The metallic tang of the dog tag seeped into Olevia’s fingers, cold and unyielding. VLAS, DREVIC. COMMANDER. CLASSIFIED. The letters seemed to burn themselves onto her retinas, each one a hammer blow to the fragile peace she’d tried to construct around herself. Drevic. Her estranged, stoic husband, declared missing for months, now represented by a metal scrap around the neck of a monstrous wolf. What did it mean? Was he dead? Was this some macabre message? The icy dread that had been a constant companion since her transmigration now sharpened into a needle-point. Goran, sensing her distress, nudged her leg, a low growl rumbling in his spectral chest. “Drevic,” she whispered, the name feeling foreign on her tongue. The mutated wolf lay steaming at her feet, proof of the brutal efficiency of her new defenses. A high-tech trap built to protect the twins now held a piece of her old, complicated life. She tore her gaze from the tag, scanning the mist-shrouded tree line. The deep woods. Clandestine operations. Temporal rifts. The pieces of the valley’s dark whispers began to coalesce into a terrifying picture. This wasn’t just a logging valley with bad winters; it was a wound in the world, and Drevic was entangled in it. Before she could fully process the implications, a new sound cut through the oppressive quiet: a cacophony of shouting voices and the crunch of many boots on the snow. Not the furtive approach of a lone guard, but a brazen, encroaching mob. Olevia’s head snapped towards the sound, her rifle lifting instinctively. Goran melted into a deeper shadow at her side, his presence a silent promise of violence. Emerging from the churning gray damp, a ragged line of figures advanced on the homestead. At their head, her wicked mother-in-law, Yevra Vlas, a triumphant sneer plastered across her jowled face. Behind her shuffled valley folk, their features pinched by deprivation and frost, their stares alight with predatory greed. They were vultures, drawn by the scent of perceived weakness, marshaled by their queen. “Olevia Vlas!” Yevra’s voice, sharp and grating, cut through the biting air. She brandished a crumpled parchment like a banner. “By decree of the Krevna Elder Council, and for the welfare of the neglected Vlas twins, this property is hereby reclaimed! You are to vacate immediately, you… you hoarding witch!” Olevia’s blood simmered, a familiar heat rising in her chest. Neglected? After Kaelan Vorn’s attack, after nearly freezing to death, after she’d found them eating bark? She remembered the twins' hollow eyes, their skeletal frames. The rage that had been a controlled burn since her transmigration now flared into an inferno. She took a slow, deliberate step forward, planting her feet wide on the porch. “Welfare?” Olevia’s voice was low, laced with a dangerous calm. “You speak of welfare, Yevra? You, who would trade your grandchildren for moldy flour? You, who watches them starve while you gorge yourself?” Yevra’s face contorted, her sneer faltering. “Silence, you harlot! We all know you hoard! You, with your sudden abundance, while honest folk starve! The little ones will be better off under my care, where they will learn… humility.” Her gaze flicked towards the cabin, a covetous glint hardening her stare. This wasn't about Miro and Zosha; it was about the property, about the food she’d supposedly found. “Humility?” Olevia scoffed, a dark amusement flickering in her gaze. She reached behind her, into the dimness of the porch, and her hand closed around something heavy. With a sudden, forceful motion, she pulled out a burlap sack and flung it onto the snow-covered ground before Yevra’s feet. It burst open, spilling its contents: a dozen gleaming, hermetically sealed military-grade ration cans. Not the settlement's meager scraps, but high-grade preserved iron-tins, stamped with the eagle of the Draconian Republic’s elite division. A collective gasp rippled through the mob. The gathered crowd, once filled with righteous indignation, went rigid with dawning comprehension. These weren't from Olevia's supposed hoard. These were the very supplies declared lost in transit from convoy wagons months ago. The supplies that had vanished, leaving Krevna to its famine. Supplies that Yevra, as the self-appointed valley store-warden and wife of the Elder Council’s head, had hoarded for herself. Yevra’s face drained of color, replaced by a mottled purple flush. Her triumphant sneer evaporated, replaced by naked terror and rage. “Lies! She plants these! It’s a trick!