name
Has she, but tyrant wrapped in velvet thread?
LOTHAR BECHTEL
*The writ shall read: 'Deprivation due to derelict stewardship.'
Signed and sealed in frost and state.
[All nod. A servant bows, collecting the parchment. Silence returns. Snow thickens at the glass. The nobles drink.]
The fire cracked in its stone cradle, weak and smoldering. Smoke threaded lazily through the room, the chimney pulling less than it should. Costica sat hunched over a chipped bowl, staring at it like it might refill itself if he looked hard enough.
His mother, Florence, was near the stove, arms wrapped in a shawl too thin for the cold. Her hair was pinned up in loops that had once been tighter, her earrings dull with years of wear. Her hands moved over the table, cleaning a surface that didn't need it. She had a familiar wrinkle in her eyelids.
She was about to complain.
"They're pulling back the grain," she said quietly. "I heard it from Ina. Her cousin in Varn says they stopped giving to the caravans two days ago. They say it's 'a correction.' I say it's death, just with a different name."
His father didn't look up. "The depot's already empty."
"I know."
"They say it's the land. The rot. Our fault." He exhaled, a tired sound. "They don't know the soil here, Flo. It's like trying to grow in bone."
Florence's voice trembled, but not from fear. "They never wanted us to succeed. You know that. You knew it when we came. This land wasn't given—it was thrown at us. Like scraps to dogs."
He turned then, eyes dull but present. "I thought I could still make something of it. Even a poor thing. Something Leonte could take up when I couldn't."
At the mention of his name, Leonte froze.
He sat in the corner of the room, pretending to patch a boot, thread and awl in hand. He wasn't listening. He told himself he wasn't. But he hadn't stitched in five minutes.
Florence turned, leaning against the table, arms crossed. "You did make something. You made a family. You taught your boys how to survive. That's more than the men in those warm stone halls could manage with all their coin."
Costica's eyes flicked toward Leonte, and Leonte dropped his gaze quickly, suddenly focused on the cracked leather in his hands.
"I worry for him," Costica said. "He's too sharp. Not enough callous on his hands. The sharp ones break easiest when the cold hits hardest."
Florence snorted softly. "And you think you're dull?" She reached over and touched his shoulder, her thumb brushing the soot from his collar. "You're just tired. Tired's not the same as broken."
There was a noise from the loft—something between a grunt and a cough. Then came the thump of bare feet against old wood.
A smaller boy shuffled into the room, his blanket still wrapped around him like a cloak. His cheeks were flushed, hair sticking up like a crow's nest.
"Tata," the boy said, rubbing one eye. "Why are we talking like the cold can hear us?"
Florence smiled, a real one this time. "Because it always does, iubirea mea. It just doesn't always care."
The boy nodded like that made sense, then looked to the bowl in Costica's hands. "Is there any left?"
Costica handed it over without hesitation. "Here. Warm your stomach."
The boy sat on the floor, legs crossed, cradling the bowl like a treasure.
Leonte finally threaded the needle, though the hole he'd meant to fix had already stiffened shut with frost. He muttered something somewhat offensive. A half-attempt at trying to be joking.
"You eat too much."
His brother stuck his tongue out. "I'm the only one who can. Iona's never here, and you're too fat."
Leonte tossed the boot at him.
He wished he was fat. "Dracu. You're the one dreaming of elven kings and feasts.---" He immediately felt a stone hit his forehead.
"Keep your tongue controlled."
Radu grinned impishly, already holding another pebble between two fingers, though whether it had been fetched from the hearth's edge or conjured by pure mischief, none could say. "Didn't dream about feasts," he said, scooping the last of the soup with two fingers and licking them clean. "Just someone looking."
Leonte rubbed the spot where the stone had struck. "Someone looking?"
"Mm-hmm." Radu leaned back on one hand, legs sprawled out like a collapsed colt. "I think he was standing in the field. At least… I thought so. Not while I was asleep. But just before. That moment where your eyes don't work but your head's already dreaming."
Florence straightened, the spoon in her hand momentarily still.
Costica gave a tired smile, but his voice was steady. "And what did this someone look like?"
Radu squinted, face scrunching in thought. "Tall. Real tall. Pale, too. Not like frost-pale. Not sick-pale. Like the moon when it's clean and full."
Leonte snorted. "So, a ghost."
"No," Radu said, frowning. "Not a ghost. He wasn't there, not properly. But I felt like he saw me. Like he was waiting. But not bad. Not… scary." He hesitated, then shrugged, trying to fold the last of the thought into words that hadn't fully formed. "Just cold. Really cold."
Costica and Florence exchanged a glance, but said nothing.
Radu tilted his head. "It's stupid. Just the wind, probably. The cold gets in places it shouldn't."
Florence turned, ruffling his hair as she passed behind him. "Then next time, don't let it in. Sleep deeper."
"I tried," he mumbled. "But I kept waking up and thinking about his eyes. They didn't blink."
Florence poured what little water was left in the kettle into a chipped mug and handed it to Radu. "That's because you're looking too hard at things you should leave to the crows."
"I wasn't trying to," he protested. "He was just there."
"Dreams always seem clearer before the second blink," Costica said, settling back in his chair. "Then they slip. Like frost on a pane."
"Maybe." Radu wrapped his hands around the mug. "But I don't think I'll forget him."
Leonte frowned at that but said nothing.
Outside, the wind scratched at the siding, rising again with its dry, whispering howl. It didn't rattle the shutters—it simply passed by, like something that knew it didn't need to knock.
Inside, the fire flinched but did not die. The warmth it gave off was thin and desperate, but it was still warmth.
Florence pressed her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "There'll be no caravan next week," she said after a pause. "Ina's cousin says Tirgenwend's holding everything North. too. And if they're tightening it there, then Baldmark's worse. It's lawless past the ridge, now. Horses and blades, and not much else."
