The glacial eyes of Commander Drevic Vlas pinned Olevia to the spot. The last of the steam swirled around his worn combat boots, clinging to the heavy wool of his greatcoat before dissipating into the chill air. Miro and Zosha, now bolder, had moved from behind Olevia’s skirts to cling to her trousers, their small faces tilted up, watching the imposing man. Drevic shifted his gaze between them and Olevia, disbelief hardening his lean features.
“Commander,” Olevia’s voice cut through the silence, flat and devoid of warmth. Her rifle remained pointed squarely at his chest, its cold steel a stark counterpoint to the heat still emanating from the steam vents.
Drevic didn’t speak. He simply took another slow, deliberate step, then another, his eyes never leaving hers. The crunch of his boots on the scalded snow was the only sound. He advanced like a freezing front, draft cutting sharp through the damp air.
When he was a mere arm’s length away, his head snapped to the side, taking in the intricate network of pipes, the crude yet effective pressure valves, and the scorched earth where the mob had stood moments before. His brow furrowed, something guarded and unreadable stirring in his gaze. He looked at the cabin itself, at the reinforced planks Olevia had scrounged, the newly patched roof, the glint of glass in a window that had been shattered weeks ago.
Then his eyes locked back onto Olevia, sharp as shards of ice. “What in the name of the North Watch is this?” His voice was a low growl, rough as granite, laced with an authority that had once made lesser men tremble. “A pressurized steam defense? Here? In *this* hovel?” He gestured with a gloved hand, the movement stiff, almost unnatural.
Olevia didn’t flinch. “It’s called protecting what’s mine, Drevic. Something your family seems intent on destroying.” Her words were a challenge, an open defiance he clearly hadn’t expected.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. His gaze dropped to the pair, who huddled closer to Olevia, wary and watchful, but no longer terrified. They weren’t cowering, not from him, not from *her*. A flash of something akin to shock, raw and unadorned, crossed Drevic’s face, quickly veiled by his usual impassive mask. He knew the twins, knew their fear. This new sight seemed to genuinely rattle him.
Without another word, he pushed past Olevia, the sheer force of his presence nearly knocking her off balance. She watched him, rifle still ready, as he strode into the cabin. The twins, caught off guard, stumbled and then scrambled after Olevia, clinging to her again.
The cabin, once a rotting husk, still held a raw, unfinished quality, but it was undeniably *clean*. The floorboards were swept, a crude but sturdy table sat in the center, and the scent of woodsmoke and a faint, sweet potato aroma filled the air. His eyes swept over the small details: the mended blankets, the small, polished wooden toys Olevia had carved from scraps, the fresh pile of split firewood by the hearth. He stopped at the rough-hewn shelves where a small stack of books lay next to a gleaming, newly repaired lantern.
He spun, his movement sudden and precise, trapping Olevia against the rough-hewn wall by the door. His left hand slammed flat beside her head, the impact jarring the weak wood, and the muzzle of her rifle was abruptly pushed aside. His right hand, strong and calloused, gripped her chin, forcing her head up, her gaze locked with his. The cold in his eyes was no longer just atmosphere; it was an active, piercing force.
“Speak, woman,” he grated, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. “The Olevia I knew couldn’t boil water without charring the pot. How do you construct an industrial-grade pressure system from scrap and snow? How do you feed the twins who were starving under your neglect? And how do you stand here, bold as brass, with a weapon pointed at me, as if you hadn’t sold off half the farm for spirits last season?”
His grip tightened, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh beneath her jaw. The accusations were a blunt force, but Olevia’s temper, long simmering, ignited. The old Olevia might have crumbled, but *this* Olevia, the one forged in the twilight of the blueprint library, was a different beast entirely.
“The Olevia you knew is dead, Drevic,” she spat, her voice low and fierce, each word a strike. “Buried under the lies your family fed the village. I haven’t touched a drop of spirits since before your *illustrious* patrol abandoned us. And as for selling the farm, that was your *beloved* mother, Yevra, orchestrating the theft of every last scrap of our winter stores, including the deed to this land. While you were off playing soldier in the woods, she was plotting to take my children for moldy flour!”
His eyes narrowed with rising suspicion. “Lies,” he said, but the conviction in his voice wavered slightly. His grip on her chin eased, but his body remained pressed against hers, a solid, intimidating wall.
“Lies?” Olevia scoffed, a dark laugh bubbling up. “You think I engineered *that*”—she nodded toward the steaming vents outside—“just to entertain myself? Yevra led a mob here an hour ago, waving a fake warrant, trying to claim the children. She wanted to *evict* me. She tried to steal Miro and Zosha, Drevic. *Your* own blood.”
She saw the word hit him, a tiny tremor in his impassive face. The twins, sensing the rising tension, whimpered softly, pressing closer to Olevia’s legs. This was her opening. This was where she drove the wedge.
“You want to know how I built it?” Olevia continued, her voice gaining strength, raw and powerful. “I built it because I had to. Because you weren’t here. Because no one else would protect them. And if you’re not here to protect them now, then get out. Get back to your woods, or pick up a hammer and earn your keep. But don’t you dare question my right to defend my own, not when you left us to starve!”
Her knee shot up, a swift, brutal strike to his inner thigh. Drevic grunted, a sharp exhalation of surprise and pain, his grip on her chin breaking. He stumbled back, a hand instinctively going to the injured spot. Olevia pushed away from the wall, her rifle back up, aiming at his chest once more.
“You have two choices, Commander,” she stated, her voice trembling with fury but resolute. “Contribute, or leave. This homestead isn’t a charity for absentee fathers.”
Drevic stared at her, his expression a mixture of shock, anger, and a bewildering, almost lost, confusion. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead, a ragged cough tore through him, violent and wet. He clutched his chest, bending over, his greatcoat rustling. Miro and Zosha gasped, pressing their faces into Olevia’s side.
Another cough, harsher this time, wracked his frame. He straightened slightly, a sticky, glowing blue sap oozing from the corner of his lips, dripping down his chin. It pulsed with an eerie, internal light, illuminating the dark stubble on his jaw.
Olevia went rigid, her anger checked by a sudden, icy alarm. That wasn’t blood. That wasn’t normal. It glowed with the same unnatural light as the faint, pulsing mist that sometimes drifted from the deep woods.
Drevic swayed, his icy eyes losing their focus, blurring at the edges. His gaze drifted to Miro and Zosha, regret and raw dread crossing his features. He swallowed hard, the blue sap tracing a gruesome path down his throat.
“The rift,” he rasped, his voice a strained whisper, barely audible above the crackle of the hearth. “The temporal rift… it’s unstable. It’s consuming everything. My squad… all gone. Vaporized.” He choked, another dollop of blue sap leaking. “The military… they’re sending a purge squad. Tonight. To burn the valley. To the ground.”