**Jasmine's Log, Supplemental**
**Roth Keep, Roth Vale, Albion**
**Rothgard Fall plus 96 days (estimated)**
Numbers weigh heavily on the heart.
Batches of hope cross the land.
Uncle's word becomes a lifeline.
In the quiet warmth of the private solar, Jasmine sat across from her uncle, the late afternoon light slanting through the tall windows and casting golden pools across the heavy oak table between them. Count Reginald Roth studied the map she had spread before him, his fingers tracing the route from Ebonridge Harbor to Roth Vale. The room smelled of polished wood, aged leather, and the faint herbal scent of the tea that had long since gone cold in their cups.
Jasmine spoke steadily, her voice carrying the weight of every soul she had carried across the sea. "The fleet is a mix of vessels—my ironclad Roth's Defiance at the lead, three galleons, four ketches, and two barges converted for passengers. We managed to save what we could from Rothgard before the end: skilled artisans, healers, farmers, and families. Humans mostly, but also elves who sought refuge with us in the final days, and Beastkin who joined our cause when their own lands became unsafe. They are not soldiers, Uncle. They are survivors." Count Reginald leaned back, his sharp Roth features tightening with concern. He rubbed his jaw, a nervous habit she remembered from childhood, and asked the question she had been dreading. "Exactly how many refugees do you have under your protection, Jasmine?"
She met his gaze without flinching. "Five hundred and sixty-seven souls. Men, women, and children. Humans, elves, and Beastkin of various species—Catkin, Wolfkin, Rabbitkin, among them. They have endured the fall of Rothgard, the crossing of the northern seas, and now they wait at anchor outside Ebonridge Harbor, trusting that I will find them a home."
The count was silent for a long moment, his eyes distant as he absorbed the number. The solar seemed to grow quieter, the only sound the faint crackle of the hearth and the distant call of a hawk circling the vale. When he finally spoke, his voice was grave and measured, the tone of a man who had spent decades balancing the needs of his people against the realities of power.
"Five hundred and sixty-seven," he repeated softly, as if tasting the weight of each life. "I cannot take them all at once, Jasmine. Even I do not have the infrastructure ready for such a sudden influx. We would need time to build additional housing, prepare new fields, and negotiate with the local nobles for land grants without sparking resentment or border disputes. I can accept them in batches of one hundred at most. That is the safest number I can manage without straining my own resources to the breaking point."
Jasmine felt a cold knot form in her stomach. Months. It would take months to ferry her people in small groups, each journey exposing them to new risks on the road. She opened her mouth to protest, but her uncle raised a hand gently, his eyes kind but resolute. "I know it is not what you hoped for," he continued, "but it is what I can promise. For each batch of one hundred, I will provide a written guarantee to Lord Blackthorn. More than half of the necessary provisions for the journey are grain, salted meat, dried fruit, and medical supplies. I will also supply carriages and horses to transport them, along with my personal guards as escort. They will be protected every step of the way."
Jasmine sat back, the reality settling over her like a heavy cloak. The journey that had felt so close to ending would stretch on for months—multiple trips, each one a calculated risk. Yet beneath the frustration lay deep gratitude. Her uncle was offering everything he could without endangering his own lands and people. She reached across the table and took his hand, her voice soft but steady. "Thank you, Uncle. It will take time, but it is more than I dared hope for. My people will survive this. We always have."
Count Reginald squeezed her hand, his expression warm with familial pride. "You have already proven that, my dear. You brought them this far. Now let me help carry them the rest of the way." He rose and crossed to his desk, selecting a sheet of fine parchment and his personal seal. The scratch of the quill filled the solar as he wrote the first guarantee, his handwriting strong and deliberate. When he finished, he folded the document, pressed his seal into the wax, and handed her the envelope.
"This is the first of many," he said. "Send the first group as soon as Lord Blackthorn accepts it. The rest will follow in due course." Jasmine took the sealed envelope, feeling its weight like a lifeline for every soul still waiting at sea. She stood and embraced her uncle once more, the warmth of his arms a brief sanctuary in a world that had grown so cold. "I will not forget this," she whispered. "Nor will I," he replied. "Go safely, Jasmine. And bring our people home." She left the solar with the precious document tucked securely inside her cloak, Verdant waiting patiently in the courtyard. The dragon sensed her resolve and lowered his wing for her to mount. With a final glance back at the keep that had given her hope, she urged Verdant skyward.
The fleet still waited at anchor.
The long road home had only just begun.
But now, at least, there was a path.