Chapter Text
The air of Nashgorod was thick and heavy, reeking of smoke, human sweat, and something sour—the scent of poverty, devoid of any freshness from the icy winds of my homeland. I stood with my back straight at the edge of the noisy marketplace, allowing this chaos of sounds and smells to wash over me. My silver horns, which usually caught only the glimmers of moonlight in the sacred caves, now reflected the flashes of foreign hearths and the dim sun piercing through the haze. I wore not simple garments, but the ritual white and blue robes of the Voice of the Lunar Hymn, and a cloak made from the pelt of a glacial wolf. Let them see. Let them know whose world they were dealing with.
I, Lauma, the Voice of the Lunar Hymn, leader of the Children of the Frigid Moon, whose blood is the strongest and purest in the lineage, whose word is law, and whose gaze carries the wisdom of countless winters. And now I stood voluntarily in this filth, extending a hand with bread to those in need.
This was not redemption. It was a duty. The duty of strength toward weakness. The duty of one who has been given much toward those who had nothing. My people, my true, loyal Children, stood nearby, forming a living, respectful wall. Their presence was not supervision, but protection and support. In their eyes, I saw not disgust, but pride—pride for their leader, who carried the light of mercy even into the darkest corners of this world.
I took a loaf of dark, dense bread into my hands. The bread was coarse, heavy. Not like our flatbreads made of glacial pollen. But it was filling. Real.
The first to approach was a woman with a face etched with wrinkles, like a map of all her hardships. She did not look me in the eye; her gaze was fixed on the bread in my hands. I offered it to her.
"May the mercy of the Frigid Moon warm your hearth," I said, and my voice, which usually resonated beneath the cave ceilings, felt foreign here in the open space.
The woman quickly, almost snatching it, took the bread and muttered something incoherent, already stepping back. In her movements, there was no gratitude—only an animalistic, desperate greed. And in that moment, I understood the chasm that separated us. For me, this bread was a symbol, a gesture, part of a diplomatic mission. For her—the only chance to avoid feeling the pangs of hunger in her children's stomachs today.
They brought the elderly to me, mothers with wide-eyed, frightened children, the disabled leaning on sticks. I distributed food, nodding in response to their murmurs. My kindness was not warm and spontaneous, but cold and deliberate, like the strike of an ice chisel. It stemmed from my position, from the responsibility I had shouldered. I was a leader. And a leader must care not only for their own but also for those whose paths might cross with their people. This aid was an investment in the future, insurance against potential conflicts, a demonstration of strength through mercy.
I looked at the faces of these people and saw not kindred spirits, but strangers. Their world was too loud, too dirty, too saturated with the stench of decay and metal. But I also saw a spark in their eyes—first distrust, then surprise, and in some, even a faint hope. And that was valuable. As valuable as the first sign of an approaching thaw after a long winter.
I was not seeking salvation from my fate here. My fate was an honor I carried with my head held high. But here, in this foreign place, I was once again reminded of its burden. To be the Voice meant to carry light even where eternal darkness seemed to reign. To be the woman with the strongest blood meant to feel responsibility for every drop of that power and to wield it with wisdom.
And so, standing with bread in my hands before hungry strangers, I felt the weight of that wisdom on my shoulders. This was my mission. My burden. My right. And nothing in this city could take that away. At least, that was how it seemed to me at the time. I did not yet know that in a world ruled by stomachs and fear, the very purity of one's intentions could be turned against them, and mercy could be mistaken for weakness. But that was a lesson I had yet to learn.