"They won't send soldiers?" Leonte asked, eyes narrowing.
"They'll send knights," Costica said. "But not for us."
"What for, then?"
"To protect what matters to them. Routes. Mines. Trade roads. Not dirt fields and empty stores."
Leonte stared into the fire. "Then what do we do?"
Costica sighed. "We've wasted enough time. Go find your sister, Leonte. Tell her we need to speak."
Leonte stood slowly, the conversation lingering like smoke in his chest. He pulled on his coat, which was patched at the sleeves, and stepped outside.
His mother stood in the doorway, staring out at him. She muttered something.
He read her lips.
"This is death, just by another name."
The Council Chamber is quieter now, the fire dimmer. Scrolls and charred maps lie sprawled across a wide oaken table. The nobles linger, as the argument narrows to two voices.
HARTWIG VON RICHTOFEN
You cloak your words in velvet, Meissen, soft—
But famine cuts with steel, not poetry.
The wolves descend while you compose their dirge.
This is no place for bleeding tongues and sighs.
We rule by writ, not whim.
ALBRECHT VON MEISSEN
And yet that writ is inked in mortal blood.
When law forgets the man, what rule remains
But tyranny by parchment? Must the grain
Be hoarded like a jewel while children rot
Beneath a banner that denies their names
And calls their grief rebellion?
HARTWIG VON RICHTOFEN
Grief that lifts a torch is not but grief—
It is sedition. We govern, not console.
A lord who weeps shall drown the state in tears.
ALBRECHT VON MEISSEN
Then let me drown, if that is pity's price.
But know this, Hartwig—when the frost recedes,
What blooms shall judge us all.
HARTWIG VON RICHTOFEN
Let judgment come. So long as borders hold
And bread is kept from traitors, I am judged
By strength—not sighs. Your mercy weakens men.
ALBRECHT VON MEISSEN
No—men are weak already. Mercy gives
No illness, but reveals the wound beneath.
Yet I— I am no surgeon. Only lips,
That move like quills across this dying world.
We speak, we speak—
and nothing changes.
(He gestures broadly to the room)
Is this a court, or tomb? This council grave?
Our language braids like ivy round the neck
Of simpler needs. We plant decrees in ash,
And wonder why the roots will never hold.
HARTWIG VON RICHTOFEN (coldly)
Then silence. For the ivy chokes too well.
Leave hunger to the strong. And let your verse
Be carved upon the snow beside their bones.
ALBRECHT VON MEISSEN (wearily)
So be it. Let the common folk decide—
Though gods forgive them if they heard this talk,
For they would find no meal within our words.
Iona was the eldest of the four, and carried it like a second spine. She had their father's jaw and their mother's eyes, but neither of their softness. Her hands were strong from binding fencewire and hefting water, and her mouth had learned long ago to move only when necessary.
She didn't speak much, but when she did, it was sharp enough to cut through frost. The others listened. Even Costica, though he wouldn't admit it.
When Leonte found her, she was at the edge of the field, arms elbow-deep in a dead fencepost, the last bits of sodden wood crumbling as she worked. Her braid was tied back in a leather thong, but loose strands clung to her cheek in the wind.
She glanced up without stopping.
"What is it?" she asked, not unkindly.
Leonte hesitated. "Tata says we need to talk."
Iona pulled her arm free, wiped her fingers against her coat, and nodded once.
Leonte paused, looking towards the outer lengths of the field. Well, he called it a field. Moreso rolling hills.
He could imagine a caravan, trailing carts and singing voices, as they dipped underneath the spring sun.
His father had told him to avoid them. Caravans carried con-men as much as earnest sellers. He paused, now imagining a man carrying two children, and a woman, a third. Leaving behind the uncertainty that created thieves, and the land that was difficult to tame.
New pastures filled with wolves. His eyes trailed across the scattered cobblestone paths that bled through the hills. Half-finished, bruised, and cut.
His sister seemed to have noticed his distraction. Her voice snapped her out of it.
"Dead roads."
"Dead roads,"
Iona said again, quieter this time, as though the wind might carry the words off before Leonte could hear too much.
She stepped beside him, arms crossed tight against her chest. Her eyes followed the same worn stones bleeding into the distant fog.
"They've started paying men to build out this way," she said. "Landlords. Councilmen from the cities—Arvania, maybe Bos-Nen too. Claim it'll link the lowlands to the grain belts. More trade. Safer passage. A way out."
Leonte didn't speak. He watched the way her fingers flexed against her arms, like they ached just thinking about it.
"They don't pay by the hour," she continued. "Only by how much gets done. A road laid, a wall finished. Not a minute before. No rest for slope or sickness." Her mouth twisted. "And the ones they find to swing the picks? Men with empty bellies. Boys too young. Old folk too proud to beg."
She gestured toward the broken stretch of path ahead, the jagged stones swallowed by frost and creeping vines.
"They build for food, for coin, for some dream that doesn't live past the second week. But you know what happens?"
Leonte looked up at her, eyes catching the hard line of her jaw.
"They break," she said. "Bodies before shovels. Bones before steel. They're not machines, Leonte. They're just people." She paused, a gust of wind stirring the loose ends of her braid. "And when an animal's hungry enough, it'll throw itself against something twice its size. Won't matter if it dies trying. Because hunger doesn't care. Desperation eats slower than wolves, but it eats deeper."
The two stood silent for a time.
Then Iona took a breath, steadying herself. "Let's go. If tata wants words, best not keep them waiting."
The barn roof creaks. Snow falls off its slope in quiet sheets. Inside, Costica sharpens a spade by the dim glow of a lantern. Iona and Leonte sit at the table, the broth pot scraped clean.
"You really shouldn't go. Not tonight."
