They came.

  Not in the neat lines Yorick's hopeful plans had suggested, but in waves. Great waves of people, driven by the unbelievable whisper carried by every passing trader, every running refugee, every bard who'd seen the Frost Mother's touch: Abercrombie.

  Eirik stood on top of the strengthened ice wall looking over the main path. Three days had left since the Statue was erected, and only less than a week left for accomplishing the system goal.

  Ironically, the population requirement had been his single most headache. Well... it still was, it's just reversed: he had feared too few would came, but now, there were too many.

  Below, the narrow mountain pass was filled with people. Families grouped together, old people leaning on sticks, children bundled so tight only eyes peeked out. Lone figures walked slowly alongside groups of laughing men, their faces bright with something Eirik hadn't seen since he transmigrated into this place: open hope.

  He guessed at least seven or eight hundred people were already within sight, crowded into the valley floor leading to the fortress. And more kept appearing over the ridge, a seemingly endless line.

  "Commander," Leif joined Eirik on the wall. "The numbers… they're too much."

  Eirik grunted. Near the gate, Yorick and a half-dozen quickly chosen clerks – refugees with decent handwriting – manned a long ice table. A line snaked back from it. Yorick took coins as he checked names off a ledger.

  "Next! Name? Payment?" Yorick's voice was hoarse.

  "Thom! From Frostholme! One silver!" A burly farmer slammed a coin down.

  "Token! Move along!" Yorick shoved a ice disc at him, pointing towards the statue. "Keep the token visible!"

  The line was moving at a glacial pace. People jostled. Talons had to step in several times, pulling apart shoving matches before they got worse.

  Beyond the payment line, other chaotic scenes played out. Near the south wall, Fisk had somehow taken over a large chunk of ice and set up his "Fisk's Store" – basically a few crates covered by a tarp. A small crowd pressed around him, coins flashing. Fisk, looking totally overwhelmed but loving it, was shouting prices and shoving goods across the ice counter. "One charm! Five talons! Limited supply! Get your blessed ice here!"

  He's actually turning a profit already, Eirik noted. Which means he needs to set up a tax system sooner than later.

  Near the central keep's ruined entrance, another "business" had sprung up. Olaf, seeing a chance, had roped in a few refugee women with cooking skills. They'd rigged up a lean-to against the ice wall using scavenged hides and timbers.

  Inside, over a smoky fire pit, they were ladling out bowls of thin stew and chunks of coarse bread. It was the most basic food – boiled barley, a few scraps of Harkin's imported salt meat, maybe a wilting root vegetable if they were lucky. The smell was unappetizing, the portions meager. But people were buying.

  "Stew! Bread! Hot food! Ten coppers a bowl! Fifteen with bread!" Olaf bellowed. "Pay up! Get your food! Eat and move! No loitering!" His sheer presence kept the line relatively orderly,

  Harkin had returned just before this chaos. He brought back sacks of grain, barrels of salted pork, crates of dried beans, and, most crucially, sacks bulging with mature Frostcap mushrooms and spore-rich substrate.

  He'd also brought a small, wiry man named Bram that knew mushrooms. The mushroom farm beneath the keep was now operational, with Fisk, Bram, and a team of refugees carefully inoculating prepared beds in the chambers Eirik had carved.

  Eirik descended the wall steps. He spotted Harkin directing unloading near the stables.

  "Harkin," Eirik called out over the din. "The supplies? They're going fast."

  Harkin wiped sweat from his brow. "Too fast, Commander. Like trying to fill a bucket with a hole the size of my fist. We brought enough, by Yorick's math, to last the existing garrison and refugees a week. Factor in nearly a thousand pilgrims a day buying food?" He shook his head grimly. "Everything will be dust in a few days!"

  Eirik watched a Talon lug a heavy barrel towards Olaf's stew operation. It felt like trying to bail out the ocean with a thimble. He needed Varn and Flint to come through for him, or this place would soon scale out of control.

