Pip, the snow-marmot, chittered softly, pushing the glowing strawberry further into Tashya’s view. Its crimson skin pulsed with an internal light, a defiance against the bleak, grey world outside. Tashya reached out, her fingers brushing the fruit’s cool, smooth surface. It smelled of summer, a scent that shouldn’t exist in Vrostok, certainly not in the depths of a Grivenka winter. She plucked it from Pip’s grasp. It felt startlingly real, vivid against the gray timber. “A power unit,” she murmured, recalling the blueprint’s cryptic requirement. “An ancient, high-output artifact.” The words felt like lead, another absurd chore piled onto her ledger. Still, a single ripe berry offered proof of concept. Before she could take a bite, the cabin door creaked open again, letting in a fresh gust of snow and a plume of frigid air. Gavril Dorn stood silhouetted against the swirling white, his broad shoulders dusted with flakes. He hadn't been gone more than five minutes. His gaze swept the room, pausing on the now-warm stove, then narrowing on the red fruit clutched in Tashya’s hand. “Where did you get that?” Gavril’s voice was a low growl, laced with suspicion. His gray eyes fixed steadily on hers. The marmot, Pip, had vanished back into the floorboards with a soft *thump*. Tashya, caught off guard but refusing to show it, took a deliberate bite. The strawberry burst with tart sweetness across her dry tongue. She swallowed without rushing. “This? Found it in my apron pocket.” Her tone was as dry as old kindling, flat and casual. “Must have forgotten it was there. Happens.” Gavril frowned. He stepped fully inside, shedding slush onto the split pine planks. He didn’t question her further, but the intensity of his stare was a tangible thing, assessing, dissecting. He clearly didn’t believe her, but she had offered an answer, however ridiculous, and he seemed to have bigger concerns than her inexplicable pocket-fruit. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, a loud, insistent rapping shook the cabin door. Not a polite knock, but a series of blunt, heavy thuds. Tashya glanced at Gavril, a flicker of unease stirring within her. The toddlers, previously basking in the stove's heat, pulled back, clutching their wool blankets. Gavril’s expression hardened. He moved with a predator’s grace, crossing to the door in two long strides. He didn’t ask who was there. He simply wrenched it open. Standing on the snow-covered stoop were two men in threadbare, ill-fitting coats. Behind them, obscured by the blizzard, were two hulking figures, their faces grim under heavy fur hoods, hands resting on the handles of what looked like heavy-gauge industrial wrenches. The first man, Gaeron Brask—her distant cousin and a chronic parasite—sneered, a gap-toothed grimace stretching across his hollow face. Beside him, his brother, Joric, a thick-necked brute, gripped a length of frozen timber. “Well, well, well,” Gaeron drawled, steam puffing from his mouth. “Look who’s back from the dead. Major Dorn. And a sickly little wife, too. What a pity.” His eyes flicked to Tashya, then to the wide-eyed children huddled near the stove. “Heard you were getting your pension. Good timing. Our dear Uncle Brask needs recompense for your prolonged... absence.” “My absence isn’t your concern,” Gavril stated, his voice dangerously low. “This isn’t your property. Leave.” Joric grunted, taking a step forward. “Now, Major. Don’t be difficult. We’ve come for the little ones. Orphans, aren’t they? No father. No mother. Ideal recruits for the Collective’s Winter Work Program. Sweeping coal hoppers will build character.” His yellowed teeth bared in a grin toward Niko and Luda. “They’ll earn bread, and our household pockets a placement bounty.” The air in the room felt abruptly brittle. Tashya studied Gavril's silhouette; his shoulders had locked into rigid iron. Gaeron wasn't here merely to shake down a soldier; seizing the niece and nephew was leverage meant to break the man completely. “You will not touch them,” Gavril said, the low growl vibrating through the floor timbers. His body tensed, every muscle coiling. He moved before Gaeron could even register the threat. It was a blur of motion, brutal and efficient. One of the thugs, the one with the wrench, found himself airborne, slammed against the doorframe with a sickening crack. The other brute, too slow to react, crumpled as Gavril’s fist connected with his jaw. He dropped like a sack of ore. Gaeron shrieked, scrambling backward, tripping over his own feet in the snow. Joric, surprisingly quick, swung the timber at Gavril’s head. Gavril dodged with an almost contemptuous ease, catching Joric’s arm and twisting. A sharp snap echoed in the blizzard. Joric cried out, dropping the timber, clutching his bent limb. Gavril then hauled Gaeron up by his collar, his face a mask of cold fury. “If you or any other Brask scum approach this threshold again,” Gavril said, his voice flat, “I will leave you face down in an ore trench until the April melt. Am I clear?” He shoved Gaeron with such force that the man skidded on the ice, landing in a heap beside his groaning brother. “Get out.” The cousins and their broken thugs scrambled away, disappearing into the swirling snow. Gavril slammed the door shut, the sound rattling the windows. He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, his face still etched with barely suppressed rage. Niko and Luda, silent and trembling, crept against Tashya's wool skirts. “The Brasks,” Gavril said, rubbing