Chapter 158: The Refugee Encampment

The weather was growing colder by the day.

When the blazing sun hung high in the sky, the clouds appeared hazy and unreal. More and more grayish-yellow streaks marred the horizon during the shifting hours between day and night, while the stars shone with a sharp, icy clarity. All signs pointed to a winter harsher than any in recent memory.

For the homeless, such a winter was nearly impossible to survive.

“Red-Nose Tom” hobbled along the path back to the encampment, clutching a bundle of firewood he had painstakingly gathered. The frost-bitten wind of the Frost Moon blew down from the north, sweeping through the sparse trees and low hills, biting at his face and slipping beneath his collar, as if he were submerged in a basin of steadily chilling water.

Tom was only seventeen. By Ansu law, he was an adult, but years of malnutrition had left him as thin and small as most boys his age—his slight frame still more childlike than grown. Only his rough, darkened face and the dull numbness in his eyes betrayed his true age and the brutal conditions he endured.

Ahead, he could just make out the encampment. Calling it an encampment was generous—it was little more than a shabby cluster of tents and stone piles nestled in the southern border’s forest. A rickety fence of broken wood and thorny brush encircled the site. The faint remnants of the Tansan Mines stretched southeastward, forming a low natural barrier that barely shielded the pitiful souls hiding here—offering the most basic protection against the northern winds, delaying the onset of winter, and granting these people a few more days of life.

Tom stepped into the camp, greeted by a sea of vacant, indifferent eyes. Twenty-six households, one hundred and two souls in total—down from one hundred and nine just days ago. Most were refugees fleeing the Vulture’s Domain, displaced by a devastating flood that had left them homeless. The rest came from various baronial lands in the southern border, all dispossessed peasants who had lost their land and protection.

They wandered between towns and villages, driven off, robbed, hunted by local lords or wild beasts, or perishing from cold and hunger. The southern border was barren; most lands could barely support their current populations. To the nobles, who only knew how to squeeze sweat and blood from the land and serfs, any vagrant wandering into their domain was a despised mouth to feed. So the refugees had no choice but to “settle” in the wilderness.

Tom found his shelter—a tattered little tent. That was a stroke of luck; not every family had tents. Many had lost nearly everything during their flight and now slept under tree roots or in rocky hollows, wrapped in rags or piles of dry grass. Tom’s tent was a rare luxury, thanks to the curved knives and bow and arrows he and his sister still carried.

The fire outside had long since died down, but it was not yet night. Tom carried the firewood inside. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed a pair of bright eyes watching him from the shadows.

“Sis,” Tom said, looking at the black-haired girl, “I couldn’t find any mushrooms. Just this firewood.”

His sister stared blankly for a moment before suddenly saying, “The two children from the Borm family starved to death.”

“…Oh,” Tom murmured, sitting down in the dark. After a few seconds, he asked quietly, “Is there any food today?”

She fell silent again, lost in thought. A chill of foreboding crept into Tom’s heart. Then, after a moment, she shifted and tossed something toward him.

It was a small mountain partridge, still fresh with blood—though in the tent’s mix of odors, Tom hadn’t noticed it at first.

One skinny bird was hardly enough to fill two hungry stomachs, especially when this was their only meal of the day. But it lifted Tom’s spirits. Meat, unlike roasted mushrooms or moss, could sustain them longer in the biting cold. He brightened. “You caught something?! We won’t have to starve tonight!”

“When you pluck the bird, take the hunting knife,” his sister said quietly, “keep it somewhere visible.”

“Got it!” Tom nodded eagerly. But as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he finally noticed something wrong with his sister. She lay in a strange position in the corner, her voice weaker than usual. Tom leaned closer and saw blood near her shoulder and her arm hanging limply at her side. “Sis, you’re hurt?!”

“A wild dog bit me. It hit a tendon,” her voice trembled. “I… can’t hunt anymore.”

It was like a bucket of ice water poured over Tom’s head. From top to toe, he felt frozen. No knife, no bow—his sister’s injury meant the only one who could hunt was now unable to provide food. That meant the two of them… were doomed.