Costica, shifted rubbing his eyes. "We wait longer, we die slower. I've spoken to Marin, to Doru—they'll come. We'll go up toward the crest. Near where the councilmen ride. If they won't open the roads, we'll make them hear our tools.
Leonte paused, watching his father. "You mean to fight?"
"No, Leonte. Just to be heard. And if they silence us again, then maybe we dig louder. Shovels speak. So do fires. Maybe we can get work."
Iona spoke, this time.
"I'll go with you."
Costica didn't argue. He was too tired too.
A CROWD IS GATHERED. HUSHED. WAITING FOR THE ONE WHO THEY COULD REASON WITH. THE ONE THAT BOTH WHOSE PROSE AND SIMPLE WORDS WERE UNDERSTOOD.
The candle guttered low beside Albrecht's hand, the ink long dried upon a half-signed letter, one meant for a magistrate in the river valley, pleading leniency. Another one for the farmers, asking them for time. Neither would read it.
His lips murmured verse, even as his breath failed.
ALBRECHT VON MEISSEN (dying)
A road half-laid, a bridge half-built in snow,
And I, a man half-hearted in his cause.
I turned my tongue to truth, but not my hand.
Let history not call it mercy, nor mind.
No servants had come. No fire warmed the hearth.
Outside, the frost crept silently beneath the sill.
Albrecht died alone.
And the letters was never opened.
IONA
We could've taken the meat. Even half-rotten, it'd still go down.
COSTICA
We're not beasts. Not yet.
Leonte
The ones up north think we already are.
IONA
They've never walked here. Never felt how the wind cuts like glass.
Costica looks toward the horizon, squinting.
COSTICA
You ever have the feeling something watches? Not near. Far off. Like the field's dreaming. But not your dream.
RADU (confused)
What? What do you mean?
COSTICA
It's probably just the cold. Or something I dreamt. But last night, there was a shape in the grass. Tall. Silver.
Leonte scoffs but says nothing.
Florence appears behind them, her shawl fluttering.
FLORENCE
Dreams don't fill the stomach. They make it ache worse. Come back. Radu's still hungry.
The square was filled past breath. Boots and bare feet alike pressed into frozen slush. Smoke crawled up from barrels and broken carts. The sky held no color—only the pale hush of waiting snow.
Men from the outer hamlets stood shoulder to shoulder with traveling traders, fieldworkers, menders, and the grain-haulers left unpaid for weeks. Some carried tools. Some carried stones. Most carried silence.
Costica stood near the edge, watching. His hands were in his coat, but his shoulders were stiff, his jaw tight. Beside him, Iona held a strip of cloth wound around her wrist like a binding charm. Leonte fidgeted restlessly.
There was a tremble in the crowd, it wasn't fear. It was an expectation.
At the steps of the Hall, behind a barricade of guards, a voice rang out. It was distant.
HARTWIG VON RICHTOFEN
"Good men of field and fire, know this:
The tongue of frost speaks not of spite, but strength.
Hold fast your labor, and your faith returns—
All things return to those who stand in place."
The silence that followed was deeper than before. Then:
A man near Costica snorted. "What the fuck did he just say?"
Another called out, "What's he mean, 'tongue of frost'? Is that supposed to feed us?"
The guards shifted. Hartwig's voice came again, slower, firmer.
HARTWIG
"Though lean the land, the law stands fat with grace—"
"—What the hell does that even mean?" someone shouted. A woman next to Iona growled, "Grace won't boil roots."
Then the murmur began. Not one of confusion, but frustration. Words passed like wind: He's mocking us. He don't even know we're real. Talking like books while we starve.
And then came Bechtel, stepping forward, lifting his hands—not high, not in power, but in plea.
LOTHAR BECHTEL (attempting calm)
"You who gather with hollow bellies and honest hands, listen—listen. The council hears. The dead of Baldmark, the children in Varn, they are not forgotten. I swear this. We are—"
But then a voice broke through the crowd.
"He's dead!"
"What?"
"Meissen is dead!"
"Albrecht von Meissen is dead. Choked to death in his own cold room!"
Silence snapped like a frayed rope. Then came the sound of boots on stone. A cry, a broken sob, then the scream of metal dragged on stone.
A farmer hurled his rusted sickle. It hit a guard's helmet and rang like a bell.
The square exploded.
Costica was already moving, grabbing Leonte by the coat. "Run. Now."
"Iona!" he shouted, scanning the tide of people beginning to surge. Iona had turned as she had pushed a child behind her, yelling at a man to stop swinging a club.
Costica reached her just as she caught a cut across her shoulder. She fell to her knees. He pulled her up.
"Leonte—where is he—"
"I've got him!" Iona cried, voice cracking.
The mob had turned wild, stone met steel, shouting met screaming, guards were overwhelmed and others swung back with sabers. The banner above the hall was torn, half-burnt. Somewhere a horse screamed and bolted into the crowd.
Then Florence was there, sudden as mist, her coat soaked, her hair loose.
"Come—don't speak, just come."
Radu was in her arms, bundled in shawls. His eyes were sunken, his skin hot.
"He's burning," she said. "I came as soon as I could. The doctor. We need to get him to a doctor."
Together, stumbling, ducking, they vanished down a side alley, smoke and snow chasing their heels.
Behind them, the square bled into chaos.
Behind them, the town began to fall.
The Family Rushed Through the Forest.
Radu whispered of his dream. The white figure? Where is it? Is it there?
They made their way to a pale horse, and Leonte clutched at his brother, hauled up by his sister, and his father began to ride.
Radu began to pray for elven feasts.
The farmer shoved his foot forward, trying to wedge the blade between the stones in the rocky soil. A half-baked effort—easier than hauling the rocks out properly. The morning was cold, and anything that kept him from lingering in it too long was worth trying.
The shovel barely sank a few centimeters in response.
He hesitated. Then pressed harder. A sharp breath of cold air filled his lungs.
