Dusk settled over the eastern frontier in a quiet wash of violet and burnt gold.
Outside the northern valley, the blizzard continued to howl against the outer slope of Da Shi’s great earthen berm, rattling the frozen branches of the distant pines. But inside Camp Hope, the air was still, warm, and alive with the gentle murmur of over a hundred thousand human voices.
Along the wide dark rock avenues, wooden registration desks had been set up beneath silk lanterns.
White-robed fox scribes, their tails swaying calmly behind their low stools, dipped horsehair brushes into black pine-soot ink. Beside them sat elderly human scholars from the refugee column. Men who had only yesterday been clutching walking sticks in freezing mud, now sitting side by side with beastfolk scribes, verifying family registers.
“Zhang Clan, four members: Father, mother, grandmother, son,” a young fox maiden murmured, her penmanship flowing across coarse rice paper with flawless elegance. She handed over a carved cedar token stamped with the character Hope and the number 1,422. “Take Avenue Nine to Shelter Fourteen. You’ll find four fleece mattresses, dry wool slippers, and a fire bowl already lit. Dinner cooking pots are refilled every two watches. If anyone develops a cough, follow the green lanterns to Clinic Three.”
