Whoosh… whoosh… whoosh…
Crackle… snap… pop…
Perry sat slumped in the confines of her tent, her weary gaze drifting upward to the beast-hide window. Outside, a ferocious blizzard raged, hurling snowflakes against the thick hide with relentless force, creating a staccato symphony of dense, rhythmic thuds that echoed through the dim interior.
"A blizzard, huh?" She muttered, her voice tinged with a mix of resignation and bitterness. "Should I thank you for hiding our misery, or curse you for making it worse?" Propping her chin on one hand, she stared vacantly into the flickering shadows cast by the small fire in the tent's center. Her lion-like ears twitched faintly, catching the relentless percussion of the storm battering the sheepskin tent—a mocking, chaotic melody that mirrored her turbulent thoughts.
Her mood was as heavy as the snow piling outside. The events of the day had drained her spirit, leaving her teetering on the edge of fury. She felt an almost primal urge to lash out, to punish someone—anyone—for the disaster that had unfolded. Her incompetent subordinates, through sheer stupidity, had set fire to two tents brimming with precious hay. The very thought made her blood boil.
The fire had been ferocious, fanned by the howling winds into a ravenous beast with flames that danced and clawed at the sky. It was only the sudden onset of snowfall—ironic, cruel timing—that had tamed the inferno enough for her people to douse it with shovelfuls of snow. But the damage was done. The hay, their lifeline, was gone. Reduced to nothing but a sodden mess of ash and blackened earth, the two tents' worth of fodder were now a grim reminder of their precarious situation.
Hay wasn't just grass—it was survival. It was the sustenance for their sheep and horses, the backbone of their tribe's existence in this unforgiving winter. Without it, starvation loomed over their livestock like a specter. They were already stretched thin, their reserves barely sufficient, and now this catastrophe had struck. The culprits—those reckless beastkin responsible for the fire—had paid the ultimate price. Perry had ordered their execution without hesitation, her rage leaving no room for mercy.
"Princess, dinner is ready," A soft voice interrupted her brooding. Her maid approached, balancing a wooden tray with care. Worry creased the young beastkin's face as she added, "You haven't eaten all day, Your Highness."
Perry sighed heavily, her breath visible in the chilly air. "Just… leave it there." Her appetite had vanished, buried under the weight of the day's losses. How could she eat when her tribe faced such a dire setback?
The maid set the tray down gently, her eyes lingering on Perry with concern. "Princess, what happened today wasn't your fault. You mustn't blame yourself."
Perry's golden eyes flicked to the tray, scanning the meager offering: boiled mutton, as always. She could already tell, just by looking, that it was barely seasoned—salt was a luxury they could scarcely afford now. "The hay from those two tents is gone," She said, her voice low and deliberate. "How long can we last with what's left?"
The maid hesitated, her ears drooping slightly. "A thousand sheep… they won't make it to spring."
"A thousand sheep," Perry repeated, her voice hollow. She reached for the small knife on the tray but paused, her hand hovering as the weight of those words sank in. A thousand sheep—animals they had carefully accounted for, their numbers meticulously planned to survive the winter. The hay reserves had been calculated to the last blade, but now, with this loss, the math no longer added up. A thousand sheep would perish, their bleating silenced by hunger before the first thaw. The loss was staggering, a blow to the tribe's survival and her own pride as their leader.
"Princess, perhaps…" The maid's voice was tentative, as if she feared overstepping. "Perhaps we could slaughter those thousand sheep now. Store the meat. It could feed the tribe, at least for a while."
Perry's gaze hardened, but she nodded slowly. "Tomorrow, issue the order. Slaughter the sheep. Let it be a feast for everyone—a small reprieve." Her tone was resigned, the decision bitter but necessary.
"Yes, Your Highness," The maid replied, bowing respectfully.
"And the frozen vegetables?" Perry asked, staring at the unappetizing mutton. She could already imagine the bland, gamey taste clinging to her tongue. "Do we have any left?"
The maid's voice grew quieter, almost a whisper. "Enough for one more meal."
"One last meal?" Perry's golden eyes narrowed, a flicker of disbelief in their depths.
"Yes," The maid admitted, avoiding her princess's gaze. "Just one frozen vegetable remains."
Perry's heart sank further. Her lion ears drooped, and her tail, usually lively and expressive, hung limp against the ground. "Take it," She said after a long pause, her voice heavy with defeat. "No… not all of it. Bring me a third of it."
