The rhythmic *Boom. Boom. Boom.* vibrated through the shed’s thin planks, a sound of heavy, deliberate force. Olevia’s hand lowered to Goran’s head, coarse phantom fur cool beneath her skin. The lynx’s green eyes narrowed, a low growl rumbling in his chest, barely audible over the insistent knocking. The metallic snap of the bolt slid home again, closer this time, just outside the door. No polite caller carried a loaded rifle. Olevia’s hot temper, a beast she’d barely contained in this new body, surged. “Stay,” she commanded Goran, her voice a low snarl, then she moved. The shed door creaked open, admitting a sliver of the freezing, fog-drenched air. She strode through the main room toward the hearth, where Miro and Zosha huddled against bare stone, their sunken faces pale. They shrank back, bracing for a blow instead of salvation. The sight sparked immediate bile. Nobody would touch a single crumb meant for those two again. She yanked open the cabin door. The man standing on her porch was not Stoyan, but his face was familiar, pinched and self-important. The visitor was a distant cousin of the Vlas clan and one of the self-appointed ration enforcers of Krevna Valley. He was bulky in a threadbare, military-style coat, frost clinging to his bristly beard. His rifle, an old bolt-action, was leveled at her chest. Behind him, the fog swirled like a hungry ghost, obscuring the path to the village. The air reeked of damp earth and the distant burn of woodsmoke. “Well, well, the fat sow finally shows her face,” the man sneered, his breath pluming in the frigid air. He didn’t lower the rifle. “Word travels fast, Olevia. Cracking Stoyan’s skull? That’s a serious charge. Especially with the famine tax coming due.” “Famine tax?” Olevia’s voice was dangerously quiet. Her hands flexed, imagining them around his thick neck. “Aye. The village council is… concerned. With your recent display. And your… inability to provide grain,” he paused, grinning crookedly, “they’re considering revoking your winter share entirely. Unless, of course, a quiet payout is made to keep things settled.” He shifted the gun barrel an inch higher. “A few sacks of flour. Some preserved salt-pork. Perhaps a slice of the twins' grain to balance Stoyan’s cracked skull.” Olevia’s vision narrowed to a pinprick. *The twins' grain?* The demand lit a white-hot furnace behind her ribs. This thieving pig, trying to seize the food her household required, after Yevra had already tried to trade them off for moldy flour. The memory of Miro’s ribs, Zosha’s hollow cheeks, burned in her mind. “You want a handout?” Olevia’s voice dropped low, matching the lynx’s throat-rattle behind her. “I have one ready.” Before the guard could react, a ripple of darkness detached itself from Olevia’s boots. Goran, silent as the grave, flowed past her, a midnight blur. The enforcer's sneer dissolved into an open-mouthed croak as Goran materialized directly against his chest. Goran’s eyes, twin emeralds, glowed with predatory intensity. Talon-sheaths of smokeless dark extended from the paws, pinning the cousin's thick sleeves to the rough porch planks. The rifle clattered to the floor, forgotten. The man shrieked like a trapped hare. He thrashed, but the ethereal talons held him fast through the matted wool of his coat, sinking deep with frozen weight. Olevia moved, swift and brutal. She snatched up the fallen rifle, its cold metal a comforting weight in her hands. With a forward snap of her boot, she cracked the man's kneecap. He bellowed as the joint gave out. Goran sprang back, darkness vanishing into mist. The cousin tumbled over the porch edge, landing heavily in the slush. “Get out,” Olevia snarled, leveling the rifle at him. “And tell Yevra I’ll be collecting my own ‘famine tax’ from her this winter.” The cousin scrambled up on one good leg, whimpering with snot running down his chin. He didn’t spare a glance for his rifle, only stumbling backward into the thick, swirling fog, his cries fading into the mist. Olevia watched him go, then turned, the rifle still in her grip. Goran halted beside her boot, head cocked as green irises tracked the gray woods. She looked around the dilapidated cabin, the rotting wood, the gaping cracks, the thin door. A petty bully was easy to chase off. But Yevra would send men with heavier clubs and thicker hides. This rotten cabin remained an open sieve, leaving Miro and Zosha exposed to every draft and raid. “Goran,” she murmured, the name a soft command. The lynx flicked an ear. “We need to build. Something… permanent.” She closed her eyes, the world around her fading. The familiar, eerie twilight of the blueprint library