Beginning the very next day, word spread rapidly through the valley town that the Browntail Clan and the Silverash Clan had joined forces to distribute essential winter provisions to the workers who had lost their jobs.
For laborers who had spent sleepless nights fearing their families would freeze or starve before spring, the news brought overwhelming relief. Crowds of workers lined up to receive the packages, securing enough rations and supplies to weather the bitter months ahead.
As they departed, many turned back to cast deeply grateful glances toward the distribution center, silently thanking the Saintess and the two noble houses for granting them a lifeline.
Inevitably, those sentiments of gratitude came paired with bitter curses directed at the Paleroches Clan. In the eyes of the populace, the brash traditionalists possessed no moral standing to compare with the current leadership.
Yet, while the workers receiving aid were filled with newfound hope, the laborers trapped inside territory controlled directly by the Paleroches Clan faced a much grimier reality. They hesitated, unsure whether they dared approach the distribution lines.
While the supplies could easily save their households from ruin, the heavily armed patrols lining the perimeter made them terrified that leaving the district might mean never being allowed back in.
"It seems we've drawn quite a crowd. I must confess, I'm rather glad I proposed this partnership—otherwise, the Browntail Clan alone would never have had the spare reserves to feed this many people," Ratatos remarked, standing atop a raised wooden platform to survey the bustling crowds below. Though individual packages weren't extravagant, securing such massive quantities of necessities on short notice was no small feat.
"I hardly see how this constitutes a favor on your part. If I had to guess, your primary motivation for dragging us into this was ensuring our shared initiative couldn't be easily sabotaged," Degenbrecher replied coldly, her arms crossed as she watched the sea of people. Despite Ratatos's meticulous planning, opportunists still tried to slip through the cracks—well-dressed outsiders attempting to fish for free supplies alongside the genuinely destitute. While the most blatant violators had been turned away, plenty still managed to slip past.
"Well, you aren't wrong. A single house standing alone could never pull this off," Ratatos shrugged smoothly. "If only the Browntail Clan were acting independently, we would be entirely powerless to push back against the monks of the Vine-Bear Court and those muscle-bound brutes."
She spat out the last description with a sharp edge of malice, as though wishing she could physically chew up the man who had stubbornly torpedoed any chance of a unified front.
"If circumstances allowed, we would certainly prefer to avoid open conflict," Degenbrecher brought the conversation back to political survival, testing the waters once more.
While the factions remained locked in a bitter struggle, the Black Knight harbored no illusions that total annihilation of the rival houses was a desirable outcome.
For over a century, Kjerag had maintained its stability through a delicate tripod of three ruling houses. If two of those pillars were suddenly shattered, the remaining house would buckle under the weight, unable to hold the entire nation together on its own.
"Perhaps that is how your side views it, but the future of this country requires radical surgery. Any cooperation I offer must be weighed against a very real risk—ensuring that once the dust settles, your faction doesn't immediately turn those weapons against us," Ratatos countered sharply, unwilling to accept a future where her family was reduced to a mere vassal of the Silverash Clan.
"You cannot stop the tide. Kjerag is changing, and everything standing in the path of that progress will inevitably be swept away," Degenbrecher stated calmly.
"Part of what you wish to sweep away includes centuries of tradition and culture. If those are burned to ash, will Kjerag even remain Kjerag?"
Neither woman could bridge the ideological chasm between them. The heavy silence stretching between the two leaders left Enya, who stood quietly beside them, feeling entirely out of her depth. The young Saintess wished she could ease the mounting tension, but she lacked the political weight to reconcile such fundamentally opposed visions.
As exhaustion weighed heavily on Enya from days of managing relief efforts, her gaze drifted away from the tense leaders toward a familiar group standing roughly a hundred meters away. Jeanne and her three companions were observing the proceedings from afar, nodding in quiet approval.
Spotted by her friend, Enya offered a small wave, and Jeanne raised a hand in return to acknowledge her.
"It looks like the atmosphere over there could cut glass," Jeanne remarked, turning her gaze back toward the Doctor after exchanging waves with the Saintess.
"If those three manage to stand together without coming to blows, it's a minor miracle. You can't seriously expect them to converse like old school friends," the Doctor replied, keeping her focus elsewhere.
The small group had no intention of interrupting the political leaders. They were simply passing through to inspect conditions in the valley.
"If you didn't plan on joining them, why did you insist on dragging us over here?" Jeanne asked, raising an eyebrow at the masked strategist.
"Even if I'm technically just an outside advisor, I still bear a measure of responsibility for the welfare of these workers," the Doctor muttered, her tone unusually grave. She hadn't anticipated that the people suffering most would be the infected laborers.
When the group finally reached the segregated worker encampment, the true horror of their situation became apparent. Managed under the heavy-handed, oversight of Paleroches guards, the living conditions had deteriorated to a catastrophic degree, causing widespread flare-ups and rapid progression of Oripathy symptoms.
The guards had completely ignored the Doctor's earlier medical directives, treating the infection with primitive ignorance. To them, Oripathy was simply a contagion that required harsh quarantine, nothing more.
By housing mild and severe cases in cramped, unventilated quarters, the environment had become a breeding ground for rapid deterioration. When infected individuals passed away, the shock to the remaining camp residents sent stress levels—and symptom flare-ups—spiraling out of control.
"You people are actively committing murder! Why are you ignoring the exact management protocols I provided?!" the Doctor shouted, marching straight up to the squad of patrolling guards and drawing immediate attention.
The guards frowned, glaring down at the hooded figure. Several locals who recognized the Doctor murmured her identity to their comrades, though few showed any sign of welcoming her interference. A couple of hotheads immediately moved to push her back, but before their hands could touch her, Blaze stepped effortlessly into their path, sending both soldiers sprawling into the snow with a single fluid motion.
"I'd strongly advise against doing anything foolish," Blaze warned casually, cracking her knuckles with a dangerous grin. "If you lot actually want to pick a fight with me, you'd better gather at least a dozen more of your buddies to stand a remote chance."
The guards scrambled back to their feet, clutching their weapons with trembling hands. Though outmatched, stubborn pride kept them from backing down. "This is our internal jurisdiction! We don't need outsiders sticking their noses into our protocols!"
"I was formally appointed as an advisor to this region, which gives me full authority over infection control! Now, immediately follow my instructions and reorganize these residential sectors!" the Doctor commanded, brooking no argument.
"If you have a problem with our methods, take it up with the Clan Chief! Until we receive orders directly from the top, we follow our own orders!" the lead guard snarled, refusing to bow to an outsider.
"You're forgetting one crucial detail," Jeanne's voice cut cleanly through the cold air as she stepped forward from the rear, fixing the guards with an unyielding stare. "These workers fall under the direct administrative purview of the Saintess. If she delegates oversight to us, your orders mean nothing."