Winter had only recently retreated from the Cold Sand Fief, and the wind outside the castle still carried a chill.
At daybreak, mist rose from the slopes, and lingering snow slowly melted along the cracks in the castle walls.
Baron Holder, lord of the Cold Sand Fief, sat in the castle's small hall. His rough wooden chair was so old that it creaked softly when he sat down.
"It's far too hard being a lord like this..." Holder muttered, his face creased with worry, keeping his voice low as though afraid someone else in the castle might hear.
In truth, no one would hear him. Apart from the servants, hardly anyone wanted to stay in his castle.
The Cold Sand Fief had always been barren. Its mines had spent the previous three years flooded, and its granaries grew emptier every year.
Without the salt, grain, timber, and iron goods sent by Red Tide, this place would have collapsed long ago.
Yet Holder still resented it. He was the lord of the Cold Sand Fief, and by rights, he should have been its supreme ruler.
But now? Officials sent by Red Tide inspected his ledgers, Red Tide seals hung on the warehouses, and even spring sowing and livestock breeding had to follow Red Tide's schedules.
When the people of his fief ran into trouble, they went to Red Tide's officials rather than him.
"Some lord... I've become a figurehead." He scratched his disheveled hair, his face creasing further.
But Holder also knew perfectly well that without Red Tide, he would never have survived the previous winter.
The last few sacks of grain in his family's warehouse had only lasted thanks to Red Tide's relief supplies.
Even the medicinal broth his son drank that winter had been delivered by Red Tide's medical