Everyone was starving. No one would come to help two lost souls like them. For people who had already lost everything, even a small injury or a brief loss of strength was a death sentence.

Worse, dog bites often led to infection—and in their situation, infection was a death sentence.

“I…” Tom gritted his teeth, steeling himself. “Tomorrow, I’ll take the bow and arrows…”

“Don’t,” his sister said firmly, her gaze dropping to his crippled leg. “If you go, you won’t come back. Hunting in the woods isn’t like gathering firewood nearby.”

Tom wasn’t born lame. His leg had been broken by a lord’s knight. That knight had gone to church to hear a sermon from a Blood God preacher, who claimed that breaking a man’s leg was the only way to break through limits in skill and courage. So the knight didn’t hesitate to shatter Tom’s leg—and afterward, he compensated him with half a sack of wheat.

“I’ll set traps,” Tom insisted. “I know how to tell bear tracks from wolf tracks. I’ll avoid them…”

“But if you die out there, I’ll die too,” his sister said, locking eyes with him. “Go gather mushrooms, look under tree roots for seeds and berries. If that doesn’t work…”

If it didn’t work, what then? She didn’t know.

Tom bit his lip, thinking hard, then finally spoke the idea he’d been mulling over: “Maybe… we could find the local lord here…”

“Have you forgotten how they drove us out of the Carol lands?” his sister snapped. “It’s Frost Moon now—no planting, hunting’s tough. The nobles won’t tolerate even one extra mouth to feed on their lands!”

“Then…” Tom hesitated, “maybe the mines need slaves? The lord of Tansan town has a big mine. Even in Frost Moon, the mine needs workers…”

“Do you think they’d take you as a slave?” his sister stared at his leg. “I can’t work now, and you can’t either. Even if they want slaves, they won’t want ones like us.”

“Then what about further south? I heard the Cecil family is expanding their lands south of the Whitewater River. Frontier lands like that should need all kinds of laborers… I can at least tan hides.”

“Stop dreaming,” his sister sighed deeply, eyes glazing as she leaned back against a moldy pile of grass. “Nobles are all the same…”

The north wind howled again, sweeping through the bleak, impoverished camp.

Hunger and cold forced the people to cease their only daily activities. One by one, they curled up in their tents or grass beds, trying to conserve what little energy and warmth they had left. Gradually, the camp fell silent.

But beyond the camp, in the denser woods, shadows stirred.

A group of heavily armed men gathered, their gear varied but all of high quality. They bore no common insignia. They clustered among the trees, eyes fixed on the small settlement through the darkness.

Like hyenas watching prey in the night, their gazes were filled with greed and hunger.

…

Inside the lord’s main tent in the Cecil domain, Gawain received a report from Philip.

“A refugee encampment? North of the Whitewater River, in the woods east of the Tansan Mines?”

“Yes, my lord,” the young knight nodded. “Byron was supposed to report to you, but he’s currently exploring ruins in the mountains, so the news came to me.”

Gawain set down his quill. “How large? Have we made contact?”

A thrill ran through him. After opening communication channels far and wide, their scouts were finally uncovering hidden refugee settlements.

“Not large—about a hundred people. But through them, we might reach other refugee groups,” Philip replied. “Our men haven’t contacted them yet… because there’s a complication.”

“A complication?” Gawain frowned.

“Armed men of unknown origin are operating near the camp. Likely mercenary ‘slave catchers’ lying in wait,” Philip said with disgust. “Reports say they’re well-equipped, with confirmed supernatural professionals—possibly one or two spellcasters—though their levels are unknown.”

“Multiple supernatural operatives?” Gawain was surprised. “This mercenary band is quite formidable.”

Philip nodded. “My lord, what are your orders?”

“Of course… bring those under the Cecil family’s protection back home,” Gawain smiled. “The lands east of the Tansan Mines, south of the noble domains—the mountains, plains, forests, and rivers there are all unclaimed. In the south, unclaimed means Cecil family territory!”

(End of chapter)