The roaring flames on Vojin's flagship sled painted the blizzard's swirling grey a violent orange. Below them, the Crimson Caravan was a shattered beast. Freight haulers lay overturned, their canvasses ripped, contents spilled into the snow. Skirmishes erupted like burst arteries across the ice, a chaos of frantic shouts and the dull thud of bludgeons. The air, already thin with cold, tasted acrid with scorched pine and diesel soot. The Ozerov sled, a small, dark projectile, hurtled down the ridge. Vojin set his jaw rigid, iron knuckles grinding into the steering levers. Beside him, Radmila gripped the frame rail, dark eyes dissecting the chaos. Kresnic, cradling his bruised collarbone, clutched a scavenged iron pipe, looking from the burning lead rig to the scattered Ozerov allies cut down across the ice. The mutineers, heavy coats banded in grey pelt, had split their formation. A dozen raiders had torched the flagship, gutting the signal lantern before a perimeter could assemble. Others systematically dragged drivers from the supply sledges, clubbing down whoever offered resistance. The unaligned families drew back inside insulated freight beds, shrunken frames paralyzed under worn furs. Hollow-cheeked faces peered through tears in the oilcloth as the attackers hammered down resistance one sled at a time. A nurse knew gangrene had to be cut out before it rotted the limb. The machine skidded to a halt beside a knot of brawlers, where three fleet sentries stood backed against an axle by ten attackers. Vojin was off the sled before it stopped, a blur of grey wool and steel, his sidearm already spitting fire. Radmila dropped off the runners without a sound, vanishing behind a cluster of canvas shelters toward the convoy's fuel stores. Kresnic spat blood into the snow and charged, swinging his pipe two-handed into the nearest raider's ribs. Valeska, however, stood for a moment, absorbing the full horror of the scene. Starved faces watched from tarp gaps, hunger-ravaged eyes tracking every drop of spilled blood. This wasn't just a battle; it was a massacre of the starving by the well-fed. These freezing bystanders cared nothing for fleet treaties. They’d fight for survival. And survival, right now, meant food. “Hearth System,” she thought, her voice calm in her mind, a stark contrast to the battlefield’s roar. “Display all accumulated sign-in rewards. Every single one.” [Displaying accumulated sign-in rewards: 78 units of dried millet, 52 units of cured venison jerky, 105 units of dried tubers, 30 units of hardened cheese, 15 units of clean ice-water.] The list was long, a small fortune in this desolate land. “Cash them all in,” she thought, fixing her focus on the snowy yard cleared between the unaligned freight shelters. “Manifest them. Now.” [Are you certain, Mother of the Winter March? This will expend all accumulated provisions. This action is irreversible.] “I am certain,” Valeska affirmed, her voice ringing with an authority that surprised even her. “Do it.” [Manifesting bountiful provisions. May your benevolent spirit guide your children.] A shimmering distortion rippled through the freezing gale over the yard. The blizzard’s howl seemed to falter, replaced by a sudden, impossible stillness. Then, with a soft, whooshing sound, a towering mound materialized. It wasn’t just a pile; it was a mountain, a vibrant, impossible peak of golden millet, dark tubers, glistening jerky, and pale, hard cheese, steaming faintly in the bitter cold. The clean ice-water manifested in several large, sturdy casks beside it. Cries cut off mid-swing. Weapon edges lowered toward the ice. Sentries, raiders, and onlookers alike stared at the mountain of provisions. The starving, their faces gaunt and hollow, stared at the impossible bounty. Then, a single, reedy cry broke the silence. A young woman, frost crusting her brows, crawled from beneath a sledge tarp and reached out an unsteady palm. Others followed, a torrent of humanity, surging towards the food not with violence, but with a desperate, disbelieving hope. The raiders recovered first. A scarred raider lieutenant bellowed, “It’s a trick! Witchcraft!” He drew an axe toward the pile, but fifty starved migrants threw themselves out of their sled beds, tackling him under sheer human mass. They tore clubs and scrap iron from the snow, defending the grain sacks with the fury of starved wolves. Valeska watched, a quiet triumph in her chest, but it was short-lived. A sudden, sharp crack echoed above the din. The sound of a rifle. Frostbite prickled her skin in sudden warning. But the impact never came. Instead, a guttural roar tore from Kresnic’s throat. He had thrown himself in front of her, his body twisting, intercepting the shot. The bullet struck his already wounded shoulder with a sickening thud, ripping through his thick coat and flesh. He crumpled, his pipe clattering on the ice. “Kresnic!” Valeska screamed, her voice raw, all thought of strategy vanishing. She fell to her knees beside him, pressing her hands to the gushing wound. Blood, hot and crimson, bloomed through his coat. “No! You idiot boy!” He coughed, a wet, rattling sound, but a weak smile touched his lips. “Not… not an idiot… anymore, Mother.” His eyes rolled back, and he slumped against her. Heavy treads crunched the crimson snow beside them. The air grew still, the chaotic screams and the clang of steel fading to a distant hum. A man twice Vojin's girth stepped through the drift, boots crushing splintered wood and bone. It was the hostile clan's patriarch, cheek gouged clean down to tooth enamel. In his massive hand, he clutched a small, whimpering Ozerov child, one of the youngest. The boy’s tiny legs kicked uselessly. With a terrifying slowness, the Patriarch raised his other hand, a wicked, glinting shard of obsidian, and pressed its razor-sharp edge directly against the boy’s terrified, wide-open eye. “Tell me, witch,” the Patriarch rumbled, his voice like stones grinding, “where does the magic food come from?”

Mountain of Millet