Chapter 117: Old Blood, New Faces

The first complaint reached Raymond through the Civil Registry, the second through Construction, and by the end of the week enough variations had appeared that Alaric stopped treating them as isolated grievances.

Raymond found twelve petitions waiting on the Council table one morning, most signed by residents whose families had lived in Althoff long before the winter crisis.

One complained that newcomers occupied new houses while old families remained inside cramped buildings in the Historical Core.

Another questioned why refugees received cultivation blocks on newly improved farmland. Three objected to outsiders gaining construction jobs and apprenticeships.

A group of shopkeepers wanted priority for Central Market stalls, while one particularly angry petition demanded that government positions be reserved for "true people of Althoff."

Raymond finished reading that line and looked toward Alaric. "How long before somebody proposes measuring how Althoff someone’s grandmother was?"

Alaric did not smile as he answered, "Judging by the remaining petitions, my Lord, perhaps tomorrow."

Raymond could have dismissed the complaints as selfishness, but Harlan prevented that before the Council meeting had properly begun.

The old farmer rested both hands on the table and said, "Some are being fools, my Lord, but not all of them. People here endured bad harvests, hunger, and years when House Althoff barely remembered they existed. They repaired their own roofs because nobody came. They buried neighbors because there was no physician. Now the barony changes, and a man who arrived four months ago can receive a new house before someone whose family has been here forty years. You can understand why that stings."

Raymond nodded slowly. That was precisely what made the problem difficult. Housing had been allocated according to displacement, overcrowding, unsafe structures, construction needs, and available capacity, not ancestry. But fairness written on a ledger did not necessarily feel fair to the person watching somebody else receive something first.

The refugees had their own answer, and Raymond heard it that afternoon when he visited the eastern residential blocks with Oren. An argument had formed beside a water point between several old residents and women from relocated villages.

One older Althoff man complained that "people who arrived yesterday" were receiving houses built with Althoff timber and Althoff money. A refugee woman named Maraen turned on him with such fury that Oren stepped closer.

"Yesterday?" Maraen demanded, clutching a laundry basket against her hip. "I carried stone for that drainage channel while my husband worked on the western road. My oldest boy works at the sawmill, and my daughter serves in a bakery. We lost our house, our livestock, and my husband’s brother before we came here. Don’t tell me we arrived yesterday and were handed everything."

The old man snapped that his sons worked construction too, and Maraen immediately replied, "Then complain that your sons need houses. Don’t complain that mine survived long enough to build one."

Neither side looked satisfied when Oren separated them, and Raymond knew ordering everyone to be grateful would accomplish nothing.

The deeper problem surfaced the following morning. A Civil Registry clerk reported that a former village headman named Edran Holt had allocated two empty houses in the eastern district to families from his old village.

Both houses had already been assigned by the Administration to different households scheduled to move in within days. Worse, Edran had recently settled a dispute between two former villagers over damaged tools and ordered one man to pay compensation.

The losing party refused and brought the matter to the Registry, where officials informed Edran that he possessed no authority to issue judgments.

Edran’s response had been genuine confusion rather than defiance. He had governed those families for nineteen years.

Raymond summoned him instead of having the Watch drag him in. Edran arrived wearing a clean but heavily repaired coat, his grey hair tied behind his head and his posture carrying the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to being listened to.

He bowed properly before saying, "My Lord, I was told I exceeded my authority. I came because I don’t understand when that authority disappeared."

Raymond gestured toward the chair opposite him and answered, "When your village ceased functioning as a separate settlement and its people became residents of Althoff City, the authority attached to being its headman ceased with it."

Edran frowned rather than becoming angry. "With respect, my Lord, those people still come to me. They have come to me for quarrels, debts, boundaries, missing livestock, and family disputes since before some of your clerks were born. When two men from my village fight, they expect me to settle it."

"And that made sense when you were the recognized headman of that village," Raymond replied calmly. "But yesterday you assigned houses the Administration had already allocated to two other families. What happens when those families arrive?"

Edran’s jaw tightened as he answered, "The houses were empty. Two widows from my people needed somewhere permanent."

