Lord of Winter: Beginning with Daily Intelligence - Chapter 428 - 276: Ian’s Day (2)
Chapter 428: Chapter 276: Ian’s Day (2)
Ian walked into the familiar warmth, and a young carpenter greeted him: “The boss is here!”
“Last day at work, be late and you’ll miss the copper lamp.” He replied with a smile, taking off his cloak and putting on a leather apron.
The camp grew warmer, with the fire by the west wall burning brightly.
Today is the last workday before winter closure, no need for major construction, everyone only responsible for finishing touches and repairs.
The apprentices under Ian were busy around two unfinished large wooden boxes.
He walked over without saying much, directly taking up the planer, starting to smooth the grooves on the corners.
Sawdust flew, his hands were knobby, with calluses accumulated over the years.
The planer moved steadily, leaving the wooden surface polished as smooth as pebbles.
A young carpenter couldn’t help but exclaim: “Master, the edges you carve, not even my dad can reach this level.”
Ian chuckled softly without responding, he focused on the work, every joint made meticulously.
This year, he was promoted to be the head carpenter. During the year, he led over thirty people under the city construction division, building twenty-four new houses and three wooden bridges.
People began calling him “Master Ian,” which for a refugee who crawled out from a snowy night, was a great honor.
Before noon, today’s quota was wholly completed.
The boxes were sealed, the axles polished, records submitted, and Tuba personally came for approval.
The short woodworking supervisor stroked his beard, grinned, and said: “Everyone, great work this year. According to the old tradition, anyone who worked diligently throughout the year gets a lamp.”
An assistant brought out a small cloth bundle, distributing copper lamps wrapped in oil paper.
Ian stood in line, his hands couldn’t help trembling slightly as he received his lamp.
It was a small, solid lamp, with a smooth fire opening, engraved with the words “Red Tide Workshop Year Three Winter,” and a finely carved Red Tide sun emblem, reportedly designed by Lord Louis himself.
Gazing at the little lamp, he seemed to see himself on that snowy night.
Snowflakes filled the sky, holding feverish Mia in his arms, trudging step by step through the frozen wilderness.
“If it weren’t for Lord Louis…” he murmured, “I would already be bones under the snow.”
His colleagues heard him, unconsciously looked his way.
Someone spoke: “Working for such a lord is our skill.”
Another laughed, raising the copper lamp in hand: “This year’s winter lamp looks great! I’ll fight for another next year!”
Everyone laughed.
A space in the workshop yard was cleared, covered with hay and wood planks, a temporary wooden table set up with dried fruits, smoked meat, strong wheat beer, and steaming carrot beef stew.
Apprentices were already whistling, and a few old artisans gathered around, recounting glorious past stories.
When Ian sat down, someone had already handed over a cup of beer.
He didn’t refuse, slowly standing up, raising the cup and looking around.
His throat was a bit choked, yet he spoke calmly: “For us, and for Lord Louis.”
“For Lord Louis!” everyone responded.
The clinking of cups created a crisp sound.
They sat in the workshop’s backyard for over an hour, chatting, eating meat, drinking.
Copper lamps were arranged in a circle, the light reflecting off the copper walls into blurred spots, like stars falling to earth.
By afternoon, Tuba finally patted his knees and stood up: “Alright, just a little drink is enough. We still have to go collect supplies later.”
So everyone gradually got up, some hiccupping while cleaning the table, others carrying tools and heading for their dwellings.
Ian also took his tools and walked toward the allocation point.
That was the Red Tide Territory’s supplies distribution center; today’s is sequentially distributed by street and workshop number.
The long queue wound around the small cobblestone square, orderly, people wrapped in leather jackets or cloth cloaks, standing in the snow with not a hint of impatience.
He joined a familiar group of queues, next to him were neighbors Hank and the weaver woman Ghia.
“Ian, you came back just in time,” Ghia smiled and nodded, “This year is truly good. How many times has this been?”
