Led by the guard, Anastasia walked forward through the slightly disorderly procession.
The farther forward she went, the looser the solemn, orderly honor guard formation became.
Spirit guards dressed in exquisite white-and-gold formal wear and light armor were busy in small groups.
Some carried firewood cut from nearby woods, others cleared snow from the ground, and still others were erecting tent frames.
“Your Highness,” the guiding guard explained in a low voice, “His Majesty ordered us to pitch camp here early.”
Anastasia nodded faintly, her eyes scanning her surroundings.
When she had passed His Majesty’s ornate carriage earlier, it was completely empty.
Knowing Monomakh, that restless sovereign had undoubtedly rushed ahead to command directly or find something to do.
Sure enough, in the open clearing ahead, a deep blue tent with a grand canopy was taking shape, with the banner of the Pale Star Court planted before it.
Even more striking was a ring of crystal-clear ice walls, roughly twice the height of a person, rapidly “growing” into shape around the camp—a windbreak barrier effortlessly shaped by His Majesty using Cryo.
However, what made Anastasia pause briefly were the figures inside and outside the ice walls, completely out of place among the spirits.
There were roughly a hundred people—men, women, young and old—dressed in rags, their faces flushed red by the northern wind.
Wearing clothes that looked thick but were actually worn and thin, they shivered in the lingering spring chill.
Every household dragged a crude wooden cart piled with carefully bundled “belongings.”
To the spirit guards who had seen much of the world, these were merely battered utensils and patched bedding.
They were clearly refugees, struggling to survive in the buffer zone between two nations.
Though the Archon War had ended, lingering monsters and desolate lands still made life grueling for these unprotected humans.
When Anastasia, an exquisitely dressed and imposing spirit noble, approached, those humans visibly shrank back.
They bowed their heads, hurriedly clearing a path for her, their eyes filled with awe and anxiety.
Anastasia calmly walked through the crowd to the main tent, where a guard lifted the heavy door curtain for her.
It was much warmer inside than outside, with several floating ice lamps emitting a soft halo of light.
Her sovereign was indeed inside, but the tent contained not just spirits; around ten of the youngest and oldest humans had been temporarily placed here to shelter from the cold.
“Over here,” Monomakh’s voice drifted over.
Anastasia looked toward the voice and paused slightly.
The Emperor of the Pale Star, renowned for his cold elegance, was currently sitting on a low ice stool he had hurriedly crafted.
The fur cloak draped over his shoulders was gone; in its place was a tightly wrapped bundle in his arms, containing a human infant.
His Majesty even carefully adjusted his posture, as if afraid of hurting the child in his arms.
He lowered his head, strands of hair falling along his cheek, his eyes devoid of their usual distance or majesty, showing only a focused, quiet gentleness.
Monomakh raised his head and gave Anna a faint smile.
Then, with utmost care, he handed the infant back to a nervous, bewildered elderly human woman nearby.
“I am here, Your Majesty,” Anastasia stepped forward, lifted her skirt, and curtsied.
“Is such formal etiquette necessary between you and me?” Monomakh teased.
Standing up, he dusted off his sleeves.
“As you can see, we ran into an unexpected situation.”
He gestured for Anna to follow him to a quiet corner of the tent to avoid disturbing the exhausted refugees.
Monomakh lowered his voice: “This group comes from an abandoned village to the north. Their home was occupied by a large monster, and the soil was reportedly corrupted by its filth, making it uncultivable. They were forced to migrate south and happened to run into our procession.”
“You ordered camp pitched to help them?” Anastasia asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Yes,” Monomakh nodded.
“Hunting down the monster occupying their home is a simple matter for us. But the problem is that even if we reclaim the village, the land cannot recover anytime soon. They have decided to abandon their homeland and seek a new settlement.”
He paused, his gaze shifting toward the muffled voices outside the tent.
“I asked for their preference. Since we are heading to Mondstadt anyway, I intend to bring them along and entrust them to Barbatos for settlement. The Anemo God loves humanity, and Mondstadt’s land is far better suited for humans to thrive than the north.”
