Day 1: Triage
The stone of the manor house retained the day's chill, mirroring the cold dread that settled over Kael. The candlelight was weak, casting elongated shadows on the wall as he sat alone, grappling with the data extracted from the ledgers. The numbers offered no comfort; they offered only certain death.
Three hundred people. Forty days of food at minimum rations. The threat of mass disease—typhoid, dysentery—accelerating the mortality rate from the contaminated well. The clock was ticking down to zero on multiple fronts.
Kael leaned over a sheet of fresh parchment, using a piece of charcoal to chart the grim reality. He was no longer charting supply lines; he was charting the failure point of a population.
If he distributed the remaining grain equally, the entire population would grow lethargic and weak within two weeks. When the time came to plant the emergency crops and complete the engineering projects, no one would possess the strength to lift a tool. Mass starvation and societal collapse would be guaranteed, confirming the nobles' prediction of his failure.
Kael's lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. He had learned the harsh arithmetic of triage during conflicts: sometimes, you had to sacrifice the non-essential or the non-viable to ensure the core mission—the survival of the unit—could continue. He had to replace the noble concept of charity with the military concept of resource allocation.
The internal system pulsed, confirming the objective timeline of the crisis Kael had deduced.
[CRITICAL DANGER ALERT: Famine and disease will reduce the population by 60% within 90 days. Threat Severity: Extreme. Calculated total societal collapse (zero operational workforce) projected within 55 days.]
Preserve the functional infrastructure, Adrian reasoned internally. I cannot save everyone with the resources available, but I must save enough capable workers to execute the planting, the defense, and the water plan.
He drew three concentric circles on the parchment, labeling them with the language of a logistics officer managing personnel in a siege. This was the structure of survival for the three hundred souls of Ashfall.
Circle 1: The Core (25% of the population, approximately 75 people). This group contained the essential infrastructure workers: Rylen's escort, the blacksmith, the healer Mara, Steward Elms, the most diligent foremen, and the highest-capacity laborers. These would receive minimal but sufficient rations, prioritized above all else, to maintain high-output labor capacity.
Circle 2: The Dependent (45% of the population, approximately 135 people). The infirm, the elderly, and young children. They were incapable of the heavy labor required for recovery but were critical to maintaining a future population base. These would receive a lower, subsistence-level ration, strictly monitored by Mara, enough to keep them alive but dependent.
Circle 3: The Contingent (30% of the population, approximately 90 people). The able-bodied who possessed the capacity to work but were currently hostile, lazy, or otherwise unmotivated by fear. These would receive zero rations unless they provided verifiable, measurable labor toward the survival projects. Their output would directly dictate their survival.
It was a monstrous, ruthless plan. It stripped away all pretense of aristocratic charity and replaced it with a merit-based system of survival. It guaranteed that the weakest would suffer the most, but it ensured that the population segment capable of rebuilding the settlement would survive long enough to execute the plan. The nobility would call it barbaric; Adrian Cole called it the only possible solution.
A quiet, tentative knock came at the door. It was Sergeant Rylen, his face etched with worry, having finished securing the perimeter.
"My lord," Rylen said, standing rigidly in the doorway. "The well is secured. But the people... they are frightened. They are murmuring. They want to know why we guard the water but do not distribute the full measure of grain."
Kael looked up, placing the charcoal down next to his triage diagram. He did not attempt to hide the harsh geometry of his plan.
"Sergeant," Kael said, his voice measured. "I need you to tell me how many men—outside of your escort—you believe you can trust to follow an order that will lead to the death of their own neighbors."
Rylen recoiled slightly. "My lord, I can rely on my four sworn men. The local militia are unreliable, and the people will not stand for murder."
"Then you will enforce controlled survival, not murder," Kael corrected. "Starting tomorrow, the food supply will be cut by two-thirds across the board. Furthermore, the ration is no longer a right; it is a payment. Only those working in Groups 1 and 3 will be guaranteed a stable ration."
Rylen's eyes widened with genuine alarm. "My lord, the people will riot. They will say you are starving the old men and the children."
"They are already starving to death, Sergeant," Kael countered, his tone devoid of emotion. "They just haven't grasped the precise timeline yet. If we distribute the food equally now, everyone dies in forty days. If we ration and prioritize the workers, the strongest survive to plant the spring crops, and we might save half of them in the long run. The math leaves no other option."
Kael stood and walked around the desk, stopping directly in front of the Sergeant.
"This Barony is an army unit that has run out of supplies in enemy territory. I am the commanding officer, and I am issuing a direct order for survival. Your priority, Sergeant Rylen, is simple: Maintain order and enforce the rationing. If anyone—anyone, Sergeant—attempts to breach the granary, or attempts to steal the meager rations from the children or the sick, you are authorized to use necessary force."
Adrian didn't need a lengthy explanation. Rylen, a man of discipline, immediately understood the concept of triage in a battlefield context. He saw the terrifying logic behind the apparent cruelty.
"You are ordering us to choose who lives, my lord," Rylen said quietly, acknowledging the weight of the command.
"I am ordering you to save the unit, Sergeant," Kael corrected, picking up the Baron's Writ. "I will bear the responsibility for this cruelty. Your duty is to execute the logistics. Can you execute that order?"
Rylen stood silent for a long moment, struggling between his moral compass and his sense of duty. But the pragmatic, chilling certainty in Kael's eyes—the certainty of a man who calculated survival instead of praying for it—won out. He gave a sharp, hard salute.
"Yes, my lord Baron. The order will be executed."
Kael simply nodded. The cold calculation had been made. The Barony of the Ashen Frontier was now under martial law, ruled by the unforgiving laws of logistics and survival.