“Ninth time,” Hank chimed in, speaking quietly, but unable to hide his sentiment, “If only every year were like this, it’d be great.”
Ghia couldn’t help but laugh: “It will be. As long as Lord Louis is here.”
Speaking of this, the people in line around them nodded silently.
When it was Ian’s turn, he received today’s distributed supplies with both hands:
A bag of coarse wheat flour, twenty-five pounds.
Three large pieces of salted meat, with the Red Tide Territory’s seal on it.
A clean soft cotton blanket.
Two bars of sheep fat soap, his daughter Mia’s favorite scent.
And a small pack of fireworks, for lighting on the winter festival night.
He looked at the things in his hands, very pleased, knowing his daughter would be thrilled to see the soap.
Suddenly things quieted down in front, and a low murmur came: “It’s Lord Louis.”
Ian followed the voice and saw the man walking slowly from the end of the crowd, donned in a dark red cloak, figure upright, expression calm.
Several aides conversed quietly, seemingly reporting something, but the lord merely nodded, then turned to personally hand a package of salted meat and blanket to an old soldier with a missing arm at the front of the queue.
That veteran’s eyes turned red, bowed tremblingly.
Louis patted his shoulder.
This scene was as quiet as firelight ignited amidst the snow.
And as Louis passed by Ian, Ian instinctively stood straight, eyes bright.
He bowed deeply, his voice faint but especially earnest: “Thank you, my lord.”
The man merely paused his steps slightly, nodded gently, and continued forward, like a breeze sweeping through the winter night, yet carrying weight.
Ian stood there, his fingers unconsciously clenched around the salted meat and soap, his palm slightly warm.
He said nothing, only silently vowed in his heart: “I must work harder… to be worthy of such a great lord.”
Dusk came slowly and profoundly, the distant sky glowing crimson, like clouds tinted by flames.
Ian carrying his items home, opening the door of their domed house, was first greeted by strands of red silk hanging from the door frame.
Simply knotted, but the color vivid enough to almost leap out against the snowy backdrop.
He smiled; that was the signal Mia was home for vacation.
Inside, the hearth fire was ablaze, warmth welcoming.
From the kitchen came the gentle clinking of pots and pans.
Mia was taking off the Red Tide Standard’s knight training uniform, changing into the newly issued sweater, its cuffs still rolled up.
Her back was straight and sturdy, shoulder seams taut from the sweater’s curvature.
Ian stood by the door, dazed for a moment, heat rising in his chest: “Back then she was as skinny as a twig, now she can chop shields.”
Tonight was the pre-festival gathering dinner, thus abundant.
There were roast meat, carrot lamb stew, rye beer, beet root thick soup.
Things unimaginable years ago, yet now could be eaten comfortably yet occasionally.
Father and daughter settled, hands clasped, quietly reciting: “Thanking Lord Louis for everything he has given us.”
This phrase, they were long accustomed to, but each time they say it, their hearts were filled with solemn respect.
During dinner, Mia excitedly recounted experiences from the training camp: “Today we practiced offense and defense, and I was able to press a classmate into the snow for the first time!”
She raised her eyebrows, face full of pride: “Luckily it was a drill, or he’d lose a tooth.”
Ian laughed as he reminded her: “Don’t be too smug, he might have gone easy on you.”
Ian then spoke of the workshop’s copper lamp distribution, describing the lively celebration with drinking.
They continued like this, back and forth, until late at night.
Outside the window, silver snow covered the tiles, the domed house illuminated by moonlight like a silent little hill.
The whole city of Red Tide was immersed in softness and tranquility at that moment, firelight spilling from windows, each household safely in dreamland.
Mia slept early, only her light breath visible beneath the covers.
Ian sat in the old wooden chair by the fireplace, taking out the awarded lamp, slowly wiping away the snow marks on the copper with a cloth.
He looked at it for a long time, his gaze calm, a faint smile at the corners of his lips gradually fading.
The lamp reflected the fireplace’s flames, shadows weaving his wife’s silhouette.
He softly said: “If only you were still here…”