  As if summoned by his thoughts, Isolde appeared beside him.

  "Still worrying about Varn and Flint?" she made sure her voice was low enough not to carry over the din.

  "Wouldn't you be?" Eirik grunted. "We're bleeding supplies daily. Harkin's last shipment is already half gone. If they don't come through…"

  Isolde offered a small smile.

  "Flint will cave. He's all swagger and surface charm, but basically driven by greed and self-protection. He caves under pressure, especially when he sees a pile of gold bigger than his ego. He has too much to gain by playing along."

  Her expression turned more serious.

  "Varn… he's a soldier. He's not easily scared by threats. He values control, stability, and the set up order. What we're doing here scares him." She pointed a gloved finger toward the eastern path, where a new trickle of people were struggling in. "But Varn has a weakness, Eirik. His lands."

  Eirik followed her gaze. The newcomers were clearly refugees. They carried bundles on their backs, children clinging to their skirts.

  "Varn's territory," Isolde continued, "has been bled dry by Skarl raids for years. His villages are hollowed out. As soon as people hear the whispers, they'd leave Varn's decaying holdfasts and flood here." She waved emphatically at the valley below. "The people needed not just faith, but work and pay, which Varn struggled to provide. So, his power base is now losing people fast to our pilgrimage boom."

  A slow smile spread across Eirik’s face. The irony was delicious.

  "So, my liege lord," he mused, "is being forced to kneel not to a king, but to the chaos caused by his own vassal. The tables have turned nicely, haven’t they?"

  "Exactly," Isolde confirmed. "He can't afford this in the long run. Either he needs those people back, or he needs a cut of the wealth they're finding here. Either way, he must engage with us. He'll come to the table, Eirik. He has to."

  "Nice touch," he admitted, a wry smile touching his lips. "Using his own fleeing subjects against him."

  "Power is never simple, Commander," Isolde replied.

  They were interrupted by a shout from the direction of the main gate, followed by the blare of a Talon's horn.

  A large, heavily-loaded wagon train was lumbering up the pass, escorted by a dozen well-armed men in Flint's livery. At the head of the column rode a familiar face. Barlow, Flint's personal steward. Eirik recognized him.

  "Commander! Flint's wagons!" Olaf boomed. "Looks like they coughed something up!"

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Barlow reined in his horse near the gatehouse. He spotted Eirik and Isolde approaching and gave a formal, slightly stiff bow.

  "Lord Stormcrow. Lady Fenrir." His voice was businesslike. "Lord Flint sends his regards and this initial shipment. Grain, salt pork, dried beans, iron tools, and a quantity of cured furs for trade." He pointed at the wagons being carefully moved through the gate by Talons, the sheer volume drawing excited whispers from the nearby crowd. "Lord Flint wished it known that this represents a portion of his commitment, showing goodwill and immediate support for the pilgrimage's operational needs. The… larger financial arrangements," Barlow paused delicately, "are still being finished with his associates."

  Eirik understood the hidden meaning instantly. Flint's in. But he's not putting all his cards on the table yet. He wants to see how I dealt with the Order first. It was having a foot in both camps. Very Flint.

  "Your lord's foresight is appreciated, Barlow," Eirik said. "These supplies are critically needed. Where shall we direct the unloading?"

  Barlow consulted a small, leather-bound ledger he produced from his saddlebag.

  "The grain and pork should be secured immediately in the new storage caves you've dug out, Commander. Your scribe can allocate them according to your rationing rules. The tools and furs can be stored near the workshop area. I am to oversee the inventory and distribution personally, as Lord Flint's representative."

  He said this not as a request, but as a statement of fact. Flint wanted his own man on the ground, watching the silver and the supplies.

  "Of course," Eirik agreed. It was a small price to pay for desperately needed resources. "Olaf, see to the wagons. Assign Talons to guard the stores. Barlow, coordinate with Yorick." He turned to Isolde. "Let's ensure this gets integrated smoothly. Every loaf of bread stretches our survival time."

