He didn't know what those stoves were burning, only that they had saved his and his brother's lives.

And that day, a "angel" he would never forget in his life came to the ward, along with a true "sun."

The wind and snow were kept outside, with only the subtle crackle of the stove heard indoors.

The moment the door opened, it was as if light and warmth flooded in simultaneously.

Leading the way was a girl in a white cloak, holding bundles of thick blankets in her arms, her blue hair flowing like a river under night sky.

Her gaze was gentle, yet like the only lit lantern on a snowy night.

She was Miss Emily.

Beside her, a young man in a black cloak stepped into the ward.

He didn't speak, simply nodded slightly to indicate the soldiers behind him to bring in a big box of medicine and new fire-backed stoves.

This was the Red Tide Lord, Louis.

The two nobles, shoulder to shoulder, walked into the mildew and blood-scented ward without any hesitation or disdain.

They appeared not in dreams, nor did they stand atop towers overlooking their fate, but personally walked into their despair.

Emily squatted down, passing by each sickbed, personally covering the children with blankets.

She softly asked, "Are you cold?" "Hold on a little longer, you'll be better soon."

Each word was not loud, yet like a flame that could pierce wind and snow, tender and real.

And Louis stood among the sickbeds, neither looking down with superiority but rolled up his sleeves, personally unscrewed medicine bottles, and checked the stove temperatures, bit by bit confirming each corner's standard.

His expression remained serene, yet not the aloofness and frost of nobility's view.

When he reached a little girl trembling with high fever, seeing the instinctive fear in her eyes, he just slightly bent, softly saying, "Don't be afraid, I'm here."

His tone was gentle, voice not high, yet made the little girl unconsciously extend her small hand, tightly holding his fingertip.

He didn't pull back, just squatted down alongside her, accompanying her for a moment.

When it was Noon's turn, Emily squatted down, covering him with a blanket, which was new, warm with the heat of scalding and the scent of herbs.

Someone whispered near his ear, "She's Miss Emily, the mistress of Red Tide Territory."

In an instant, he remembered his mother's appearance, and his brother's hand clinging to his sleeve during a fever...

But now, someone had taken hold of him.

Not a god, not a legend, but a sister squatting down, personally delivering medicine and blankets with a smile.

She had no wings, yet was more dazzling than any image in the snow night.

Emily patted his hand, smiling, said: "Hold on till spring, and everything will get better."

Noon opened his mouth but couldn't utter a word, only tightly holding on to the blanket's corner, as if it were not a piece of cloth but a light that could lift him from darkness.

Choking, his gaze swept to Emily, then to Louis standing not far beside her.

At this moment, he finally understood: she was the Holy Maiden of a winter night; he was the sun igniting this darkness.

They truly regarded him as human, and valued his weed-like life as one worth saving.

In this moment, he etched these two faces deeply into his heart.

That night, in his dream, Noon saw himself wearing a Red Tide cloak, holding his brother's hand, walking in the snowy night.

In his dream, he said, "We will survive. When I grow up, I want to become a Red Tide knight."

He wasn't nobility, nor did he have lineage or much intelligence.

But on this winter's night, he received dignity and hope truly belonging to a human.

Not just Noon, in this frozen winter, the names of the two rulers of Red Tide Territory had become more than just names, but hope itself.

There were refugees kneeling in the snow praying, softly murmuring, "Sun of the Red Tide, grant us a night's warm wind."

This is how people referred to Louis Calvin—the Sun of the Northern Territory.

Not a king, not a god, but a sun, unextinguished in the dark, one that could burn in the ice and snow.

And for Emily, the most widely spread phrase was: "She is the Holy Maiden who sheds tears on snowy nights, the second mother to the children."

Women secretly wove white cloaks for her, saying they were for the Holy Maiden in the snow.

Children drew her likeness on the shelter walls: a woman tenderly bending, holding blankets, with a halo of light behind her.

Stories were told by the stove to children: "A beautiful Holy Maiden walked in the snow, unafraid of dirt, cold, or disease. She brought medicine and the scent of springtime."

Elders said, "They are the Saviors of the Northern Territory."

Yet not all Northern Territory people were so fortunate.

Not everyone had a lord named Louis Calvin, nor did all towns like Red Tide Territory have warm geothermal, and inexhaustible fire-backed turtles…

Outside Red Tide was true hell.

Food had completely run out. Many minor nobles began slaughtering the sick and prisoners; it's said some dried "human jerky" in basements.

In the streets and alleys, crowds huddling around burning bodies for warmth silently gnawed on bones, afraid of waking the noble guards.

The heating system collapsed, everything was thrown into the fire, even elders self-immolated, just to provide family with a night's light.

Medical care? That was now an unfamiliar term.

Epidemics spiraled out of control, no medicine, no doctors, unburied corpses piled up in alleys, well mouths, in front of churches, stinking to high heaven.

Yet some refugees deliberately approached corpse piles for warmth.

Nobles and armies were no longer protectors, but became food plunderers.

Relief grain from the Governor's Mansion was withheld; inside castle high walls sparkled, but outside was like a ghostly ice domain.

Most terrifying was human nature's collapse.

Many nobles simply sealed gates, abandoning the people, even driving the entire city's residents south, leaving only an empty city and snow behind.

Some took the last batch of grain, deserted in the night, the people woke to see footprints in the snow, not even getting to hear a shout.

Most despairing were the messages from those "extreme regions."

A noble personally led a team to massacre refugees, just to save firewood and medicine.

In one city, people had begun to devour each other; what burned in the firepit wasn't wood, but family banners embossed with gold patterns.

This was the real portrayal for most Northern Territories this winter.

The freezing dead rate reached forty percent, uprisings spread, plagues raged, order collapsed.

In contrast, the Red Tide Territory rose like a lone flame in the snowfields, not very bright yet the only flame unextinguished.

The gates of Red Tide never closed, its dining rooms never stopped burning, and its medical tents never ceased operating.

Even in those coldest, stormiest few days of winter nights, smoke still rose from "Warm Soup Station" in the sky.

Night-patrolling knights wrapped in red cloaks passed by refugee camps, and in the distance atop the tower, the red banner with the golden sun fluttered still.

But no matter what, as time slowly passed, this cold and long winter finally ended.

Snow started to melt, permafrost cracking, and buds stirred on withered branches.

The initial sunlight reached the Northern Territory silently, with no one cheering, only watching quietly, watching for a long, long time.

Someone knelt in the snow, lightly placing their head to the ground, as if bidding farewell to the deceased, or perhaps welcoming some long-lost hope.

In this most desperate year for the Northern Territory, they once believed spring would never return.

But it still came.

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