enveloped her. Thousands of glowing schematics swirled, a galaxy of forgotten technologies. She didn’t need complex circuits or advanced weaponry yet. She needed deterrence. Something crude, effective, and quick. Her sight fixed on schematics for early steam conduits, a network of cast fittings and brass tension dials. A defense took form: a perimeter tripwire loaded with superheated vapor. Retro-tech, yes, but effective against soft flesh. She reached out, her consciousness pulling at a specific blueprint: **[Automated Steam-Vent Trap – Mark I]**. The schematic glowed brighter, then faded, imprinted directly onto her mind. When she opened her eyes, she was back in the grimy cabin, the fog still pressing against the windows. But now, the knowledge of the trap was tangible, a series of precise instructions for scrounging and assembly. Old pipes from the long-defunct well pump. A discarded pressure gauge from the Vlas family’s ancient, broken logging boiler. A discarded stovepipe. She began to gather materials from the corners of the cabin and the small, attached woodshed, her movements quick and purposeful. Goran paced beside her as an unearthly helper. When she needed a joint sealed, the beast's paws flared, bleeding intense heat that bonded iron seams in a clean, red seam. The air filled with the scent of ozone and heated iron. Miro and Zosha, initially still terrified, watched her from the hearth, their eyes wide. They saw not the hated mother of yesterday, but a fierce, determined protector wielding strange magic. Hours passed. The sun, a pale, anemic disk, had long since set behind the dense, frost-rimmed pines. The perimeter trap, a crude but sturdy network of old iron pipes and valves, began to take shape outside the cabin, half-buried in the snow. The pipe run circled the foundation, its forward-facing brass nozzles drilled to vent outbound from the main tank. “Here, Miro,” Olevia called, her voice softer than it had been in days. Miro flinched, but her eyes held less terror, more hesitant curiosity. “I need you to tighten this valve. See how it’s wobbling? Use the wrench.” She pointed to a heavy iron valve, crucial for directing the steam flow. Miro hesitated, then slowly approached. He picked up the heavy wrench, his small hands struggling to grip it. Olevia knelt, guiding his hands. “Like this. Turn it clockwise. Feel it bite?” Miro gritted his teeth, his brow furrowed in concentration. With a grunt, he twisted the wrench. The valve creaked, then tightened, securing the pipe. The threads seated with a small, brassy snap. A tiny spark of pride flickered in Miro’s eyes. He looked up at Olevia, a question in his gaze. She offered a small, tired smile. “Good. Very good, little wolf.” They worked until the moon, a sliver of ice in the dark sky, was high above. The trap was complete, crude but functional. The boiler hissed a low trickle through its bypass. Inside, the twins lay curled beneath rough quilts while Olevia leaned the stolen rifle against the frame. The night broke apart under a sudden, splintering crack of wood. Metal groaned. A guttural snarl, deep and primal, ripped through the air, followed by a horrifying shriek of pain. The cabin shuddered as something massive slammed against its outer wall. Then, an ear-splitting hiss, like a thousand vipers, as the steam-vent trap engaged. Olevia was on her feet instantly, the rifle in her hands. Goran, a shadowy blur, was already at the door. She kicked it open, the frigid night air biting at her face. The scene was a nightmare bathed in moonlight. A hulking, mutated timber-wolf, easily twice the size of any normal wolf, thrashed in the snow. Its fur, matted and coarse, was slick with scalding water, patches of skin visibly burned and peeling. Its eyes, glowing with a malevolent intelligence, were fixed on the cabin, on her. It had triggered the trap, and the high-pressure steam had done its work. The creature let out a final, pained gasp, its massive body convulsing, then it collapsed into the snow, lifeless. Olevia approached cautiously, rifle ready, Goran padding silently beside her. The wolf was a grotesque sight, its body still steaming faintly. What kind of monster was this? Not a normal beast of Krevna’s woods. She noticed something glinting dully around its ruined neck, partially hidden by the singed fur. With the butt of her rifle, she nudged the wolf’s head, revealing a tarnished metal tag. Her fingers gripped the scrap. It was a military dog tag, heavy and cold. She wiped away the grime and snow, her breath catching in her throat as she read the engraved letters. **VLAS, DREVIC** **COMMANDER** **CLASSIFIED**

Steam and Bone