The third grain convoy led by Louis arrived at the Red Tide Fief that afternoon.
The people along the streets had long grown used to such sights. Dozens of wagons laden with sacks of golden wheat rolled slowly down the main road, all the way to the newly expanded warehouse.
The warehouse doors stood open, and the workers unloaded, logged, and stored the cargo in one smooth process.
Sentries patrolled quietly atop the distant towers, watching for any possible trouble.
Bradley stood before the warehouse entrance with a clipboard in hand. After waiting a while, he saw the familiar figure dismount and gave a slight nod.
"The third shipment already. Good thing we expanded this warehouse ahead of time, or we really wouldn't have room," Bradley remarked.
"Another half month, and there'll be a fourth." Louis took a drink of water, speaking as casually as if he were discussing the weather.
Bradley said nothing, merely watching sack after sack of wheat being carried into the clean, dry warehouse.
Sunlight fell across the grain, drawing a faint gleam from the kernels.
A year ago, when Louis had proposed turning the Wheatwave Fief into a dedicated grain-producing region to feed every territory under Red Tide, Bradley had not exactly doubted him. He had simply thought no one could accomplish such a thing in the chaotic, disaster-stricken Northern Frontier.
After all, in the year since the disaster, most territories in the Northern Frontier had barely survived on relief from the Imperial Capital.
It was already remarkable that the Red Tide Fief had managed to maintain order at all.
Yet Louis had done it, relying on no one else and creating the greatest miracle in the Northern Frontier's history.
The Wheatwave Fief had truly become Red Tide's own granary. Now, this place guaranteed the