Xion took Allen with him, leaving the Archduke to supervise the unloading of carts.
After a quick greeting with the officials, the healer decided to meet the sick first.
The snow crunched under Xion's boots as he stepped beyond the walls of the temporary refugee shelter.
The bitter wind sliced at his face, carrying the faint scent of smoke and rot.
Behind him, Oswin trudged wearily, signaling about Xion's identity to every anxious glance from the survivors who peered out from the shelters.
Xion's eyes swept over the crowd.
Children with hollowed cheeks clutched tattered blankets around their frail bodies.
Mothers whispered hurried prayers over the thin, shivering infants in their arms.
Fathers, gaunt and exhausted, avoided Xion's gaze, ashamed that they had been unable to protect their families from starvation and despair.
He knelt beside one of the makeshift beds. A young girl, no older than seven, clutched her mother's finger with her tiny hands.