It wasn't about time. Not really. It was just another excuse—another way to put off seeing what lay beneath.
He kept going anyway, his old joints groaning with the effort. The shovel barely budged, the earth resisting him. He leaned forward, pressing his weight against the handle, forcing it against a stubborn rock wedged deep in the dirt.
It didn't want to move.
Neither did his legs.
His knees buckled before he realized what was happening. He pitched forward, his forearms striking the cold earth. A sharp jolt ran through his bones, but he didn't rise.
For a moment, he just lay there, breath misting in the morning air. The wilted plant loomed over him, its brittle stalk swaying slightly as he knelt.
Then his hands started moving. Slowly, blindly, he worked at the dirt, pulling at stones with stiff, aching fingers. The soil was rough, cold, clinging to his skin. Then—something else.
Soft. Too soft.
His fingers pressed into the tuber, and it yielded.
He went still. Then, carefully, he peeled away at the skin. The crop disintegrated in his grasp, flesh collapsing into rot. A thick black ichor oozed from what remained.
He stared at it. The blackened pulp clung to his fingers, seeping into the lines of his skin. Without thinking, he tightened his grip, feeling the ruined thing collapse further.
Slowly, he leaned back into his seat in the poor soil. His breath came shallow. His hands drifted up, pressing against the sides of his head, smearing dirt and rot across his face.
The sound of rustling broke the stillness.
His gaze lifted. Across the ruined field, the blackened stalks of wheat swayed.
A single, pale horse stood among them, mouthing at the blighted grain. Its skin clung to its ribs, stretched thin over a frame that looked barely alive. It did not chew. It only stood there, teeth grazing the husks.
For a moment, it seemed to look at him.
Winter would take what it could get.
"And of the failure of farms in the villages near the outer borders of Arvania, futility has been the noted response of the appraisers to the wretched work put into the harsh soil of these lands. The land's worth has been nothing in decades past, and the settled lands have now been determined to be worth nothing. It is the opinion of this advisor that the administration simply has no reason to grant reprieve at the expense of their lack of effort.
Over the cycles of seasons, the villagers who were granted land have done nothing to improve the worth of what allowed them to stay in lands where they are not wanted and have been nothing but a burden to the hardworking knights, who continue to give blood and sweat to keep their settlements safe and supplied. Our generosity has aligned with Ness's guiding hand, yet they have given nothing in return—no thanks, nothing. Providence has granted that their souls improve and their families strengthen, yet a deep-rooted social evil lies at their very core, binding them to poverty and starvation no matter what hand feeds them. Rather than freely handing out relief, they must learn how to care for themselves, and anything given must be used to teach a lesson rather than to feed—"
Costica blinked, his focus ripped from him.
Literally.
The yellowed paper, plastered like a stain, was slashed to hang down from the notice board. The man in front of him had torn his fingers across it, sparing the others from whatever was left. No more information that they could scrounge for.
The others grumbled. Costica couldn't care less.
Ever since the air got colder, it had only been ill-news. And Ill-news was the only thing he had an abundance of.
A voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"Tata!"
Costica looked up, his eyes settling on his son. The boy bumbled through the crowd like a fish pushing upstream, sleeves snagging on coats too big for the bones beneath them.
He didn't respond. He hadn't really looked at the boy in days. Not properly.
The teen was stocky once. Always moving.
Now, the shape of his face had changed. Costica almost asked if he'd eaten. Almost.
Leonte's voice cracked louder than it should have, too sharp for the cold air. "No longer selling at cost!"
The crowd stirred around them. Quiet outrage, but again, Costica didn't move.
Ill-news was abundant, after all.
"Decentralization and the nature of growth." Duchess Morgannan Society Department of Civics and Mercantile Studies; 26/4/300, Irvellen
"..thus, necessary evolution toward a freer and more productive market structure.
Take, for example, the provinces of Vardazhë and the river valley districts surrounding Selca. Historically, these areas have relied on insular, inefficient systems of small-plot cultivation—sufficient for local consumption, but ill-suited to the demands of modern trade.
Under the new reforms, foodstuffs such as barley, maize, and the regional tuber crops are no longer mandated for local sale at static prices. Instead, their value is to be determined dynamically by market conditions, encouraging producers to align their output with national needs, rather than parochial consumption patterns.
Admittedly, transitional periods may produce dislocations, particularly among subsistence farmers in the highland bands, where traditional practices remain entrenched. In Vardazhë, for instance, preliminary reports indicate a notable decline in rural retention rates, with an estimated 17% of the agricultural population already seeking employment opportunities in the manufacturing sectors of eastern Arvania.
This is not a failure to lament. It is, rather, a correction long overdue. A controlled contraction of outdated agricultural labor will, over time, release necessary human capital toward industrial centers such as Korcëvar and Tivarë, where infrastructural investments promise higher returns on labor.
Stability, while once paramount, can no longer be the highest good. Growth is. Productivity is. The future demands it.
"Costica I—"
"PIZDA—SPIT IT OUT!"
His parents weren't emotional. Their lives never allowed them to be. Or at least, when it wasn't useful. Not today, though. It was useful today.
Leonte stood half-hidden behind the stack of empty grain sacks, watching his father speak to the depot owner. The voices weren't raised yet, but tension rolled off them in heatless waves. Every syllable snapped like dried wood.
Costica's back was stiff, broad shoulders hunched slightly against the chill that crept through the stone building. His fingers twitched at his sides—not clenched, but not still either. Leonte knew that stance. It was the one he'd seen when his father argued with men who outranked him. A posture of anger carefully sheathed in something that could still be called polite.
"You must have something," Costica said. His voice was hoarse, but clear. "Even if it's only husk meal or the old oil tins. You were selling to the Ulvan merchants just last week. We saw the wagons."