his split knuckles, “know I'm tracking something salvaged from the southern front. A sealed military cell. Missing since our convoy derailed. Command assumes I perished with the transport, giving me latitude to trace the thieves. Now that I've surfaced here, the town's quota wardens are circling.” He shook his head. “They want to bleed my supplies until I surrender the search.” Tashya listened, her mind buzzing. The missing cell. The exact catalyst required by her blueprint archive. Her diseased lungs seized, producing a dry rattle she swallowed down with effort. Securing that module meant life for her, and safety for the two dependents hiding behind her legs. She looked around the dilapidated cabin. It was freezing, even with the stove roaring. The toddlers were rail-thin. She needed dense calories, greens, and steady heat that didn't consume cords of dry pine every night. Her attention dropped to the drafty seam where the marmot had burrowed. “Gavril,” she said, her voice softer than he’d heard it. “Is there a cellar under here?” He blinked, clearly thrown by the sudden change in subject. “A small one. For root vegetables. Why?” “Show me,” she commanded. “And bring me a lantern.” She descended the rickety wooden steps into the damp, earthy darkness, Gavril’s heavy footsteps following. The cellar was small, as he’d said, smelling faintly of mold and damp soil. But in the far corner, behind a stack of rotting potato sacks, a faint, emerald glow pulsed. Pip, the snow-marmot, sat patiently beside it, his intelligent eyes fixed on her. Pip chittered, prodding an unnailed floor plank with his nose. Tashya knelt, pulling the board aside. Beneath lay a dugout hollow bathed in pale emerald glow. Moist, loam-scented heat rolled over her skin. Rectangular raised beds lined the perimeter, loaded with lush foliage beneath large, phosphorescent subterranean fungi. Slender tomato vines, dark leafy beans, and sweet root crops stood in neat rows. Pip scrambled down ahead of her, grooming his whiskers. “What in the Republic’s name...” Gavril muttered from the threshold. Tashya ignored him. She pulled out the small pouch of rapid-growth seeds from her pocket, the ones her blueprint library had conjured. She raked aside dark humus, set three seeds into the dirt, and patted it level. Within seconds, pale shoots pierced the surface, thickening into dark, waxen stalks that branched upward before her eyes. Hours later, the cabin was filled with the rich, savory aroma of stew. Tashya had worked quickly, harvesting a bounty of fresh vegetables from her secret greenhouse. Carrots, potatoes, and even a few plump, red tomatoes had been diced and simmered with the last scraps of Gavril’s salted venison. She’d even managed to bake a rudimentary, soft bread with some stored flour, its crust golden brown. Niko and Luda sat at the small, wobbly table, their eyes wide with disbelief as Tashya placed heaping bowls of steaming stew in front of them. They stared at the vibrant orange of the carrots, the green of the herbs, a stark contrast to the thin, watery gruel they were used to. Niko took a hesitant spoonful, his small face contorting in an expression of pure bliss. Luda, more impulsive, plunged her hand directly into the bowl, giggling as the warm stew coated her fingers. “Chew your food,” Tashya remarked, though the edge had vanished from her tone. Seeing color return to their round faces pushed back the familiar exhaustion dragging at her limbs. For ten minutes, the dull ache beneath her ribs receded entirely. Gavril watched her, a complex mix of wonder and suspicion in his gaze, but he said nothing, simply accepted the bowl she offered him. Gavril ate methodically, emptying the wooden bowl until the tense knot between his shoulder blades loosened. The drafty front room smelled of roast garlic and steaming broth instead of mildew and frost. Later, after the children were tucked into their makeshift beds, full and content, Tashya excused herself to the outhouse. The icy air bit at her lungs, and she felt the familiar tickle in her throat. She doubled over, coughing violently into her sleeve. In the pale moonlight, a streak of red stained her wool cuff. Her frost-lung was chewing through tissue. Finding that high-density power cell was no longer an engineering milestone; it was a deadline. She wiped her lip with cold snow, steadying her trembling knees. Collapsing now was out of the question; she had an estate to fortify and toddlers to feed. When she slipped back through the entryway, Gavril was prodding birch logs into the hearth. He glanced up, his brow furrowing as he caught her pale complexion, but she simply leaned against the worktable, unblinking. Before either of them could speak, a new sound ripped through the quiet night. A sharp, authoritative pounding on the cabin door. This wasn't the clumsy thud of the Brasks. This was official. Gavril reached the entryway in two paces, jerking the handle back. On the porch stood a plump clerk bundled in an iron-buttoned municipal tunic, steam billowing from his mouth like exhaust. Two armed constables flanked his sides. “Major Gavril Dorn?” the clerk piped, adjusting brass spectacles. “I am Officer Fyodor Krinsk, Town Quota Registry. Your parcel claim has been flagged for non-delivery of communal levy during your unauthorized absence. Vacate the dwelling by sunrise, or remit five hundred silver rubles to settle the arrears.” Five hundred silver. By daybreak. An extortionate sum designed to break them.

Seeds of Defiance