Raymond leaned forward. "And the families assigned those houses also need somewhere permanent. You didn’t know about them because you’re managing one community while I have to govern all of them."

Edran fell silent, and Raymond continued, "I’m not saying you were a bad headman. From what Oren tells me, you were probably a good one. That’s exactly why people still trust you. But I cannot have old village authorities operating separate governments inside the city."

Edran looked toward Oren, who gave him a sympathetic nod, then asked Raymond, "So what am I supposed to tell them when they come to my door? That I am nobody now?"

That question landed harder than Raymond expected. Removing obsolete authority was administratively simple; stripping a respected elder of the role around which he had built half his life was something else.

Raymond shook his head. "No. I want you to help us understand problems before they become worse. We need neighborhood representatives and registry liaisons, people who know families, who is vulnerable, what rumors are spreading, and why a rule that looks obvious from this castle makes no sense three streets away. You can represent your community. You just cannot judge cases, allocate government property, collect money, or issue orders as though your old village still exists separately."

Edran considered that carefully before saying, "I can speak for them, but I cannot rule them."

Raymond nodded. "Exactly. And eventually you won’t speak only for people from your former village. If you represent a neighborhood, everyone living there matters, whether they came from your village, old Althoff, Reth, Valmere, or somewhere I’ve never heard of."

Edran’s mouth twitched before he bowed his head. "That will take adjustment, my Lord."

Raymond smiled faintly and replied, "Most things around here seem to."

He instructed Oren to identify other former headmen, respected elders, and community figures who could serve as intermediaries rather than allowing their influence either to disappear resentfully or continue as unofficial parallel authority.

The larger question remained, so Raymond called representatives from the old town, relocated villages, refugee communities, Departments, farmers, craftsmen, and merchants.

"I’ve read petitions asking that old Althoff families receive priority for houses, jobs, stalls, land, and government positions," Raymond told them. "I’ve also heard newcomers accused of receiving things they didn’t earn. So we’re settling one principle now. There will be no legal category called original Althoff resident that grants superior rights."

Murmuring spread through the chamber, and Raymond raised a hand before continuing. "And there will be no permanent refugee class beneath them either. If you are registered as a citizen of Althoff, then the law recognizes you as a citizen of Althoff."

An old carpenter named Henric rose with visible irritation and asked, "Then the years we stayed mean nothing, my Lord?"

Raymond shook his head. "They mean you endured years others didn’t. They mean you have history here, relationships, property claims where they can be proven, skills, reputation, and contributions nobody should erase. They do not mean the child of a refugee gets fewer rights than your child."

Henric frowned but remained standing. "And when a newcomer receives a new house while my son’s family remains crowded with me?"

Raymond answered, "Then challenge the allocation criteria if they’re unfair. Ask why your son’s household was ranked lower. Demand that the Administration explain its decision. But the answer cannot simply be that another family arrived later, therefore they deserve less."

Maraen raised her hand and asked whether refugees would stop being treated as temporary people whenever opportunities appeared.

Raymond looked around the chamber before replying, "Yes. Refugee describes what happened to you. It is not supposed to become your children’s social rank."

He continued before the newcomers could celebrate. "But citizenship does not guarantee a free house, farmland, employment, or a market stall. Those things have conditions, availability, contracts, qualifications, or allocation rules. Equal standing means the same rules apply. It does not mean everyone receives the same thing."

Over the following days, the Administration published clearer housing criteria, employment postings, cultivation allocations, apprenticeship opportunities, and commercial stall procedures.

Former village leaders began registering as neighborhood representatives and community liaisons, including Edran, whose first task was helping correct the housing assignments he had disrupted.

None of it erased resentment. Raymond still heard old residents muttering that strangers were taking over their town, while some newcomers whispered that old families expected privileges merely for arriving first. The arguments became quieter, not extinct.

Standing above the Historical Core one evening, Raymond watched old roofs merge into new streets filled with people who had once belonged to different villages and different lives. Writing one rule had been easy: citizenship outranked origin.

Making five thousand people genuinely believe they belonged to the same city would take considerably longer.