Behind the wooden counter, the depot owner shifted his weight, his face pale beneath the oil-lamp glow. Davor. That was his name. Leonte remembered now. His family used to bring seed potatoes in here, years ago, before things got worse and stayed that way.
Davor looked thinner, too. Everyone did.
"I did sell. What we had," Davor said, eyes flicking to the back room like the bags might still be there if he looked long enough. "But that was the last of it, Costica. The council's shipment isn't due 'til thaw, and they're already warning the weights'll be cut. They want to teach us 'market adjustment'." He spat the word like it tasted foul.
"Then stop saving for shipments that won't come." Costica's voice sharpened. "You've got locals here. You think the merchants'll line up to feed us when the roads ice over? You think the council gives a damn whether any of us last the season?"
"I don't know!" Davor barked, suddenly. The echo bounced off the walls like a slap.
He looked startled by his own voice, then sagged against the counter, breath fogging the wood as he leaned forward. "I don't know," he repeated, softer now. "I've been asking the same questions every night for a month. I've got two girls at home and a baby that won't eat anything unless it's soft. You think I don't hear them cry? I'm not hoarding—I'm just afraid. Just like the rest of you."
Costica didn't move at first. Then his jaw flexed. "Fear isn't a good reason to starve your neighbors."
Davor laughed bitterly. "It's the only reason I've got left."
Leonte's breath caught.
He wanted to step in, say something, ask why, ask what now, but the knot in his stomach tightened when Costica turned to leave. Not storming. Just… leaving. Like he knew there was nothing left to fight over.
"Come, Leonte," he said without looking.
Leonte fell into step beside him, his boots crunching against the salt-strewn floor. The cold outside hit harder than before, like even the air was done pretending.
They walked in silence for a long while, past the shuttered bakeries, the chapel with its boarded windows, the square where a sign still promised a spring market that would never come.
Finally, Leonte spoke, his voice thin.
"What happens now?"
Costica didn't stop walking. "We plant what we have. And hope it lies."
Hope it lies. Not we.
Leonte swallowed hard. The frost bit at the corners of his eyes, and for the first time, he wasn't sure if it was from the cold or something worse.
[Interior: A vaulted chamber of dark oak and carved stone. Hearthlight flickers in a great hall, somewhere within the borderlands of Tirgrunn and Baldmark, one cannot say which. Snow drifts past arrow-slit windows. Nobles recline in thick robes. Wine breathes in high goblets. A hush holds.]
HARTWIG VON RICHTOFEN
The frost returns, and with it, pestled grief—
The groaning bellies of the hinterfolk,
Who trade their ribs for mercy once again.
Shall hunger's echo pass for loyalty?
Is fealty so weak it needs to feed?
I say: let marrow measure worth henceforth.
AUANNEGRET VON KAHLENBACH
What loyalty have fields that birth no grain?
They till excuses, sow rebellion's seed.
The Vlach-born clods mistake neglect for cause,
As though the plough might mend a broken name.
They starve, and in their hunger, curse our gold.
GERHARD SCHWEIGL They spit on law in Baldmark. Burned a tithe-wain.
Thrashed the courier. Took his boots and seal.
The roads are mud and blood. We send no grain.
They'd trade the writ for firewood if they could.
HARTWIG VON RICHTOFEN
Then let them starve as traitors. Not as kin.
The bond of bread breaks easy in the cold.
We warm our hands on loyalty, not pleas.
Let Tirgenwend be firm, and Bos-Nen sharper.
LOTHAR BECHTEL
The census fades in ink where hunger swells.
Seventeen percent have vanished from the books—
To Korcëvar, to Tivarë's mills.
The farms grow fallow not from soil, but flight.
The headman's post in Sturrach lies unmanned.
We post the writ; we freeze the southern flow.
ALBRECHT VON MEISSEN
Yet sirs, what toll hath famine on the soul?
A man may curse when silence starves his kin.
And I have walked the southern vale in snow—
Their roofs bare-thatch, their boots patched rag on rag.
The law is stiff, but frost is crueler still.
FREIFRAU ANNEGRET
No grit. No meal. No tender mercy writ.
Let Baldmark eat its children, if it must.
The lands beyond the vale are not our keep.
Their salt was spilt—let famine be their judge.
LOTHAR BECHTEL
And if they press north?
HARTWIG VON RICHTOFEN (coolly)
Then we raise the pike.
And let them find the cost of winter steel.
We trade no peace for pity. Let them learn.
There is no warmth for those who curse the flame.
ALBRECHT VON MEISSEN (quietly)
Then are we not the cold, and they the kindling?
If justice serves but lords, not lives—what name
Has she, but tyrant wrapped in velvet thread?
LOTHAR BECHTEL
*The writ shall read: 'Deprivation due to derelict stewardship.'
Signed and sealed in frost and state.
[All nod. A servant bows, collecting the parchment. Silence returns. Snow thickens at the glass. The nobles drink.]
The fire cracked in its stone cradle, weak and smoldering. Smoke threaded lazily through the room, the chimney pulling less than it should. Costica sat hunched over a chipped bowl, staring at it like it might refill itself if he looked hard enough.
His mother, Florence, was near the stove, arms wrapped in a shawl too thin for the cold. Her hair was pinned up in loops that had once been tighter, her earrings dull with years of wear. Her hands moved over the table, cleaning a surface that didn't need it. She had a familiar wrinkle in her eyelids.
She was about to complain.
"They're pulling back the grain," she said quietly. "I heard it from Ina. Her cousin in Varn says they stopped giving to the caravans two days ago. They say it's 'a correction.' I say it's death, just with a different name."
His father didn't look up. "The depot's already empty."
"I know."
"They say it's the land. The rot. Our fault." He exhaled, a tired sound. "They don't know the soil here, Flo. It's like trying to grow in bone."
Florence's voice trembled, but not from fear. "They never wanted us to succeed. You know that. You knew it when we came. This land wasn't given—it was thrown at us. Like scraps to dogs."
