FL - Chapter 90: The Refugee Problem

Louis finished reading the Daily Intelligence System and dismissed the panel with a wave of his hand.

"Alright. Time to get to work." He rubbed his brow and climbed out of bed.

He washed and dressed with his usual efficiency.

Dawn had barely broken. Sunlight hadn't yet cut through the morning mist, but the door to the administrative office was already open. When Louis walked in, he found Sif seated at the desk, leafing through a thick stack of documents.

"Morning, Little White." Louis greeted her with a grin.

Sif's hands froze. She clearly hadn't expected him to say that. After a blink, she rose to offer a formal bow. "Good morning, my lord."

Her voice was soft, but the tips of her ears flushed faintly pink.

While Louis was away, Sif had considered escaping. She had not lacked the courage; the opportunity never felt right, and she had nowhere to go. In the end, she stayed.

To her own surprise, Sif began lying awake at night, wondering whether he would die on the battlefield and what she would do if he never returned. News of his victory had brought a deep, private relief.

Not that she could ever say any of this aloud, of course. That would be far too strange.

Sif simply lowered her head and pushed the sorted documents toward him, her tone as even as ever. "The papers you asked to review. I've already processed them."

Her voice was quiet, but her movements were crisp. She didn't notice that the hand she extended was trembling slightly.

Louis didn't catch Sif's little signs.

His gaze settled on a stack of documents nearly as tall as a man, and he sighed. Before returning, he had ordered Sif to compile reports on Crimson Tide Territory and every new holding placed under his authority.

He flipped through a few pages, and a headache began pressing in. Bandits. Food shortages. Winter preparations. Contaminated wells. Every single page was a problem.

After a moment's thought, he chose to begin with the refugees. Every day of delay would cost lives.

Snowpeak County had been devastated by the war. Whole villages had been reduced to ash. Even Crimson Tide Territory had weathered repeated Snowsworn raids, held only by the knights and soldiers Louis had left behind. The other territories hadn't been so fortunate. Months of fighting had left the entire county riddled with wounds. Fields lay fallow. Livestock had been seized. Storehouses gutted. Even the wells had been poisoned by the enemy.

Countless people had lost their homes and families. They survived on scraps of grain, tree bark, and wild greens—shadows of their former selves, drifting through the wreckage.

"Nothing but problems. What a headache." Louis turned another page and pressed a hand to his forehead.

Sif said nothing, quietly turning over another sheet of parchment.

She knew Louis was right. Those people struggling to survive in the ruins were like a pot of water left on the fire too long. At any moment, from cold, hunger, or fear, it could boil over.

Louis slapped a sheet of parchment onto the desk, his voice darkening. "The other problems I can handle. What scares me most is an epidemic breaking out among them. That's a disaster you can't pull back from."

He set aside his complaints and drew out a rough but meticulously annotated map, his attention sharpening.

"We'll divide these nearly three hundred and eighty-six square miles into four regions. Each one gets its own team to handle refugee affairs."

He leaned over the map and began marking it up. He split the entire territory into four rough sections based on the positions of mountains, rivers, and abandoned villages.

"We'll call them Greystag Territory, Ice Ridge Territory, Snowfield Territory, and Coldpine Territory," Louis said, aware that the names sounded more dramatic than intended.

"First, we send out the knights. They'll take rations and medicine, conduct field surveys. Find out where the refugees are, what shape they're in, and how many are still alive."

At those last words, Sif's hand paused mid-motion. Then she resumed writing rapidly.

"Next, we set up reception points in each area." Louis circled several locations on the map as he spoke. "Make the markers obvious. We'll use the Crimson Tide banner."

His voice softened. "Let them know someone still cares whether they live."

"Yes," Sif murmured as she took notes.

"That's not enough." Louis thought for a moment, then scratched out a few more lines on the desk. "The waystations need to go up fast. Simple shelters, braziers, straw mats, and clean water sources."

He paused, then added, "If we can replicate Crimson Tide's semi-sunken dwellings, even better—they're quick to build and hold heat well. Get the carpenters and stonemasons to suitable sites and have them start work immediately."

Sif's pen flew across the page. "So every waystation needs to be fully prepared?"

"That's right." Louis nodded, his tone firm. "Prepare to winter standards. Rations, smoked fish, blankets… and medicine. Bring medicine too. We're not giving plague a single opening."

As she listened, Sif felt an unexpected sense of reassurance.

Louis straightened, his voice as steady as ever. "Also, we'll follow Crimson Tide's early model. A work-for-food program. Anyone willing to work gets food and temporary shelter."

He paused, then continued issuing instructions. "Building shelters, digging wells, felling timber, fishing, hunting, clearing land for vegetables—assign those tasks out. Anyone who works gets their name on the register. Those who go above and beyond get priority for housing assignments. And anyone with a special skill—medicine, farming, literacy, blacksmithing, carpentry—all of them get recorded in a separate registry."

"What about the administrators?" Sif asked.

"The family's people are already on the way." Louis's tone was even. "They'll work alongside the knights stationed in each fief to form the initial backbone of every waystation."

He tapped the desk. "Ultimately, the refugees must participate in their own organization. Have them form small teams and elect representatives to collect supplies and submit reports. That will be faster and more stable."

He spoke with the ease of someone who had already assembled the plan in his head.

Sif stole a glance at him.

Louis's brow was faintly furrowed. He looked tired, but still focused—nothing like the careless, irreverent young man she saw on ordinary days. This young noble from the Empire's southern reaches seemed… more reliable than she'd expected.

It stung her pride a little to admit it, but admiration had surfaced in her heart. Just a bit, though. A very small bit.

At that moment, Louis looked up and met Sif's pale eyes.

The girl flinched and dropped her gaze instantly, pretending to flip through the documents beside her.

"…What're you staring at me for?" Louis asked. "Do I have something on my face?"

In that instant, the tips of Sif's ears blazed red—and the flush crept right down to her neck.