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. The crowd ignored Olevia, staring instead at the cans and then back at Yevra with hollow-eyed fury. “Trick?” Olevia’s voice was a low growl. “These cans, Yevra, were found in a hidden compartment under your pantry floor. I just helped myself. Consider it repayment for the ‘famine tax’ you tried to levy.” She allowed a feral grin to stretch her lips. “Now, get off my property, before I decide to be less… charitable.” The silence was absolute, save for the biting wind. The humiliation etched on Yevra’s face was a masterpiece of crushed arrogance. Her plan had backfired spectacularly. The mob, now murmuring darkly, began to shift, their loyalty wavering. They had come to reclaim what they thought Olevia had stolen, only to discover their leader was the true thief. “Fools!” Yevra finally screamed, her face contorted with pure hatred. “Don’t listen to her lies! She’s a witch! She’s bewitched you all! Seize her! Seize them! The warrant is real! The twins are mine!” She pointed a trembling finger at the porch, her eyes fixed on Miro and Zosha, who had crept to the cabin door, their small faces pale with fear but their eyes fixed on Olevia. The mob, caught between fear of Olevia’s sudden transformation and the fresh outrage against Yevra, hesitated. But Yevra’s screech pierced through their confusion, overriding their doubt. The primal urge for food took hold. A few of the more desperate, spurred on by Yevra’s fervent commands, surged forward. “Grab the boy! The girl!” Olevia’s eyes narrowed to slits. She felt the cool wood of the rifle stock against her cheek, but her gaze was fixed on a small, disguised lever near the porch railing. Her children, her sanctuary. Never. A cold, hard resolve settled in her heart. She hadn’t spent precious hours rigging steam traps and building a perimeter for nothing. As the foremost intruder scrambled up the steps, reaching a hand towards Miro, Olevia’s arm shot out. Not for the rifle, but for the lever. She pulled it down with a firm, deliberate click. A low, hissing rumble vibrated through the frozen ground, growing in intensity. Then, with a deafening shriek, the snow on the perimeter around the porch erupted. Geysers of scalding, high-pressure steam burst from hidden vents, tearing through the pristine white blanket. The air instantly filled with a blinding, choking mist, smelling of ozone and superheated metal. The men at the front shrieked, recoiling violently as the invisible barrier of heat washed over them, scorching exposed flesh and melting the crust beneath their boots into bubbling slush. The mob dissolved into chaos. Shouts of terror, desperate cries, and the frantic pounding of retreating feet filled the air. They stumbled backward, tripping over each other, their greed replaced by panicked dread. The vents continued to roar, pumping out an eerie blanket of white that enveloped the homestead and turned retreating shapes into indistinct smudges. Yevra, mouth twisted in disbelief, was shoved back by the panicked retreat of her own kin. She stared at the churning, white wall of steam, her mouth agape, her grand plan shattered. The homestead, once a symbol of her daughter-in-law's weakness, was now an impenetrable fortress, guarded by unseen, infernal powers. As the last screeching intruder bolted back toward the pines, the pipes hissed and subsided to a quiet simmer. The white haze lingered, dense and hanging, lending an unnatural pall to the timber line. Olevia stood on the porch, rifle still at the ready, her gaze unwavering, the scent of hot metal and wet earth filling her nostrils. Miro and Zosha peeked out from behind her skirts, awe smoothing their pale faces. Out of the heart of that drifting vapor, a figure slowly coalesced. Tall, imposing, clad in a tattered military greatcoat, his silhouette seemed to drink the light. He moved with a deliberate, almost unnatural slowness, each step crunching softly on the newly scalded snow. As he drew closer, his face emerged from the mist, lean and weather-beaten, etched with grim lines. His eyes, the color of glacial ice, held a terrifying, unblinking intensity, and they were fixed directly on Olevia.

Scalding the Vultures