Anastasia instantly caught the crucial issue: “Then our journey will be delayed. What about our scheduled rendezvous with the Anemo God…?”
“It matters not. I’ve sent a wind fairy messenger ahead to inform Mondstadt of the situation. Barbatos… that God of Song and Wine surely won’t mind this little ‘unexpected event.'”
Moh’s tone was confident, as if he could already foresee that laid-back Anemo God waving his hand with a laugh and saying, “No problem!”
“I understand,” Anastasia nodded.
“In that case, do you need my assistance in managing the camp?”
“Yes,” Moh gave her an approving look.
“Leave the main tent for the elderly, women, and children. The remaining tents being built should be prioritized for the humans—spirits handle the cold far better than humans.”
He added, “I recall we have a batch of spare beast-pelt cloaks among our supplies. Distribute them to these refugees to keep warm.”
Anastasia noted everything down, then raised another issue: “What about food? Our honor guard didn’t carry large quantities of rations.”
Spirits were a unique species—lifeforms created in ancient times by Hyperboreans and the Third Descender, designed to conserve resource consumption.
For them, eating was more of a ceremonial habit inherited from their “former masters” rather than a survival necessity.
Thus, the food brought on long diplomatic journeys was mainly for ceremonial purposes and occasional indulgence, nowhere near enough to feed over a hundred extra mouths.
“I’ll order the guards to hunt nearby…” Anastasia suggested.
Monomakh shook his head softly.
“Living creatures are scarce in this season. Even if they catch a few snow rabbits or foxes, it would be a drop in the bucket.”
“I will solve the food problem,” Moh said.
“You focus on organizing the camp and handing out warm clothing.”
“You’re going alone?” Anastasia asked eagerly.
She didn’t doubt His Majesty’s power, but she hadn’t hunted alongside him in a long time.
Moh saw through her thoughts and reached out to pat her shoulder gently—a gesture that drew envious looks from several spirit guards in the distance.
“Sorry, I must hunt alone this time. It’s been a while since there was something worthy of my personal intervention. So please hold down the fort and take care of these people.” He gestured toward the refugees inside and outside the tent.
“Understood,” Anastasia replied with a slight touch of regret, raising no further objections as she respectfully accepted the task.
Monomakh turned and walked out of the tent.
As he lifted the curtain and stepped into the cold outside air, his gentle expression receded like a tide, replaced by the calm, formidable aura of the Cryo Archon.
He did not summon a mount or carriage, merely instructing a spirit general waiting outside: “Guard the camp well and obey Grand Duchess Anastasia’s orders.”
With those words, his figure dissolved into a sudden gust of wind carrying fine ice crystals.
He had not transformed into snow, but was dashing toward the village mentioned by the refugees at extreme speed.
Inside the tent, Anastasia withdrew her gaze and began issuing commands.
The spirit guards acted efficiently, distributing supplies, helping pitch more tents, and leaving the warm main tent to those who needed shelter the most.
Those human refugees were still fearful and uneasy at first.
But seeing this young, beautiful, yet powerful grand duchess personally hand thick cloaks to shivering elderly people and children, the fear in their eyes gradually gave way to gratitude.
As Anastasia busied herself, she occasionally looked toward the direction where His Majesty had vanished.
She recalled Moh’s stories where mighty beings could decide the fate of billions of living creatures with a single thought.
Yet her sovereign, the Cryo Archon of Teyvat, was personally setting off to clear out monsters for a hundred unfamiliar, ragged humans.
He was even worrying about how to conjure up enough food for them to eat for days.
This “mercy” might not fit the high-and-mighty image of “gods” in certain tales.
But Anastasia felt this was how His Majesty had always been.
Demonstrating thunderous might and supreme dignity when needed, yet never hesitating to stoop down to offer genuine warmth and shelter when faced with weakness and suffering.
Outside, the north wind continued to howl, but inside the ice walls, fresh bonfires were lit, their orange flames driving away the chill.
Lighting up human faces that were gradually beginning to relax.