FL - Chapter 96: A Human Tragedy

"Winter fishing farms?" Luke froze for a beat, then caught on. "You mean the kind where we cut holes in the ice and fish through them? We usually do that anyway."

"More or less." Louis nodded. "But I've got a few improvements."

Louis unfolded his map, pointed to several tributaries, and explained his plan.

"Start with low-lying stretches where the current is gentle and the ice forms late. Cut holes and reinforce the edges with thick planks and stones. Run nets beneath the ice, then bait the water with small fish and minced meat. Station fishermen in shifts and haul the nets every morning and evening. Dig channels to bring in hot-spring runoff or geothermal water wherever possible. Any extra warmth will help keep the fish alive."

"Those are suggestions, not rigid orders. Handle the details yourself. What matters is catching more fish."

"Yes! I'll give it everything I've got!" Luke thumped his chest. "If this really works, the whole Crimson Tide Territory won't lack for meat all winter!"

"You're exaggerating. But even if it only produces a few dozen pounds a day, that's still better than nothing." Louis's reply was measured.

Luke hurried off, sketching furiously in his notebook as he went, muttering under his breath. "The lord really is a genius."

The first snow had yet to fall, but Crimson Tide Territory's winter food battle had just opened its second front.

…

The sky hung low and oppressive. Wind howled through the shattered roof beams of ruined houses, kicking up drifts of charred ash.

Ian knelt in a broken, battered home, cradling an unconscious Mia in his arms. His face was etched with despair.

The little girl's face burned with fever. Her lips were dry and cracked, and her lashes trembled like late-autumn leaves.

"Wake up… Mia, you have to wake up…"

He dabbed her forehead with his sleeve, terrified that one careless touch might erase her from the world. Mia did not respond, and her breathing weakened by the moment.

His efforts utterly futile, Ian lowered his head and buried his face against his daughter's shoulder. A choked sob—suppressed to the breaking point—escaped him.

No one answered.

His family had lived in this village for generations. Two months ago, children laughed beside the creek, women talked while washing clothes at the well, and men hauled timber to repair their homes before winter.

Ian's home stood at the village entrance—modest in size. He'd had a good, gentle wife and a sweet little daughter, Mia. He had never imagined it could all vanish in an instant.

The Snowsworn attacked two months ago, charging down from the mountain pass without horn or warning.

The men hadn't even had time to grab their axes before they fell into pools of blood. The women and children hadn't had time to flee before they were dragged into the flames.

Ian had been cutting firewood in the hills. By the time he returned, the village was a sea of flame. He rushed into his house and pulled his daughter from the corner where she hid.

His wife. He never found her. He never even found her body. Only her apron and a shoe beside the shattered stove.

He took his daughter and fled into the back hills. They hid in the forest for three days, surviving on spring water and tree bark.

A few days later, he and the other survivors returned to the village.

It had been stripped bare. Bodies had rotted. Some had been dragged away by beasts. The storehouse had been gutted. Even the well water carried an oily sheen and a foul stench. One survivor tried drinking from it. He never woke up the next morning.

Ian sealed that well shut with broken stone. He didn't dare let Mia anywhere near it.

Carrying Mia, he searched every earthen hut still standing for anything edible, useful, or burnable—even a scrap of bread not yet consumed by mold or a torn animal hide.

In those days, only one thought filled his mind: *As long as Mia lives.*

He cleared out a timber house toward the back. The door had collapsed from the fire. He nailed two wide planks across the entrance. The roof leaked wind. He climbed up and patched it with thick layers of burlap and straw. There was moldy grain in the corner. He sifted it clean, bit by bit, boiled it into gruel, and spoon-fed it to her.

Every day, he went out to gather firewood, to forage for wild greens, to dig through the frozen mud on the faint hope of unearthing a not-quite-rotted turnip or catching a wild rabbit.

In the beginning, it was bearable. Mia was weak, but she would open her eyes. She would smile. She even cracked small jokes in a whisper. "Daddy, you stole the little mouse's dinner again. He's going to be mad."

Then, the night before last, the fever struck.

She wouldn't stop shivering, yet she kept saying she was cold. Her lips went pale. Her forehead blazed.

Ian panicked. He shoved everything that could burn into the stove. He even tucked his own outer coat beneath her bedding. He fed her herbal decoctions. He fed her tiny bites of dry rations.

Nothing worked. Mia grew weaker by the day. She spoke less and less. Then her eyes wouldn't open at all.

Just a short while ago, Old Ewan had come by.

He was one of the few village elders still alive, held in high regard. He'd stooped through the doorway, glanced at the child on the sleeping platform, then looked at Ian. "She's slipping away."

Ian said nothing. He only tightened his fingers around his daughter's hand.

Old Ewan took a few steps closer and sighed. "This kind of fever… there's no saving her. If you drag this out any longer, it'll drag you down too."

He pointed outside. "The little river out back hasn't frozen over yet."

Ian raised his head, his pupils contracting sharply. "What are you trying to say?"

"You let her go. Call it a mercy. Let her suffer a little less." Old Ewan spoke the words.

The air went cold as ice.

"Say that… again." Ian's voice was rough as sandpaper.

Old Ewan tried to press the point. "Ian, be realistic! If she were awake, she wouldn't want you to throw your own life away for—"

"Get out." Ian rose to his feet. The humanity had drained from his eyes. "Get out. Right now."

Old Ewan sighed and shrank back, retreating out the door.

The moment the door shut, dead silence reclaimed the room. Nothing but the crackle of the fire and the girl's ragged, intermittent breaths.

Ian sat on the sleeping platform and pressed Mia's burning forehead to his chest. Her fever felt hot enough to consume her.

He had no options left. He truly had no options left. The firewood was nearly gone. There were only a few mouthfuls of clean water remaining. Ian didn't dare close his eyes, didn't dare sleep. All he could do was hold her and repeat the words in his heart, over and over: *Hold on… just a little longer… just a little longer…*

Then, from the distance, came the sound of hoofbeats.

*Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop.*

*Could it be those bandits again?*

Ian went rigid and searched the room for an escape route. There was none. He could barely stand, and fever had left Mia unable to walk.

Ian clenched his jaw. His fingers crept toward the firewood hatchet beside the stove. His eyes locked onto the door, unblinking.