"Yes, Princess." The maid hurried out into the storm, her footsteps crunching in the snow. Perry could sense the pity in her movements, the unspoken sorrow for a princess reduced to rationing a single frozen vegetable into thirds. It was almost laughable, if it weren't so tragic—a far cry from the days when their tribe had known abundance.
Tch… tch…
Perry sliced a piece of mutton and popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly. She searched for any hint of salt, any trace of flavor to break the monotony, but there was nothing. Just the faint, musky taste of unseasoned meat. She sighed again, her frustration mounting.
Crunch… crunch…
The maid returned, snowflakes clinging to her hair and shoulders. In her hands was a small wooden bowl containing a pitiful segment of frozen wild vegetable—barely a morsel. She set it down carefully, her eyes soft with concern. "Princess, should I send someone to dig for roots in the snow? Some of them can be quite tasty."
"No," Perry said, shaking her head. The temptation to cling to any scrap of hope was strong, but she suppressed it. She reached for the frozen vegetable, its icy surface stinging her fingers, and popped it into her mouth. Then, cutting a larger chunk of mutton, she chewed them together, letting the faint bitterness of the vegetable mingle with the meat's dull flavor. For a moment, she closed her eyes, savoring the fleeting satisfaction of something other than mutton alone.
The maid watched her, her expression softening into something almost tearful. Perry, the once-proud princess who had never known want, now found joy in a single sliver of frozen vegetable. It was a stark reminder of how far their tribe had fallen.
"Is there no salt left in the tribe?" Perry asked mid-chew, her lion tail flicking restlessly.
"There's a little left in the kitchen stores," The maid replied quietly. "Just a pinch or two."
"And the others? How are they reacting?" Perry's eyes opened, her posture straightening. Her voice carried the weight of authority, and the maid felt the sudden shift in her princess's demeanor—a reminder of the strength that still burned beneath her exhaustion.
"They're grumbling," The maid answered quickly. "The meat has no flavor, and it's causing some discontent."
"Any fights?" Perry raised an eyebrow, her tone sharp. She knew the dangers of a salt shortage. It wouldn't spark a full rebellion, but it could lead to countless small conflicts—bickering, shoving, tempers flaring over tasteless meals.
"A few scuffles broke out," The maid admitted softly.
"Is that so?" Perry's voice was cold, her eyes narrowing. "Next time it happens, lock them up. Let them go hungry for three days before they're released." She wasn't one to tolerate dissent over something as petty as food complaints. Compared to their kin still fleeing and starving in human lands, her tribe had it easy.
"Yes, Princess," The maid said, her tone grave.
"And if they draw weapons?" Perry's voice grew colder still, her authority absolute. "Banish them. Let them fend for themselves in the wild." She wasn't soft-hearted. Leading a tribe of thirty thousand beastkin required an iron will, and she had no patience for those who threatened their fragile unity.
"Understood," The maid replied, bowing her head.
"Are there no human merchant caravans coming through anymore?" Perry asked, slicing the mutton with deliberate precision, her knife flashing in the firelight.
"No, Your Highness," The maid said, her lips tightening. "The caravans are avoiding this region entirely. They've heard rumors—false ones—that we'd rob them."
"Rob them?" Perry's brow furrowed, her golden eyes glinting as she studied the knife in her hand. She wasn't above such tactics if it came to it. Desperation could justify many things.
Thud… thud… thud…
Sudden, urgent footsteps outside the tent made Perry's eyes narrow, her senses sharpening. 'What now?' She thought, her heart sinking at the possibility of yet another crisis caused by her subordinates' incompetence.
"Princess!" A beastkin knight's voice called from beyond the tent flap. "A human merchant caravan is outside, requesting an audience. Their leader is the lord of Riverden City, someone we've traded with before."
"A human caravan?" Perry's golden eyes widened, a spark of disbelief igniting within her. She had just been thinking of merchants, and now one appeared as if summoned by her thoughts.
"Yes, a large one—over a hundred strong," The knight reported.
"Lord Martin of Riverden?" Perry's brow creased. She remembered him—a rare human willing to trade with her tribe, though his past dealings had been small, barely a drop in the bucket compared to their needs. A large caravan, though? That could mean real supplies—or at least the promise of them. "Take them to the meeting hall," She ordered, her voice firm.
"Yes, Princess," The knight replied, his footsteps retreating as he hurried to obey.
"Prepare my things," Perry said, rising to her feet. "I'll meet them myself." She needed to conceal her identity as the beastkin princess—no need to give the humans leverage or cause for alarm.
"Yes, Your Highness," The maid said, moving quickly to assist.
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