The King's health had deteriorated rapidly, forcing him to entrust most affairs of state to the Crown Prince.

September should have been a time of bountiful harvest.


Instead, a messenger thundered into the palace courtyard with dire news: the Rhine River in the Duchy of Lorraine had burst its banks, destroying countless fields and leaving tens of thousands homeless and starving. Without hesitation, the Crown Prince announced he would personally lead relief efforts.

Protocol demanded Frelis remain safely in the palace awaiting his return.

She defied convention and rode beside Ludwig to Lorraine.


"We've arrived," Ludwig announced grimly.

Frelis had heard reports of Lorraine's suffering, but witnessing it firsthand proved infinitely more devastating than any rumor.


Along the muddy roads, hollow-eyed people wandered aimlessly, their sunken cheeks and skeletal frames barely covered by tattered rags. Not people anymore—walking ghosts.

Their carriage pressed onward through abandoned villages until they reached Lorraine Castle perched imperiously on its hill.

When the steward led them into the banquet hall, they were assaulted by the rich aromas of roasted venison and expensive wines.

Ludwig's jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with barely contained rage. Frelis noticed the transformation and quietly laid her hand over his, feeling the tremors of fury beneath his skin.

"I heard more than thirty peasants died in the East District yesterday?" a noblewoman remarked casually, reaching for another slice of venison as grease glistened on her heavily rouged lips.

"Oh, those commoners always die off in winter," another lord chuckled, swirling his wine. "Fewer mouths to feed means more in our coffers, wouldn't you say?"

The disaster had ravaged the duchy for three months, yet these nobles feasted as though the suffering beyond their walls existed in another world entirely.

Frelis saw the dangerous glint in her husband's eyes. She moved closer, her fingers gently encircling his white-knuckled fist. "Not yet, my love," she whispered. "Patience."

Ludwig's muscles relaxed slightly at her touch, though the cold fury in his eyes remained undiminished. "Where are the royal relief supplies?" he asked, voice dangerously soft. "That grain was meant to feed thousands."

Dawn broke beneath a sky heavy with storm clouds.

Ludwig and Frelis, flanked by their most trusted knights, rode to inspect the royal granary beyond the city walls.

The sight that greeted them was damning. Where mountains of grain should have stood, only pitiful heaps remained. Dust and rat droppings covered the vast empty space. Ludwig strode to the center, crouched down, and let a handful of scattered kernels sift through his fingers. His expression transformed from disbelief to murderous rage.

"Thirty thousand sacks of grain," he said, each word sharp as a blade. "Enough to feed the entire province through winter. And this is what remains."

Frelis stood silhouetted in the granary doorway, the morning light casting her shadow long across the empty floor.

By the following dawn, five bodies swung from the city gates.

"Look well," Ludwig announced, his quiet voice carrying to every corner of the gathered crowd. "This is justice for those who betray their people."

After the public execution of the corrupt officials, no one dared neglect their duties.

At last, the machinery of true disaster relief began to function.

Ludwig worked without rest, planning flood control measures, personally overseeing the placement of every sandbag and timber brace.

Frelis managed supply distribution, rationed medicines, and moved among the refugees—placing cool cloths on feverish children, pressing hard biscuits into skeletal hands, her voice growing hoarse with repeated assurances: "We are here with you. The Crown Prince and I are here."

Their fine clothes became mud-stained, their hands blistered and raw—royal no longer, but fellow survivors in the storm.