He turned then, eyes dull but present. "I thought I could still make something of it. Even a poor thing. Something Leonte could take up when I couldn't."
At the mention of his name, Leonte froze.
He sat in the corner of the room, pretending to patch a boot, thread and awl in hand. He wasn't listening. He told himself he wasn't. But he hadn't stitched in five minutes.
Florence turned, leaning against the table, arms crossed. "You did make something. You made a family. You taught your boys how to survive. That's more than the men in those warm stone halls could manage with all their coin."
Costica's eyes flicked toward Leonte, and Leonte dropped his gaze quickly, suddenly focused on the cracked leather in his hands.
"I worry for him," Costica said. "He's too sharp. Not enough callous on his hands. The sharp ones break easiest when the cold hits hardest."
Florence snorted softly. "And you think you're dull?" She reached over and touched his shoulder, her thumb brushing the soot from his collar. "You're just tired. Tired's not the same as broken."
There was a noise from the loft—something between a grunt and a cough. Then came the thump of bare feet against old wood.
A smaller boy shuffled into the room, his blanket still wrapped around him like a cloak. His cheeks were flushed, hair sticking up like a crow's nest.
"Tata," the boy said, rubbing one eye. "Why are we talking like the cold can hear us?"
Florence smiled, a real one this time. "Because it always does, iubirea mea. It just doesn't always care."
The boy nodded like that made sense, then looked to the bowl in Costica's hands. "Is there any left?"
Costica handed it over without hesitation. "Here. Warm your stomach."
The boy sat on the floor, legs crossed, cradling the bowl like a treasure.
Leonte finally threaded the needle, though the hole he'd meant to fix had already stiffened shut with frost. He muttered something somewhat offensive. A half-attempt at trying to be joking.
"You eat too much."
His brother stuck his tongue out. "I'm the only one who can. Iona's never here, and you're too fat."
Leonte tossed the boot at him.
He wished he was fat. "Dracu. You're the one dreaming of elven kings and feasts.---" He immediately felt a stone hit his forehead.
"Keep your tongue controlled."
Radu grinned impishly, already holding another pebble between two fingers, though whether it had been fetched from the hearth's edge or conjured by pure mischief, none could say. "Didn't dream about feasts," he said, scooping the last of the soup with two fingers and licking them clean. "Just someone looking."
Leonte rubbed the spot where the stone had struck. "Someone looking?"
"Mm-hmm." Radu leaned back on one hand, legs sprawled out like a collapsed colt. "I think he was standing in the field. At least… I thought so. Not while I was asleep. But just before. That moment where your eyes don't work but your head's already dreaming."
Florence straightened, the spoon in her hand momentarily still.
Costica gave a tired smile, but his voice was steady. "And what did this someone look like?"
Radu squinted, face scrunching in thought. "Tall. Real tall. Pale, too. Not like frost-pale. Not sick-pale. Like the moon when it's clean and full."
Leonte snorted. "So, a ghost."
"No," Radu said, frowning. "Not a ghost. He wasn't there, not properly. But I felt like he saw me. Like he was waiting. But not bad. Not… scary." He hesitated, then shrugged, trying to fold the last of the thought into words that hadn't fully formed. "Just cold. Really cold."
Costica and Florence exchanged a glance, but said nothing.
Radu tilted his head. "It's stupid. Just the wind, probably. The cold gets in places it shouldn't."
Florence turned, ruffling his hair as she passed behind him. "Then next time, don't let it in. Sleep deeper."
"I tried," he mumbled. "But I kept waking up and thinking about his eyes. They didn't blink."
Florence poured what little water was left in the kettle into a chipped mug and handed it to Radu. "That's because you're looking too hard at things you should leave to the crows."
"I wasn't trying to," he protested. "He was just there."
"Dreams always seem clearer before the second blink," Costica said, settling back in his chair. "Then they slip. Like frost on a pane."
"Maybe." Radu wrapped his hands around the mug. "But I don't think I'll forget him."
Leonte frowned at that but said nothing.
Outside, the wind scratched at the siding, rising again with its dry, whispering howl. It didn't rattle the shutters—it simply passed by, like something that knew it didn't need to knock.
Inside, the fire flinched but did not die. The warmth it gave off was thin and desperate, but it was still warmth.
Florence pressed her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "There'll be no caravan next week," she said after a pause. "Ina's cousin says Tirgenwend's holding everything North. too. And if they're tightening it there, then Baldmark's worse. It's lawless past the ridge, now. Horses and blades, and not much else."
"They won't send soldiers?" Leonte asked, eyes narrowing.
"They'll send knights," Costica said. "But not for us."
"What for, then?"
"To protect what matters to them. Routes. Mines. Trade roads. Not dirt fields and empty stores."
Leonte stared into the fire. "Then what do we do?"
Costica sighed. "We've wasted enough time. Go find your sister, Leonte. Tell her we need to speak."
Leonte stood slowly, the conversation lingering like smoke in his chest. He pulled on his coat, which was patched at the sleeves, and stepped outside.
His mother stood in the doorway, staring out at him. She muttered something.
He read her lips.
"This is death, just by another name."
The Council Chamber is quieter now, the fire dimmer. Scrolls and charred maps lie sprawled across a wide oaken table. The nobles linger, as the argument narrows to two voices.
HARTWIG VON RICHTOFEN
You cloak your words in velvet, Meissen, soft—
But famine cuts with steel, not poetry.
The wolves descend while you compose their dirge.
This is no place for bleeding tongues and sighs.
We rule by writ, not whim.
ALBRECHT VON MEISSEN
And yet that writ is inked in mortal blood.
When law forgets the man, what rule remains
But tyranny by parchment? Must the grain
Be hoarded like a jewel while children rot
Beneath a banner that denies their names
And calls their grief rebellion?
