The streets outside the Armstrong duchy had become a boiling pot of unrest and desperation.
As more refugees poured in from the poisoned farmlands and villages, the Duke's estate had taken them in by the hundreds.
The grand halls, once reserved for nobility and staff, had become makeshift sleeping quarters, while the outer gardens had turned into crowded campsites.
At first, the people were grateful. Food was distributed. Shelter provided. Hope offered.
But that gratitude quickly began to rot.
Whispers spread. Accusations followed. Some of the refugees, hungry and sick, began to blame the Duke's family.
"They knew this was coming! That's why they had supplies stockpiled!"
"It's because of nobles like them that the gods are angry!"
Others, however, rose in defense of their benefactors.
"Don't be stupid—they're the only reason we're alive right now!"
"Go ahead, leave if you think you can survive out there alone!"
