The carbide lamp swung, bathing Nadina in its stark glare, then sweeping over Osenya, Jorik, and the crude wick-lamp on the ground. The overseer's heavy jaw worked, chewing on air. “Is that so, Rost?” His voice was a rasp of steel on slate. “Caught them at it, did you?” Nadina pulled in air, a thin, reedy rasp. Her gaze flickered to the chasm, then to the overseer’s eyes, flat and grey as slate. She took in the brutal simplicity of his posture: another name on the Tithe ledger, easily filled. Her finger lowered fractionally. “No, wait!” Her voice climbed, strained. “No, Overseer. That’s… that’s not what happened. It was a busted pressure valve, down in Section Beta. The main feeder line. It was spraying vapour, a hazard. They… they heard me trying to fix it. They came to help. We were just checking the output, sir.” She gestured weakly toward a corroded, defunct conduit half-buried in the grime-caked wall. Her gaze shifted toward Osenya, an urgent bid for shared survival passing between them. Osenya stared. The brazen shift, the transparent lie, the sudden, unexpected act of a truce. Jorik remained still, his face a mask of weary deference, but his fingers twitched against the hilt of his concealed knife. The overseer's gaze bored into Nadina. “A pressure valve, Rost? You, fixing a valve? Without reporting it? And these two, down here, helping you?” He squinted, scanning the grimy chamber, the remnants of the strange black matter clinging to the chasm’s lip. “Yes, sir!” Nadina insisted, forcing a cough. “We were… we were trying to avoid a shutdown. Keep the quota flowing. And they… they had a better wrench, sir. They’re good at gears.” She looked at Osenya, then back to the overseer. “We should have reported it immediately.” The overseer let out a low growl that vibrated through the floor. He didn’t believe her, not entirely. But the tale offered him a convenient path. No need for messy inquiries. A simple infraction, easily punished, quickly logged. “Foolish. Irresponsible. Disruptive,” he bit out, each word deliberate. “This negligence will not be tolerated. For wasting mill time, for operating without authorization, and for attempting to conceal a maintenance issue…” He paused, his gaze fixed on Osenya and Jorik. “…your ration coupons for the next three shifts will be docked. Consider yourselves lucky I don’t send you to the reclamation pits for this insubordination.” Docked rations. In the grip of the encroaching freeze, that was a slow death sentence. Her stomach churned, a hollow ache. Her temper flared, but Jorik’s hand, unseen, pressed lightly against her lower back, a firm caution to stay quiet. Nadina simply nodded, avoiding their gaze. The overseer turned on his heel, his heavy boots echoing as he ascended the steps, leaving them in the dim, stale air of the forgotten chamber. Back in Room 404, the chill had deepened. The lone grimy window offered only a grey, featureless expanse of smog and the distant, mournful wail of the district whistle. They sat on their threadbare cot, the quiet between them heavy with fatigue and the gnawing ache of hunger. Jorik had wrapped the coarse wool blanket around Osenya, but it did little against the penetrating cold that leached from the walls. Osenya’s fingers, raw and split from the loom, trembled as she rummaged through her canvas pouch. “I… I know I had it,” she muttered, her voice rough. “The coal chit. For the communal brazier. It was right here.” Her breath plumed in the frigid air. She pulled out scraps of metal, a bent needle, a tarnished brass button, but no square of compressed carbon. She tipped the pouch upside down. Nothing. Her temples throbbed. The humiliation of the basement, the gnawing cold, the certainty of starvation… it all centered on the lost chit. It was not mere cardstock; it was warmth, a brief reprieve from the bone-deep chill that had seeped into her marrow. Osenya pressed her knuckles into her eyes, refusing to yield to the dampness welling beneath her lids. Her shoulders stiffened against a sudden shudder. She forced the sting back down, grinding her molars until her temples ached, locking the surge behind stone-hard resolve. She would not crack, not here, not in front of him. Jorik moved without noise. He didn’t speak or offer hollow comforts. He simply sat beside her on the cot, resting a steady hand over her freezing fingers. His palm, calloused and firm, shielded her split skin from the draft. The heat from his shoulder, however meager, provided an anchor against the draught. She did not pull away. The contract, the practical arrangement, the calculated barter for roof and coal—it carried an unexpected gravity in the quiet room. She looked down at their joined hands, the cracked knuckles and loom grease. Survival had brought them together, but this shared shelter had become an anchor neither intended to break. Jorik tightened his grip gently. “Osenya,” he murmured, his voice low. “The symbols on the subterranean foundation… I recognized the cadence of the masonry. The academies taught us the schematics before they cast me out. The city founders dug straight into the older vaults below, tapping the foundational vents. Blackloom wasn't just built on stone; it was anchored to siphon whatever stirs beneath.” Before Osenya could process the enormity of his confession, a violent pounding struck their door. The flimsy wood vibrated under three sharp, metallic raps. A thick, black-sealed envelope slid underneath the gap at the floorboards, its wax marked with the tenement’s cog-and-furnace stamp. Jorik reached for it, his jaw set as he read the word printed across the paper: “TITHE.” Inside ran one line of script, precise and ink-black: *Yulva, Osenya. Harlen, Jorik. Room 404. Your allocation for the seasonal Tithe has been selected. Preparation for transfer will commence at midnight. Do not resist.*

The Tithe Notice