  The relief was obvious. Pilgrims nearby pointed and whispered excitedly at the sight of the loaded carts. Olaf barked orders, Talons sprang into action, and the air of desperate scarcity in the courtyard seemed to lift, just slightly.

  The relative calm was shattered by a rising chorus of angry shouts from the area of Yorick's payment table.

  Eirik, who'd been overseeing the placement of a new stack of firewood near Olaf's stall, tensed. Isolde, who'd been discussing potential expansion sites for Fisk's "blessed trinket" operation, frowned.

  "Trouble," she stated simply.

  A young woman stepped up to Yorick's table. She looked utterly exhausted, bundled in layers of thin clothing. She clutched a small, whimpering child to her chest with one arm. With the other, she fumbled in a small, nearly empty pouch tied at her waist.

  "Mara, sir," she stammered. "We walked… a whole day." She pulled the pouch open, turning it upside down. A few pitiful copper bits clattered onto the ice table. No silver. "Please… this is all we have. My little one… he’s so cold. We just need… to see Her. To be near Her warmth. Just for a moment…" Her voice broke. "Please?"

  Yorick looked at the coppers, then at the desperate woman, then at the massive line stretching out behind her.

  "Lady… the fee is one silver talon. Per person. For entry. That’s… that’s the rule. Commander’s orders."

  The woman’s face crumpled. "But… but we don’t have silver! We lost everything when the Skarls raiders! Our home, our animals…" She gestured helplessly at the copper coins. "This is… this is everything! Can’t… can’t you make an exception? For the child? Please?"

  Her plea was loud enough to carry to the people immediately behind her in line. A murmur started. Heads turned. Others in the crowd, refugees similarly dressed in tatters, began to shuffle forward slightly.

  "Aye!" a burly man behind her called out. "She’s right! We came from Oakhaven! Got nothing but rags and blisters! Are you sayin’ only the rich can touch the Frost Mother’s blessing?"

  "They call this a holy place!" another woman shouted. "But you lock the poor out! Where’s the mercy? Where’s the grace?"

  People pressed closer to the table, not just the woman in front, but a dozen others behind her, all clutching empty purses or pathetic handfuls of copper.

  Oh, hell.

  Eirik saw the situation unfolding from across the yard and started moving immediately, Isolde beside him. This was exactly the kind of spark that could turn the hopeful crowd into a destructive mob. The core principle – the one silver talon entry fee – was under direct assault. And the attackers had the moral high ground: desperate refugees denied access to a holy miracle.

  Yorick was sweating. "Please! Order! The Commander set the fee for a reason! To maintain the fortress! To feed everyone! Without it, we collapse!"

  "A reason that leaves the faithful starving in the snow!" the first woman, Mara, cried out. "You build palaces of ice while we freeze! Is that the Frost Mother’s will?"

  The crowd roared its approval of that sentiment.

  "AYE!" "HEAR HEAR!" "LET THEM IN!" The pressure against the Talon line increased. A rock flew out of the crowd, clattering harmlessly off the ice table near Yorick. The situation was escalating rapidly.

  Eirik's mind raced. The desperate looking young mother had put him a tougher situation than any of the Lords did.

  If they enforced the rule rigidly now, they looked like heartless tyrants, exploiting faith for profit. The pilgrims, the very source of their income and power, would turn against them. The story would be "Abercrombie Locks Out the Poor." It would poison the pilgrimage boom before it truly began.

  But if they caved, if they let Mara and the others in for free? The fee system was destroyed. Word would spread: "Just show up broke and cry, you get in for free." The revenue stream would dry up overnight. They couldn’t feed the hundreds already here, let alone thousands, without that coin. It was a trap.

  Isolde stepped forward before he could speak.

  "People of Abercrombie! Faithful pilgrims!"

  The crowd’s roar subsided slightly, dozens of eyes turning towards her.

