Three days later, in the afternoon, work at the public stables had just wrapped up. Murphy patted the hay dust from his old coat and said to Hank and Bart, who were washing out a bucket, "I’m heading out of the castle for a bit."
"What?"
Bart’s hand slipped, nearly dropping the bucket into the stone trough. "Are you crazy? At a ti like this, the Steward is watching all of us, just looking for an excuse to make trouble! Instead of keeping your head down, you’re daring to run off?"
Hank also hurried over and leaned in close, lowering his voice. "Murphy, don’t do sothing stupid. If you ask for leave now, aren’t you just handing the Steward an excuse to get you?"
Murphy’s expression was calm. "I’m just going ho to check on my family, and while I’m at it..." He looked at the two of them. "I can check on your families, too."
His words made both Hank and Bart fall silent.
As descendants of castle servants, most of them lived in the area surrounding New Wood Town, just outside the castle, getting by on the ager harvests from the land they rented from the Lord.
During the off-season for farming, the older children had to enter the castle to help with chores. This was done both to save on food rations at ho and so they could learn a trade from a young age, in the hopes of one day taking over their parents’ positions.
This was the way of life for these servant families, generation after generation, surviving like vines clinging to the great tree that was the castle.
Bart sighed heavily. "Back ho, it’s just my old mother with two young lads... The last ti I went back was during the Harvest Festival."
Hank’s voice was a bit hoarse. "A while ago, my wife had soone bring a ssage saying our youngest son is sick. But I... I just don’t dare ask the Steward for leave at a ti like this."
Murphy looked at his two companions’ expressions. "Tom was kicked out of the castle a few days ago and fell ill at ho. I have to go check on him. He used to be my neighbor and often helped my family out. I can’t just stand by and watch him..."
"But..."
Bart was about to argue further, but Hank stopped him.
"Let him go."
Hank shook his head and pulled a small cloth bundle from inside his coat. "I’ve saved half a pound of rye, and a piece of cured at..."
He handed the bundle to Murphy, his eyes pleading. "If my son is still sick, could you give him so of it?"
Seeing this, Bart also hurriedly fumbled in the bottom of his tool bag for a small coin pouch and poured out four Silver Coins. "Take this to my mother. Tell her I’m doing fine, and that she shouldn’t skimp. If she needs dicine, she should buy it."
Murphy carefully stored the items his companions had entrusted to him. "Don’t worry. I’ll make sure they get everything."
Watching Murphy’s figure disappear into the twilight, Bart said to Hank with a worried look, "That kid... you don’t think he’s planning on not coming back, do you?"
Hank didn’t answer. He just silently picked up the bucket from the ground and continued the unfinished task of washing it.
...
When Murphy stepped into New Wood Town, the setting sun was slowly sinking behind the distant mountain ridge, staining the snow-covered ground a somber, blood-red color.
The January wind cut like a knife. This was the coldest ti of year in the Duval Baron’s Domain. The snow was knee-deep, and the whole town seed particularly deathly silent in the twilight.
Compared to an August evening two years ago, when the town still had so semblance of life, the New Wood Town of today looked like a massive, frozen graveyard in the twilight.
An old man was curled up in a corner, motionless.
A few young people huddled under a dilapidated eave, like ice sculptures.
There were also small figures lying in the snow, looking as if they were rely asleep.
Murphy continued walking into the town.
Only a few of the wooden huts had thin wisps of cooking smoke rising from their chimneys.
Most of the houses, however, had their doors and windows shut tight, their chimneys cold. It was impossible to know if the people inside were dead or alive.
The fading sunlight revealed a family inside a half-collapsed wooden hut. They had died in an embrace, the child held protectively in the middle.
Seeing this, Murphy quickened his pace, crossing the deathly silent streets and reaching the rural area on the town’s outskirts.
The sky gradually darkened. In the distance, faint lights shone from the windows of the few hos that still had cooking smoke, like the last fireflies in the dark.
The farmhouses nearby, however, were completely subrged in the twilight, lting into the deepening night and showing no sign of life.
When he finally found Hank’s low-slung farmhouse, he saw its roof was laden with thick snow, and not a sliver of light ca from the windows.
The small hut stood silent in the twilight, just like the lifeless houses surrounding it.
Murphy took a deep breath of the frigid air and raised his hand to knock on the door.
The dull sound of knocking echoed in the silent twilight, but there was no answer.
He knocked again, with more force this ti, making the wooden door tremble slightly.
After a long mont, a faint rustling ca from inside, and a woman’s voice, so weak it was almost inaudible, asked tremulously, "Who... who is it?"
After another mont, the door hinges let out a piercing SQUEAL as the door slowly opened a crack.
Looking in from the relatively bright outdoors, the inside of the house was pitch-black. A strange odor drifted out—a mix of must, mold, and the stench of human waste.
The haggard, aged face of a woman appeared in the crack. She squinted, her eyes unable to adjust to the light, and called out timidly, "Sir..."
Before she had even finished speaking, a gust of wind born from the temperature difference between inside and out rushed past her. She shivered, the tattered cotton padding she wore offering no protection against the bitter cold.
She shrank back self-consciously, not daring to invite Murphy inside. It wasn’t that she feared what this gentleman might do, but that she was afraid the squalor within would offend soone of his station.
"Let’s talk inside."
Murphy said, squeezing sideways into the hut under the woman’s astonished gaze.
The chill inside was hardly any better than it was outside.
Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Murphy saw two emaciated figures curled up on a pile of dry grass in the corner.
Although by this world’s standards, the older of the two was nearly old enough to marry and have children, by the standards of Murphy’s previous world, he was just a teenager.
The two children were wrapped in tattered cotton padding, huddling tightly together.
Seeing Murphy co in, they both opened their eyes, though it was impossible to make out their expressions in the dark.
The indentations in the hay showed that just monts before, the mother and her two children had been huddled together on the pile for warmth.
Murphy whispered the code phrase Hank had taught him: "After the first snow this year, how many snown did the children build?"
The woman’s eyes suddenly widened. In a trembling voice, she answered, "Th-three... the biggest one was wearing their father’s old hat..."
Her voice was filled with excitent. "Sir, have you seen Hank? Is he alright?"
Murphy handed the woman the small cloth bundle Hank had prepared. After a mont’s thought, he also took out a few Copper Coins from his own coat. "He asked to bring you these."
The woman took the cloth bundle and the Copper Coins, her hands trembling violently.
When she felt the rye and cured at inside the bundle, she finally broke into sobs. "Thank Oriane... Hank still thinks of us..."
She turned to the children in the corner. "Children, your father sent food ho!"
She turned back to Murphy and started to kneel in thanks, but he quickly caught her and held her up.
"Sir, may Oriane forever bless you..."
"I’m no ’Sir’," Murphy interrupted her gently. "I’m just a Groom, like Hank."
But the woman shook her head stubbornly. "Anyone who brings food at a ti like this is a savior."
She caressed the bundle in her hands, her voice choked with emotion. "This bag of rye, this cured at... these few Copper Coins... To us, they’re like the Sun in the dead of winter."
The Sun...
Murphy didn’t argue further. He just silently began to practice his Breathing and Guiding, letting a warm current flow through his ridians.
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