Lord of the Frozen Winter: Starting with Daily Intelligence Reports

It was still dark, but a faint warmth already filled the dome-shaped house.

The wooden wall panels were slightly warm from last night's stove fire, and the air still carried a hint of ash and charcoal.

Ian slowly opened his eyes under the thick wool blanket.

For a moment after waking, he even forgot where he was; he had been here for half a year, but it still felt a bit unfamiliar.

The bed was too soft, the bedding too warm, and the ceiling above him was too neat and clean.

He habitually turned his head and saw a small cloth doll in the corner of the bed, with slightly curled ears and one eye askew—it was something Mia had made.

Outside, he heard low footsteps, like patrolling knights walking through the muddy alley, or early-rising craftsmen moving tools.

Ian lay quietly, staring at the small doll for a long time, suddenly feeling a sense of unreality.

He used to be a carpenter in Whitestone Village. He dealt with wood every day, drank the porridge his wife cooked in the morning, and fell asleep at night holding his daughter, listening to the crackling of firewood.

Life, though not wealthy, was warm and complete.

Until the winter three years ago, when the Snowsworn cut through his life like a dagger, dissecting him piece by piece into a bloody outline.

That day, he had only gone into the mountain forest early to cut a few decent fir branches.

When he returned, all he saw was black smoke, collapsed roof ridges, and the already shattered well.

He knelt at the still-bloody doorway, picking up his wife's apron.

He didn't cry; he didn't have time to cry.

Mia was still alive; he found her behind the ruined wall of the barn, her usually smiling eyes now widened with terror, curled up behind a haystack, afraid to make a sound.

Finally, on the fifth night, when she began to suffer from a high fever and fell unconscious, they almost died together on an icy slab.

Ian took off his last layer of outer clothing, wrapped her in burlap, and sat in the snow, as if waiting for a god to bestow a final straw.

He didn't wait for a god, but a patrol of Red Tide Territory knights found them.

The other party just glanced down at Mia in his arms, then decisively whispered, “There’s still time.”

And so, he followed the torchlight into the temporary camp.

A miniature city seemed to rise from the wasteland.

There was order, hot porridge, warm tents, and doctors who didn't ask about their origins.

He remembered that weary doctor, who worked through the night to bring Mia's fever down, while he sat outside the door like a cracked piece of wood all night, until someone handed him a pair of old boots.

That was the first time he whispered, “Thank you.”

Later, he was assigned to the craftsmen's team.

Initially, he nailed fences, sawed wooden stakes, and laid floors—he was familiar with all these tasks.

His tools had been burned in the fire, but his craftsmanship remained.

Later, he had a fixed tent, changes of clothes, and nights when he didn't have to worry about Mia going hungry.

During the first winter nights, he would wake up three times every day to make sure she was beside him and no longer had a fever.

Even later, she was chosen.

The dripping blood stone revealed her knight's bloodline. That was a future neither of them had ever anticipated.

She entered the training camp, put on training armor, learned horsemanship, and how to use battle aura.

He looked at her resolute eyes and suddenly felt that this child was no longer the skinny girl who had emerged from a pile of firewood; she would become a guardian.

Now they were assigned to live in the second residential area of the main city, # Nоvеlight # in a truly “Red Tide-style dome house” of their own.

“Before, I could only spend winter wrapped in sacks under a wooden shed; now I sleep in this big house. Who would have thought?”

Ian murmured softly, putting on his thick cotton undershirt and a coarse cloth outer coat with a tightly bound collar by the stove.

Then he took the small half-bowl of leftover porridge from the table, gulped it down, let out a breath, fastened his scarf, pushed open the door, and stepped into the Red Tide Territory's morning.

He was already used to this route.

Starting from the residential area, passing through the bustling marketplace, walking across the square, and then turning into the workshop alley on the west side of the city.

The ground was paved with smooth stone bricks, and drainage ditches were embedded in the wall corners on both sides; most of the thin snow that had fallen during the night had already been swept away.

The distant fire lamps were still lit, their warm yellow light flickering on the bluestone slabs.

A man in a thick coat walked around the street corner, carrying a freshly changed bucket of hot water.

He nodded and greeted Ian, and Ian returned a smile.

Pedestrians gradually increased, mostly craftsmen, logistics soldiers, and market managers, moving in an orderly fashion through the streets.

Occasionally, a few children would run out of an alley, wearing uniformly distributed red scarves around their necks, hopping and dodging into a corner, with their mothers calling their names from afar.

Passing by a wall, Ian paused his steps.

