The cold had a way of settling in, not stabbing, just crawling up the spine and curling behind the ribs.
I didn't dress fancy. Didn't feel right, not among people who'd sold the soles off their boots just to feed their kids.
Maxwell waited outside, arms crossed, dark rings under his eyes. I could clearly see this man wasn't sleeping.
"Ready?" he asked.
I nodded. "Let's see what the world looks like without enough bread."
The square looked worse than ever. Sagging roofs, brittle wood, smoke rising from burnt straw. The kind of fire you lit when you'd run out of everything else.
And in the middle of the square, a cart was being pulled by an old man. The flour was being weighed out like treasure by the old man who looked more bone than skin. Kids watched with wide eyes and with anticipation Not for candy, not for toys. Just flour.
We passed a woman crying quietly over a pouch she held in her hand. The pouch was smaller than her hand.
No one looked at me. That stung more than I thought it would.
Jonas's hut stood on the edge of the fields. He was kneeling in frozen earth, trying to plant something. His daughter, Toma, chewed bark like it was jerky. Her eyes were miles away.
I crouched beside them.
"Morning."
Jonas didn't look up. "Baron."
"Has she eaten?"
"She had bark. Helps her forget she's hungry."
I watched her jaw move. My chest tightened.
"I'm sorry," I said.
Jonas looked up, and for a second, I wished he hadn't. "You're sorry?" No anger. Just tired. "With respect, Baron… Sorry doesn't fill bellies."
And he was right.
I was angry about my situation, but when I actually met the people in my barony, my heart actually melted. This pain was just too much; I had to help them.
That night, when my hour came, I used it like it was the last I'd ever get. One hour to turn bark into bread.
I searched everything: famine food, edible bark, medieval baking, tree flour, acorns, cattails, and roots. I burned the names into my brain: birch, pine, and oak. I saved diagrams. Sketched them. Practiced them.
The next day, I stood in the manor's old kitchen, which had been open to the public.
"Bring me bark," I told Maxwell.
The villagers stared like I'd gone mad. One woman scoffed. "Bark now, Baron? What's next, stones?"
"If that's what it takes," I said.
I boiled, peeled, dried, and ground the edible inner bark into powder. Mixed it with the last of our flour. It wasn't real bread, but it held together in the fire.
One of the smaller boys sniffed the air, eyes wide.
I handed him a piece.
He bit. Chewed. Smiled.
"It's sweet," he whispered.
It wasn't. But it didn't hurt to eat.
Villagers didn't trust me yet.
"You're doing this for loyalty," someone muttered.
"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe I'm just done hiding in the manor while you all starve."
We made bark bread. Roasted cattails. Boiled roots till they lost their bitterness. I walked the fields with them. Ate the same food. Shared the same fire.
By the third day, they started offering advice.
"Grind the bark finer."
"Let the roots soak longer."
"Use salt, if you find any."
On the fifth night, an old woman brought me dried mushrooms. "For you," she said. "You cook better than my son."
We laughed.
On the seventh day, we made a stew with bark dumplings and roots. I gave my bowl to Toma. She didn't speak, but she took it. And this time, she didn't look away.
That night, in the chapel, the Church whispered.
"Have you seen what the Baron is doing?"
"He eats with them. Shares his food."
"Foolish. Dangerous."
"Or wise."
"What if they start loving him more than the Church?"
A silence. Then a final voice, soft and sharp.
"Let him play, Baker. Let him wear the peasant's skin. It'll make it easier when we take it off."