HARTWIG VON RICHTOFEN
Grief that lifts a torch is not but grief—
It is sedition. We govern, not console.
A lord who weeps shall drown the state in tears.
ALBRECHT VON MEISSEN
Then let me drown, if that is pity's price.
But know this, Hartwig—when the frost recedes,
What blooms shall judge us all.
HARTWIG VON RICHTOFEN
Let judgment come. So long as borders hold
And bread is kept from traitors, I am judged
By strength—not sighs. Your mercy weakens men.
ALBRECHT VON MEISSEN
No—men are weak already. Mercy gives
No illness, but reveals the wound beneath.
Yet I— I am no surgeon. Only lips,
That move like quills across this dying world.
We speak, we speak—
and nothing changes.
(He gestures broadly to the room)
Is this a court, or tomb? This council grave?
Our language braids like ivy round the neck
Of simpler needs. We plant decrees in ash,
And wonder why the roots will never hold.
HARTWIG VON RICHTOFEN (coldly)
Then silence. For the ivy chokes too well.
Leave hunger to the strong. And let your verse
Be carved upon the snow beside their bones.
ALBRECHT VON MEISSEN (wearily)
So be it. Let the common folk decide—
Though gods forgive them if they heard this talk,
For they would find no meal within our words.
Iona was the eldest of the four, and carried it like a second spine. She had their father's jaw and their mother's eyes, but neither of their softness. Her hands were strong from binding fencewire and hefting water, and her mouth had learned long ago to move only when necessary.
She didn't speak much, but when she did, it was sharp enough to cut through frost. The others listened. Even Costica, though he wouldn't admit it.
When Leonte found her, she was at the edge of the field, arms elbow-deep in a dead fencepost, the last bits of sodden wood crumbling as she worked. Her braid was tied back in a leather thong, but loose strands clung to her cheek in the wind.
She glanced up without stopping.
"What is it?" she asked, not unkindly.
Leonte hesitated. "Tata says we need to talk."
Iona pulled her arm free, wiped her fingers against her coat, and nodded once.
Leonte paused, looking towards the outer lengths of the field. Well, he called it a field. Moreso rolling hills.
He could imagine a caravan, trailing carts and singing voices, as they dipped underneath the spring sun.
His father had told him to avoid them. Caravans carried con-men as much as earnest sellers. He paused, now imagining a man carrying two children, and a woman, a third. Leaving behind the uncertainty that created thieves, and the land that was difficult to tame.
New pastures filled with wolves. His eyes trailed across the scattered cobblestone paths that bled through the hills. Half-finished, bruised, and cut.
His sister seemed to have noticed his distraction. Her voice snapped her out of it.
"Dead roads."
"Dead roads,"
Iona said again, quieter this time, as though the wind might carry the words off before Leonte could hear too much.
She stepped beside him, arms crossed tight against her chest. Her eyes followed the same worn stones bleeding into the distant fog.
"They've started paying men to build out this way," she said. "Landlords. Councilmen from the cities—Arvania, maybe Bos-Nen too. Claim it'll link the lowlands to the grain belts. More trade. Safer passage. A way out."
Leonte didn't speak. He watched the way her fingers flexed against her arms, like they ached just thinking about it.
"They don't pay by the hour," she continued. "Only by how much gets done. A road laid, a wall finished. Not a minute before. No rest for slope or sickness." Her mouth twisted. "And the ones they find to swing the picks? Men with empty bellies. Boys too young. Old folk too proud to beg."
She gestured toward the broken stretch of path ahead, the jagged stones swallowed by frost and creeping vines.
"They build for food, for coin, for some dream that doesn't live past the second week. But you know what happens?"
Leonte looked up at her, eyes catching the hard line of her jaw.
"They break," she said. "Bodies before shovels. Bones before steel. They're not machines, Leonte. They're just people." She paused, a gust of wind stirring the loose ends of her braid. "And when an animal's hungry enough, it'll throw itself against something twice its size. Won't matter if it dies trying. Because hunger doesn't care. Desperation eats slower than wolves, but it eats deeper."
The two stood silent for a time.
Then Iona took a breath, steadying herself. "Let's go. If tata wants words, best not keep them waiting."
The barn roof creaks. Snow falls off its slope in quiet sheets. Inside, Costica sharpens a spade by the dim glow of a lantern. Iona and Leonte sit at the table, the broth pot scraped clean.
"You really shouldn't go. Not tonight."
Costica, shifted rubbing his eyes. "We wait longer, we die slower. I've spoken to Marin, to Doru—they'll come. We'll go up toward the crest. Near where the councilmen ride. If they won't open the roads, we'll make them hear our tools.
Leonte paused, watching his father. "You mean to fight?"
"No, Leonte. Just to be heard. And if they silence us again, then maybe we dig louder. Shovels speak. So do fires. Maybe we can get work."
Iona spoke, this time.
"I'll go with you."
Costica didn't argue. He was too tired too.
A CROWD IS GATHERED. HUSHED. WAITING FOR THE ONE WHO THEY COULD REASON WITH. THE ONE THAT BOTH WHOSE PROSE AND SIMPLE WORDS WERE UNDERSTOOD.
The candle guttered low beside Albrecht's hand, the ink long dried upon a half-signed letter, one meant for a magistrate in the river valley, pleading leniency. Another one for the farmers, asking them for time. Neither would read it.
His lips murmured verse, even as his breath failed.
ALBRECHT VON MEISSEN (dying)
A road half-laid, a bridge half-built in snow,
And I, a man half-hearted in his cause.
I turned my tongue to truth, but not my hand.
Let history not call it mercy, nor mind.
No servants had come. No fire warmed the hearth.
Outside, the frost crept silently beneath the sill.
Albrecht died alone.
And the letters was never opened.
IONA
We could've taken the meat. Even half-rotten, it'd still go down.