The bulletin board displayed today's notice: “Ninth Batch of Winter Supplies Distribution” was written in bold strokes, with accompanying pictures below: small bread,

salted meat, and soap, along with a smiling child holding a sparkler.

As he approached the exchange square, he saw a four-wheeled transport cart parked at the bottom of the ramp in the distance. Several porters were loading sacks of burlap onto the cart—that was dry food, and those with red ropes were Northland Army allocations. Ian squinted to discern the familiar stamp on the sacks: “Snowfield Winter Camp · Grain Storage Batch Six.”

He knew these goods would be transported along the main road to the Red Tide's frontline outposts in the north, which was where Mia would go in the future.

He continued to walk, his steps unhurried. The sounds of people in the wind and snow gradually grew denser.

The craftsmen's workshop had arrived; the entire carpentry camp was already bustling with noise, and the smell of sawdust, steam, and stove fire mingled in the air.

In the distance, dried fir planks hung from wooden beams; some people moved about with tools on their backs, others lifted a section of an axle, shouting about size discrepancies.

Ian walked into that familiar warmth, and a young carpenter greeted him, “Boss is here!”

“Last day of work, no copper lamps if you're late,” he replied with a smile, taking off his cloak and putting on a leather apron.

The warmth in the camp grew stronger, and the stove fire against the west wall was already burning brightly.

Today was the last workday before the winter closure; there was no need for major construction, and everyone was only responsible for finishing touches and repairs.

The few carpentry apprentices Ian supervised were busy around two unfinished large wooden boxes.

He walked over, said nothing, and directly took the plane, beginning to trim the grooves on the edges.

As wood shavings flew, his hands were gnarled, his fingers calloused from years of work.

The plane moved steadily, and the surface of the wood was polished as smooth as a pebble.

A young carpenter couldn't help but praise, “Master, the edges you plane, even my father can't achieve this level.”

Ian chuckled softly, not replying. He buried his head in his work, meticulously completing every joint.

This year, he was promoted to a small carpentry foreman. In one year, he led over thirty people with the City Construction Department, building twenty-four new houses and three wooden bridges.

People began calling him “Master Ian,” which was a great honor for a refugee who had crawled out of a snowy night.

Before noon, today's quota was all completed.

The boxes were sealed, the axles polished, and the record sheets were submitted for Tuba to personally verify.

The short carpentry workshop supervisor stroked his beard, then grinned and said, “Everyone, you've done excellent work this year. As per old custom, those who have worked a full year will receive one lamp each.”

An assistant brought out small cloth bags, and small copper lamps wrapped in oiled paper were distributed.

Ian stood in the line, and when he received his lamp, his hands couldn't help but tremble slightly.

It was a small, solid lamp, with a rounded opening and the words “Seventh Workshop Red Tide Year Three Winter” engraved on its body, along with a finely carved Red Tide sun emblem, said to be personally designed by Lord Louis.

He looked at the small lamp, as if seeing himself on that snowy night.

Snow covered the sky, Mia, feverish, wrapped in his arms, walking step by step through the frozen wilderness.

“If it weren't for Lord Louis,” he whispered, “I would already be a pile of dry bones under the snow.”

His colleagues nearby heard him and looked at him in unison.

One person spoke, “It's our skill to work for such a Lord.”

Another smiled and raised the copper lamp in his hand, “This year's winter lamp is so beautiful! I want to earn another one next year!”

Everyone laughed.

A section of the workshop's open ground was cleared, with hay and wooden boards laid on the ground. A temporarily set up wooden table was laden with dried fruits, smoked meat, strong wheat wine, and steaming beef stew with carrots.

Apprentices were already whistling, and several old craftsmen sat around, telling tales of glorious pasts.

When Ian sat down, someone had already handed him a wine glass.

He didn't refuse, but slowly stood up, raising his glass and looking around at everyone.

His throat was slightly choked, but he still spoke calmly, “For us, and for Lord Louis.”

“For Lord Louis!” everyone responded.

Wine glasses clinked, producing a crisp sound.

They sat in the back of the workshop for over an hour, laughing, eating meat, and drinking wine.

The copper lamps were arranged in a circle, their firelight casting blurry spots on the copper walls, like stars fallen to earth.

It wasn't until the afternoon that Tuba patted his knees and stood up, “Alright, a little drink is enough. We still need to go collect supplies later.”

So everyone gradually stood up; some, still hiccuping from the wine, tidied the table, others picked up their tools and headed home.

Ian also carried his tools and walked towards the housing distribution center.

That was the Red Tide Territory's supply distribution point; today, it was distributed sequentially by district and workshop number.

A long line snaked across the stone-paved square, orderly and calm. People, wrapped in fur coats or cloth cloaks, stood in the snow without any impatience.

