The information Kael had extracted from the ledgers and from the terse Steward Elms was chillingly precise. Three hundred souls in Ashfall. Six weeks of rations. The average lifespan of the settlement population, assuming no outside aid arrived (and none would), was less than two months.
Adrian sat alone in the small, repurposed office, the dim candlelight illuminating a sheet of rough parchment. On it, he had scribbled a grim calculation. He wasn't charting supply lines; he was charting mortality.
If he distributed the remaining grain equally, everyone would starve slowly, and the people would be too weak to work the soil when the time came. Mass starvation was guaranteed.
Kael's lips pressed into a thin line. He had learned the harsh arithmetic of survival during his deployments. Sometimes, you had to sacrifice the non-essential to save the core mission.
The system pulsed again, providing objective data, stripped of any emotion or recommendation.
[CRITICAL DANGER ALERT: Famine and disease will reduce the population by 60% within 90 days. Threat Severity: Extreme.]
The priority is clear, Adrian reasoned internally, using the language of logistics. Preserve the functional infrastructure. I can't save everyone, but I must save enough capable workers to execute the planting plan.
He drew three concentric circles on the parchment, a brutal diagram of necessity.
Circle 1 (The Core):30% of the population. The essential workers: the few remaining guards, the blacksmith, the healer and her apprentices, Steward Elms, the most physically capable laborers, and anyone with specialized skills. These receive minimal but sufficient rations to maintain labor capacity.
Circle 2 (The Dependent):50% of the population. The elderly, the ill, and young children (under age 5). These receive subsistence rations to survive, but their caloric intake is the lowest priority.
Circle 3 (The Contingent):20% of the population. Able-bodied individuals who are currently unwilling to cooperate or are hostile to command. These receive rations only in exchange for immediate, verifiable labor.
It was a monstrous plan, but it was the only plan with a mathematical probability of success greater than zero.
A soft knock came at the door. It was Sergeant Rylen, the knight in charge of the small escort. He still carried a skeptical air but followed orders meticulously.
"My lord," Rylen said, standing rigidly. "The well is secured. But the people... they are murmuring. They are frightened. They want to know why we are guarding the water and not distributing the grain."
Kael looked up, putting down the quill. The parchment with his grim calculations remained face-up.
"Sergeant," Kael said, his voice flat. "I need you to tell me how many fighting men you can rely on completely. Men who will follow a direct order, even if it is unpopular."
Rylen frowned. "The four men who rode with me are sworn. Beyond that? The local 'militia' are farmhands with dull axes. Perhaps ten others, if the rations were good."
"The rations will not be good," Kael informed him. "They will be scarce. By tomorrow, they will be cut by two-thirds across the board. The well is contaminated; we will boil all water before use. And we are instituting mandatory labor for all able-bodied residents."
Rylen's eyes widened slightly. "My lord, the people will riot. They will say you are starving them to death."
"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 fifty 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."
He 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 attempts to breach the granary, or attempts to steal the meager rations from the children or the sick, you are authorized to use force."
Rylen, a soldier, understood the concept of Triage immediately. He saw the cold logic behind the harshness.
"You are ordering us to choose who lives, my lord," Rylen said quietly.
"I am ordering you to save the unit, Sergeant," Kael corrected, picking up the Baron's Writ. "If I am cruel, it is only to keep them alive long enough for my plan to bear fruit. Can you execute that order?"
Rylen hesitated, then the discipline Kael had reawakened snapped into place. He gave a sharp, hard salute.
"Yes, my lord Baron."