COSTICA
We're not beasts. Not yet.
Leonte
The ones up north think we already are.
IONA
They've never walked here. Never felt how the wind cuts like glass.
Costica looks toward the horizon, squinting.
COSTICA
You ever have the feeling something watches? Not near. Far off. Like the field's dreaming. But not your dream.
RADU (confused)
What? What do you mean?
COSTICA
It's probably just the cold. Or something I dreamt. But last night, there was a shape in the grass. Tall. Silver.
Leonte scoffs but says nothing.
Florence appears behind them, her shawl fluttering.
FLORENCE
Dreams don't fill the stomach. They make it ache worse. Come back. Radu's still hungry.
The square was filled past breath. Boots and bare feet alike pressed into frozen slush. Smoke crawled up from barrels and broken carts. The sky held no color—only the pale hush of waiting snow.
Men from the outer hamlets stood shoulder to shoulder with traveling traders, fieldworkers, menders, and the grain-haulers left unpaid for weeks. Some carried tools. Some carried stones. Most carried silence.
Costica stood near the edge, watching. His hands were in his coat, but his shoulders were stiff, his jaw tight. Beside him, Iona held a strip of cloth wound around her wrist like a binding charm. Leonte fidgeted restlessly.
There was a tremble in the crowd, it wasn't fear. It was an expectation.
At the steps of the Hall, behind a barricade of guards, a voice rang out. It was distant.
HARTWIG VON RICHTOFEN
"Good men of field and fire, know this:
The tongue of frost speaks not of spite, but strength.
Hold fast your labor, and your faith returns—
All things return to those who stand in place."
The silence that followed was deeper than before. Then:
A man near Costica snorted. "What the fuck did he just say?"
Another called out, "What's he mean, 'tongue of frost'? Is that supposed to feed us?"
The guards shifted. Hartwig's voice came again, slower, firmer.
HARTWIG
"Though lean the land, the law stands fat with grace—"
"—What the hell does that even mean?" someone shouted. A woman next to Iona growled, "Grace won't boil roots."
Then the murmur began. Not one of confusion, but frustration. Words passed like wind: He's mocking us. He don't even know we're real. Talking like books while we starve.
And then came Bechtel, stepping forward, lifting his hands—not high, not in power, but in plea.
LOTHAR BECHTEL (attempting calm)
"You who gather with hollow bellies and honest hands, listen—listen. The council hears. The dead of Baldmark, the children in Varn, they are not forgotten. I swear this. We are—"
But then a voice broke through the crowd.
"He's dead!"
"What?"
"Meissen is dead!"
"Albrecht von Meissen is dead. Choked to death in his own cold room!"
Silence snapped like a frayed rope. Then came the sound of boots on stone. A cry, a broken sob, then the scream of metal dragged on stone.
A farmer hurled his rusted sickle. It hit a guard's helmet and rang like a bell.
The square exploded.
Costica was already moving, grabbing Leonte by the coat. "Run. Now."
"Iona!" he shouted, scanning the tide of people beginning to surge. Iona had turned as she had pushed a child behind her, yelling at a man to stop swinging a club.
Costica reached her just as she caught a cut across her shoulder. She fell to her knees. He pulled her up.
"Leonte—where is he—"
"I've got him!" Iona cried, voice cracking.
The mob had turned wild, stone met steel, shouting met screaming, guards were overwhelmed and others swung back with sabers. The banner above the hall was torn, half-burnt. Somewhere a horse screamed and bolted into the crowd.
Then Florence was there, sudden as mist, her coat soaked, her hair loose.
"Come—don't speak, just come."
Radu was in her arms, bundled in shawls. His eyes were sunken, his skin hot.
"He's burning," she said. "I came as soon as I could. The doctor. We need to get him to a doctor."
Together, stumbling, ducking, they vanished down a side alley, smoke and snow chasing their heels.
Behind them, the square bled into chaos.
Behind them, the town began to fall.
The Family Rushed Through the Forest.
Radu whispered of his dream. The white figure? Where is it? Is it there?
Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?
Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind;
Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,
Er faßt ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm.
Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind;
Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,
Er faßt ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm.
They made their way to a pale horse, and Leonte clutched at his brother, hauled up by his sister, and his father began to ride.
Radu began to pray for elven feasts.
Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?
Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht?
Den Erlenkönig mit Kron' und Schweif?
Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif.
"Du liebes Kind, komm, geh mit mir!
Gar schöne Spiele spiel' ich mit dir;
Manch' bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand,
Meine Mutter hat manch gülden Gewand."
Mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht,
Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht?
Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind;
In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind.
"Willst, feiner Knabe, du mit mir gehn?
Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön;
Meine Töchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn,
Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein."
Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort
Erlkönigs Töchter am düstern Ort?
Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh' es genau:
Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau.
"Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt;
Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch' ich Gewalt."
Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt faßt er mich an!
Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan!
Dem Vater grauset's; er reitet geschwind,
Er hält in den Armen das ächzende Kind,
Erreicht den Hof mit Mühe und Not;
In seinen Armen, das Kind war tot.
Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht?
Den Erlenkönig mit Kron' und Schweif?
Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif.
"Du liebes Kind, komm, geh mit mir!
Gar schöne Spiele spiel' ich mit dir;
Manch' bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand,
Meine Mutter hat manch gülden Gewand."
Mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht,
Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht?
Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind;
In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind.
"Willst, feiner Knabe, du mit mir gehn?
Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön;
Meine Töchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn,
Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein."
Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort
Erlkönigs Töchter am düstern Ort?
Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh' es genau:
Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau.
"Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt;
Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch' ich Gewalt."
Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt faßt er mich an!
Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan!
Dem Vater grauset's; er reitet geschwind,
Er hält in den Armen das ächzende Kind,
Erreicht den Hof mit Mühe und Not;
In seinen Armen, das Kind war tot.
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