He joined a familiar group in the line, standing next to his neighbor Hank and the weaver Gia.

“Ian, you've returned just in time this time,” Gia said with a smile, nodding. “This truly is a good year. Tell me, how many times have things been distributed now?”

“Nine times,” Hank interjected, his voice low, but his eyes couldn't hide his emotion. “It would be so good if it were like this every year.”

Gia couldn't help but laugh, “It will be. As long as Lord Louis is here.”

As she said this, the people queuing around them nodded silently.

When it was Ian's turn, he received today's distributed supplies with both hands:

A bag of coarse wheat flour, twenty-five catties.

Three large pieces of salted meat, sealed with the Red Tide Territory's brand.

One clean, soft cotton quilt.

Two bars of tallow soap, his daughter Mia's favorite scent.

And a small packet of fireworks, for burning on the night of the Winter Festival.

He was very happy looking at the items in his hands; his daughter would surely be delighted to see the soap.

Suddenly, the front of the line quieted down, and a low murmur spread: “It's Lord Louis.”

Ian followed the sound and saw the man slowly approaching from the end of the crowd, draped in a dark red cloak, his figure tall and straight, his expression serene.

Several attendants spoke in low voices, seemingly reporting something, but the Lord merely nodded, then turned and personally handed a package of salted meat and bedding to an old veteran with a missing arm at the head of the line.

The old veteran's eyes were red, and he bowed tremblingly.

Louis patted his shoulder.

This scene was as quiet as a lamp lit in the snow.

And as Louis walked past Ian, Ian instinctively stood ramrod straight, his eyes shining.

He bowed his head deeply, his voice not loud, but exceptionally devout: “Thank you, Lord Louis.”

The man merely paused his steps slightly, nodded gently, then continued forward, like a gust of wind sweeping through the winter night, yet carrying a profound weight.

Ian stood still, his fingers unconsciously tightening, gripping the salted meat and soap, his palms slightly warm.

He said nothing, only silently swore in his heart: “I must continue to work hard—to be worthy of such a great Lord.”

Twilight came slowly and profoundly, the sky tinged with crimson, like clouds stained by firelight.

Ian carried his things home, and the moment he pushed open the dome house door, the first thing that caught his eye was a strand of red silk tassel hanging on the doorframe, simply tied in a knot, but its color was so vibrant it almost leaped out against the snowy background.

He smiled; that was Mia's signal that she was home for the holiday.

The stove fire was already lit inside, and warmth enveloped him.

The gentle clinking of pots and spoons came from the kitchen. 𝚏𝕣𝐞𝗲𝐰𝕖𝐛𝐧𝕠𝕧𝚎𝚕.𝐜𝚘𝗺

Mia was taking off her Red Tide-issued knight training uniform and putting on the newly distributed wool sweater, its sleeves still rolled up.

Her back was straight and broad, her shoulders filling out the sweater's curve.

Ian stood by the door, Stunned, his heart suddenly warmed: “She used to be as thin as a stick of firewood, but now she can split a shield.”

Tonight was the pre-festival reunion dinner, so it was quite lavish.

There was roasted meat, lamb stew with carrots, rye wine, and thick beetroot soup.

These were things they couldn't even dream of in previous years, but now they could enjoy them once in a while.

Father and daughter sat down, clasped their hands, and softly recited together: “Thank Lord Louis for everything he has bestowed upon us.”

They were already familiar with this phrase, but each time they said it, a solemn reverence still arose in their hearts.

During dinner, Mia excitedly recounted her experiences in the training camp: “Today we practiced offense and defense, and I pushed a classmate into the snow for the first time!”

She raised her eyebrows, her face full of pride: “Good thing it was just a drill, otherwise he really would have lost a tooth.”

Ian smiled while admonishing her: “Don't get too carried away; he might have gone easy on you.”

Then Ian talked about the workshop distributing copper lamps and the lively scene of everyone celebrating with wine.

They continued like this, back and forth, until late into the night.

Outside the window, silver snow covered the tiles, and the dome house was illuminated by moonlight, like a silent small hill.

The entire city of Red Tide was now immersed in gentleness and tranquility, firelight seeping from window sills, as every household peacefully drifted into dreams.

Mia had gone to sleep early, only a faint breath visible under the covers.

Ian sat on the old wooden chair by the fireplace, took out the award lamp, and slowly wiped away the snow marks from its copper body with a cloth.

He looked at it for a long time, his gaze serene, the smile on his lips slowly fading.

The lamp reflected the firelight, and the shifting light and shadow seemed to conjure his wife's figure.

He whispered, “If only you were still here—”