Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence Chapter 668 - 385: The First Breath of Spring in Cold Sand Territory (Part 2)

Holder's breath, which had barely steadied, grew chaotic once more as he gazed at the catalog like it held some cursed spell.

Pete flipped open the index, revealing clear lines of goods: Federation fine cloth, forged steel sword, gems, glass goblets...

These were luxury items affordable only by the highest nobles.

Holder's excitement fully blazed: "This... these are things I never even dreamed of before! Pete, can I get this glass cup set? What about this sword? Even that alchemy gemstone castle?"

"As the Lord of Cold Sand, you can certainly purchase them," Pete replied steadily, "The Red Tide Commerce Association stocks them. They've set aside discounts just for you."

Struck by lightning a second time, Holder leaped from his seat: "Lord Louis... Lord Louis is the true transformer of the Northern Territory! I used to... ah, what a fool I was!"

He started rambling in wild dreams: "I'll swap out all the banquet hall tableware for sparkling new glass! Order a Federation cloak for the lady... no, make it two! The kids need them too! Cold Sand Territory will earn real prestige!"

Noticing Holder lost in visions of riches and glory, Pete added: "Lord, Red Tide wishes for Cold Sand Territory to hold this year's spring festival right here, sharing the joy with the locals."

This formed a key part of Red Tide's cultural blending, speeding up Cold Sand's entry into the fold.

Yet Pete saw no need to explain that to Holder.

Too caught up to ponder hidden motives, Holder pounded the table upon hearing of the festivity, making the gold coins jitter: "Yes! We will! Cold Sand Territory must display its grandeur!"

Pete inclined his head: "I'll include your agreement in today's report."

Holder bobbed his head eagerly: "Yes, write it down! Make sure Lord Louis sees Cold Sand Territory's full commitment!"

......

Red Tide's spring festival dawned officially today.

Morning mist clung to Cold Sand Territory's gray stone fortress walls, yet a rising warmth from the hearts of the people seemed to chase away the stubborn cold in crevices and lanes.

Dead winter quiet no longer gripped the main street at first light.

Nobody could tell which blacksmith first raised a deep red banner bearing the golden sun emblem.

Quickly, as if an unspoken order swept the town, families affixed sun-emblazoned wooden signs to doors or knotted vivid red fabric strips.

Everywhere, amid drab stone and lingering snow, vivid Red Tide crimson flickered like leaping fires, setting the little frontier town ablaze.

White vapor curled from massive iron cauldrons along the roadside, brimming with festival oatmeal and meat broth.

Little meat was in it, but lard and herb fragrances wafted on the wind, slipping into every home's window cracks.

"Hot! Fresh rye loaves, spiced up! All thanks to Lord Louis's bounty!"

The vendor's shouts shattered the dawn peace, laced with holiday spirit.

The elderly baker, once hunched and sour-faced, now stood tall and proud.

An apron tied at his waist, he sported a rough iron Red Tide sun badge on his chest—issued by the aid officer days prior, buffed shiny with fat.

His stall overflowed with real belly-fillers:

Fist-sized rye loaves, crusts baked crisp, each crowned with a red fruit jam dot for "sun shine."

Smoked slabs of salted meat dangled from a rack, wafting smoky allure, beside barrels of sauerkraut.

"Who could've pictured a celebration like this in the old days." The old baker bundled bread in greaseproof paper for buyers, sketching a sun over his heart, "Without Officer Pete hauling in flour wagons, this oven would've died out long ago in the winter dark."

Beneath a close-by shed, piles of onions and root veggies from the Red Tide caravan sat ready.

Such bounty once graced only the castle nobles in old Cold Sand Territory.

Street crowds grew with night-shift miners arriving.

Not like past winters when coal dust caked them and their eyes stared blankly like the undead.

Now nearly all sported red strips on wool caps or rough collars, or stitched simple sun designs.

"Slice me two fingers' worth of salted meat, and bag some coarse sugar for the little ones—a bit of sweet for the spring festival at home." The sturdy miner laid down battered coppers on the counter.

His mate teased grinning: "Old Tom, stocking up on holiday eats this early?"

"You bet." Old Tom beamed, flashing stained teeth, gesturing at the huge Red Tide flag whipping atop the far administration hall tower.

"Winter hit hard this year—if Lord Louis hadn't sent Officer Pete, we'd all be ice tombs by now. This cash buys pure joy, toasting our dodge from death's grip!"

As miners shared their feelings, crisp footsteps echoed from the street's end.

Pete strode along with fellow aid officers.

Clad in deep red Red Tide garb, his cloak worn but spotless, the shoulder copper gleamed softly in dawn rays.

"Officer Pete! Sun's light be upon you!"

"Officer, try these hot loaves, fresh out—on the house!"