  "We hear your pain. The journey here is hard. The loss you have suffered… it is unimaginable." She gestured towards Mara and the child. "This woman, this child… they embody the suffering the Frost Mother weeps to see. And they seek Her comfort. Who among us would deny them that?"

  The crowd murmured agreement.

  "But," she continued, "Abercrombie is not merely a statue." She spread her arms wide. "The walls you see, the warmth you feel near the fires, the food our stew pots provide – none of it appears by magic alone! It requires work! It requires resources! It requires coin!"

  She pointed towards the newly arrived wagons where Talons and Flint’s men were still unloading sacks of grain.

  "Look! That grain, that meat, those blankets – they were bought with silver talons! Silver paid by pilgrims who came before you, grateful for the sanctuary they found! That silver feeds the Talons who guard the walls against Skarls! It buys the wood that heats the shelters! It pays for the tools that build more homes!"

  "The entry fee is not a tax on faith! It is a contribution to the community! A share in the burden of sustaining this miracle so it can be here for the next pilgrim, and the one after that! Without it, Abercrombie starves. The walls crumble. The hope dies."

  The crowd was listening intently now, the anger shifting into uneasy understanding. She hadn’t dismissed their need; she’d explained the necessity of the fee in terms they could grasp – shared survival.

  Isolde turned back to Mara.

  "Mara. Your faith is clear. We will not turn you away from the Frost Mother’s sight. But," Isolde held up a hand, "we also cannot ask others who paid their share to carry your burden alone. The community must sustain the community."

  She gestured towards the mushroom farm entrance, then towards the bustling construction sites where refugees were already working.

  "Abercrombie has need of willing hands. There are tunnels to be expanded beneath us for more shelter. There is wood to be cut, water to be hauled, mushrooms to be tended in the dark." She looked Mara directly in the eye. "Work with us, Mara. Contribute your strength to building this sanctuary for one day. Serve Abercrombie for a day, and your entry, and your child’s, is earned. Your coin is your labor. Does this seem fair to you?"

  Mara looked down at her son, then back at Isolde.

  "Work? For a day? And… and we can see Her? Stay warm tonight?"

  "One day’s labor," Isolde confirmed. "Fair work for fair entry. You will be fed at the end of your shift. You will have a place to sleep."

  Mara swallowed hard. "Aye. Aye, my lady. We’ll work. Gladly."

  Isolde turned to the others in the crowd who had stepped forward with Mara.

  "And you? Will you also lend your hands to building this refuge? Will you earn your place within these walls through your own strength?"

  A chorus of relieved "Ayes!" answered her. Many of the refugees wanted a protected shelter for food and work anyways. This really was a win-win for them.

  Isolde turned to Yorick. "Scribe. Make a note. Mara. one adult, one child. Work assignment: mushroom caves. One day. Mark it as paid."

  She looked at the Talon sergeant nearby. "Sergeant. Take these good people to the workmaster near the quarry. Find them suitable tasks for today. Ensure they are fed at midday and evening."

  "Aye, Lady Fenrir!" The sergeant saluted and began efficiently organizing the small group of refugees, who now followed him willingly.

  Isolde faced the rest of the crowd.

  "Let this be known! Abercrombie welcomes the faithful! But it asks all who enter to share in the burden of its survival! Silver talons for those who have them! Honest labor for those willing to work! No one turned away in need, but no one exempt from contributing to the strength of this holy place! The Frost Mother blesses those who build, as well as those who pray!"

  Eirik watched Mara and the other refugees trudge toward the workmaster, her child still clutched against her chest.

  Something gnawed at him.

  He stepped beside Isolde. "You turned a mob into workers."

  "But?" Isolde prompted, reading his tone.

  "But what happens when word spreads that broke refugees can work for entry? We'll have hundreds showing up with empty pockets, expecting jobs." He shook his head. "We can't employ everyone."

  Isolde's expression tightened.

  Eirik looked up at the statue. The very thing bringing them salvation was also bringing them an impossible burden.

  "We'll need a better answer," he said. "Soon."