A row of cast-iron cauldrons simmered over crackling firewood, and the thin, savory aroma of wheat porridge drifted through the frigid air. The slaves formed a long, shuffling queue, each clutching a rough wooden bowl as they waited for their portion. Gratitude shone in their eyes. For days, they had been gnawed by a hunger so deep that even a handful of scraps would have been fought over. To have hot porridge to drink was an unimaginable blessing. Lord Arthur’s kindness was a thing of wonder. Standing behind one of the cauldrons, Giles ladled the thick gruel with a large wooden spoon, his brow furrowed with worry. "My lord," he muttered, "if you keep this up, I fear the stores will run dry. If the shortfall becomes too great, we might..." Arthur cut him off with a casual wave of his hand. "When people are hungry, they eat. Just cook as you're told. Why all the chatter?" Giles opened his mouth to argue, but closed it with a sigh, resignedly returning to his work. His new master was a good man in every respect, except for a generosity so reckless he seemed to think food was a limitless resource. "Hmph, at this rate, I'll be back on the block at the slave market in less than half a year," Giles thought with a pang of despair. If that was his fate, he decided, he had better sneak an extra bowl or two now, before he was left to starve again. But Arthur felt none of Giles’s anxiety. He had no fear of running out of food. The Crimson Vale Territory was a land of such abundance that starvation was impossible. This was the confidence his unique gift afforded him. Just then, his daily intelligence updated in his mind. [1: Baron Finch of the Expansion Territory has frozen to death after drinking to excess on the road.] [2: The Governor of the North’s youngest daughter, Eleonora Conrad, has advanced to the rank of Junior Elite Knight.] [3: A pack of seventy starving Hoarfrost Wolves, drawn by the scent of food, is lying in wait in the gorge ahead, preparing to ambush the convoy.] The first two pieces of information were irrelevant, though Arthur felt a brief flicker of pity for the foolish Baron Finch. The third, however, sharpened his expression. Seventy Hoarfrost Wolves were no insurmountable threat to his current forces, but a surprise attack from such vicious beasts could lead to losses he was unwilling to accept. He immediately summoned his Knight Captain. "Gideon," he ordered, his voice low and serious. "Take the knights in squads of five. Scout the gorge and its surroundings for anything unusual." Gideon nodded once, his face a mask of grim resolve, and turned to carry out the order. The knights quickly formed up and galloped toward the gorge, their horses’ hooves crunching in the snow. A biting wind howled through the narrow pass, carrying an eerie chill. The knight patrol moved slowly, their senses on high alert. The air was thick with a rank, acrid odor—the smell of rotting meat mingled with the feral scent of a predator’s den. Gideon dismounted, crouching low. He brushed a layer of snow aside with a gauntleted hand, revealing a chaotic mess of paw prints beneath. The tracks were pressed deep into the frozen earth, a clear sign of lean, hungry beasts, too desperate to bother covering their trail. He lifted his head, his gaze grim. "There’s trouble." They rode back with all speed and reported their findings to Arthur in detail. Arthur listened without a trace of panic. "Very good," he said calmly. "Since they’ve come hunting for us, let’s show them who the real prey is." He gave a series of swift commands, ordering traps to be laid throughout the gorge, a deadly lure for the wolf pack. The hungry Hoarfrost Wolves lay low in the snowdrifts, their ghostly green eyes fixed on the distant convoy. Their thick pelts, a mottled blend of grey-white and dark blue, made them nearly invisible against the icy wasteland. Hunger had whittled their frames down to bone and sinew, but it did nothing to diminish the terrifying, explosive power coiled in their muscles. Then, a new scent drifted on the wind, rich and enticing. The smell of prey, long-desired. "Awooo," the alpha wolf, the pack’s king, let out a low, guttural growl. In an instant, dozens of dark shapes rose from the snow, moving with a ghostly silence as they slunk toward the convoy. Closer, and closer… A sharp crack shattered the night. A mechanism of massive, sharpened wooden stakes sprang from the snow, impaling the three leading wolves and staining the ground a sudden, shocking crimson. The wolf pack, stunned by the sudden violence, scattered in confusion. From the periphery, hidden soldiers rose and drew their bows. A storm of arrows rained down, the hiss of shafts tearing through the air. Hoarfrost Wolves cried out in agony as arrows pierced their throats and flanks, sending them tumbling into the snow, their hot blood steaming on the white ground. Gideon’s longsword carved a silver arc through the darkness. The knights charged as one, their fighting energy flaring to life, igniting the battlefield in a blaze of power. One knight leaped from his saddle, his war spear glowing with a fierce red light, and violently skewered an oncoming wolf. The explosive force of the blow drove the beast’s carcass into the frozen earth, shattering the ground around it. Another knight swung a heavy greatsword, its blade wreathed in crimson flames. He jumped high into the air, bringing the weapon down in a fiery slash that clove the night in two, bisecting a massive wolf that had been attempting to flank him. Warm blood bloomed across the snow like crimson flowers. The pack’s feral instincts finally gave way to mortal fear, and the surviving wolves broke, scattering in every direction. The knights seamlessly adjusted their formation, tightening their circle to cut off any escape. They moved with deadly purpose, their energized blades reaping a bloody toll, each slash claiming another life. Amid the wet sounds of tearing flesh and dying howls, the pack was systematically slaughtered. Soon, only the Wolf King remained, standing alone on the blood-soaked snowfield, its thick fur matted and dark. Its ghostly green eyes, burning with a final, desperate ferocity, locked onto Gideon. With a furious roar, the massive beast lunged, its claws scything through the air with enough force to shred steel plate. But Gideon simply sidestepped. A blade of pure, condensed fighting energy engulfed his longsword, making it surge with red light. He let out a low grunt, and the sword fell like a thunderbolt, separating the Wolf King’s head from its body in a single, fluid motion. Hot blood sprayed as the enormous corpse collapsed to the ground. The battle was over faster than anyone had expected. The Knight Order had suffered no casualties. The ground was littered with the corpses of Hoarfrost Wolves, the bloodied snow a stark testament to the brutal, one-sided fight. Gideon didn’t even pause to catch his breath, turning as Arthur approached on horseback. "My lord," he reported, his voice steady, "the wolf pack has been annihilated." The knights quickly tallied the dead: seventy Hoarfrost Wolves, the entire pack wiped out. The spoils were considerable. Seventy thick wolf pelts, a small mountain of sharp fangs and claws, and, most importantly, several mounds of fresh wolf meat. Arthur surveyed the scene and nodded in satisfaction. "Well done. Skin the wolves. Distribute the meat to the men as an extra ration." A ragged cheer erupted from the soldiers. In the frozen expanse of the Northlands, a hot meal of fresh meat was a luxury they could only dream of. And wolf meat, while tough, was more than edible. Prepared correctly, it was as good as any game. "The lord is truly generous..." In that moment, the eyes of the new recruits turned to Arthur, their expressions shifting from simple obedience to something deeper: genuine, heartfelt admiration.

Chapter 8: A Reckless Generosity