The prototype for Frostridge Cream was none other than the famous blue-veined cheese from Yeats' previous life.
Its production required specific conditions—caves, cool temperatures—and Frostridge's riverside mountain setting was nearly ideal.
Pungent and rich in flavor, the cheese paired remarkably well with meat or vegetables, unlocking unexpectedly delicious combinations.
The necromancer's manual that Yeats had stumbled upon included a unique method for using mold in cheese-making.
Yeats copied that section and gave it to the baker, Rolf, charging him with developing Frostridge Cream.
If successful, this cheese could become the region's trademark product and a source of income for many households.
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On the third day after Yeats' inauguration, he walked the rye fields with Snowy perched on his arm, inspecting for burrowing beasts.
These hardy rye seeds, recommended by Laina, were planted in autumn and could be harvested by late spring.
At the edge of the field, the steward Derek approached at a brisk pace and bowed.
"My lord, your orders have been carried out. The assembly has been announced. The villagers will gather in front of the manor square this afternoon."
Yeats nodded. With only two hundred or so households in Frostridge, the square was more than adequate.
Facing the coming cold wave, today's assembly would let villagers decide—stay or leave.
As Derek departed, Yeats turned to Frakas with a furrowed brow.
"I just hope not too many people choose to leave. I need enough hands to build with."
Frakas reassured him, "Frostridge's people have lived here for generations. They expect the cold. I believe most will stay."
"Let's hope you're right."
Yeats raised his Rainstaff, and the aquamarine gemstone shimmered faintly. The enchanted Create Water spell activated.
Moisture in the air gathered into a floating sphere above the rye, which then turned into a fine artificial rain.
"Watering spell, deployed," Yeats muttered, then turned to Frakas. "I'll leave militia training to you. We need a proper defense force."
"With honor, my lord!"
The existing militia had limited experience, only handling low-level monsters. In Yeats' absence, Gray had taken it upon herself to lead patrols and already earned strong public regard.
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That afternoon, the manor square bustled with villagers.
Yeats didn't love crowds, but with the cold wave approaching, the stakes were too high to shy away. He straightened up and climbed onto the temporary stage.
As the crowd quieted, curious and wary eyes turned toward the young lord.
Yeats scanned their unfamiliar faces and began:
"Winter is coming."
"You all know how brutal the cold can be. You've lived it for generations. You've always stood on the front line against the snow and the beasts. And for that—every noble should salute you."
Derek froze.
A noble saluting commoners? That was unheard of.
But none of the villagers objected. They stood still, captivated.
For most, this was the first time a lord had said something like that.
"I inherited this land from my father. Like you, I will face the cold, the blizzards, the monsters."
"I refuse to abandon Frostridge. I refuse to let the beasts overrun it. I refuse to surrender this land!"
Years of essay training had paid off—Yeats' rhythmic rhetoric hit hard.
"But…" His tone shifted.
"This year's winter will be harsher than ever. There may be no royal guards. The monsters may be stronger. The thaw may come later than usual."
"If any of you wish to leave, I will give you a silver coin for travel expenses and write my elder brother to receive you in his lands."
A silver coin was no small thing, and some farmers hesitated.
Then Yeats' voice rose:
"But those who stay and endure this winter with Frostridge—each will receive a five-silver reward!"
Frakas' eyes went wide.
Derek looked like he'd seen a ghost.
Five silvers per person? For 800 people, that was 400 gold coins by spring!
This territory barely broke even—where would Yeats find that kind of money?
Derek scoffed inwardly. If the boy pulled this off, the title "Brandy's deadwood" would be a lie. He'd be the Brandy family's golden goose!
Yeats drove it home: "Effective immediately—four months tax-free! All resources go toward surviving winter."
The crowd erupted. The tax holiday alone earned their trust.
Frakas caught on. Yeats never meant to pay the bonuses from tax—he'd fund them himself.
Among the villagers, Little Red Regilave looked up at Yeats with reverence.
"To conquer the cold, to await the thaw—know this!" Yeats declared.
"If winter is here, can spring be far behind?!"
The line—a twist on Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind"—rang through the air.
Derek, once a royal librarian, caught the poetic power and felt a flicker of awe.
The crowd burst into applause.
Yeats exhaled quietly.
It wasn't just the speech. He'd given them real benefits—gold and tax breaks.
But he'd need to deliver. He looked to the skies.
"Snowy should be arriving at the Starlight Trading Company by now," he thought.
"Let's see what price Miss Laina offers for my new potion."
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Starlight Trading Company
In her tent, the red-haired wolf-woman Laina read the intelligence report on Frostridge with a knowing smirk.
"'If winter is here, can spring be far behind?'" she repeated.
"Who'd have thought the brat from House Brandy had a poet's soul?"
A tigerfolk assistant entered.
"Boss, an owl just flew in from the north—bag and letter attached. Looks like he wants to speak directly with you."
"Bring in the honored guest!"
Snowy swept into the tent, landed on her desk, and began grooming his feathers.
"So your master wants to talk business," Laina mused. "Right on schedule."
She sniffed the satchel—definitely potion ingredients—and unfolded Yeats' letter.
She read in silence.
Then again.
The teasing look vanished from her face. Her eyes widened.
A new variant healing potion? A unique recipe?
How in the world had Yeats managed this?!