The rhythmic grind of mechanized treads clawed at the frozen earth, growing from a distant murmur into a thunderous, undeniable roar. The fog parted violently as the first of the military half-tracks burst through the treeline, its headlamps carving twin tunnels of light through the swirling vapor. Behind it, a second and then a third vehicle followed, stopping abruptly, their engines idling with a predatory rumble. Figures, dark and menacing in heavy, drab uniforms, spilled from the rear of the vehicles. Their rifles, long and brutal, were already shouldered. A gaunt man with a razor-sharp jaw and eyes like chips of flint stepped to the front. Lieutenant Kasian, identified by the brass pins on his collar and Yevra's previous bragging, commanded the district penal squad. He scanned the Vlas homestead, a sneer twisting his lips as he saw the small, dilapidated cabin. Yevra, a dark, huddled shape, detached herself from the trees and scuttled toward the officer, pointing a trembling finger at the cabin. "There! The witch's den! She's hoarding, Lieutenant, and she struck Stoyan!" Her cracked screech carried on the wind. The lieutenant merely grunted, raising a hand. "Open fire. Level the porch first, then sweep the interior. No survivors." Before the command fully cleared his lips, an outline shifted at the cabin's warped window. Miro. He was small, but his expression was resolute, his hand reaching for the lever. She’d shown him, just hours ago, the sequence. “Remember, Miro! Wait for the steam to clear, *then* the lever!” she’d drilled into him. He remembered. Rifle fire erupted. Lead tore into the cabin's rotting façade, splintering pine logs and shattering glass. Olevia, already braced, shoved Zosha and Miro deeper into the crawlspace she’d hastily cleared beneath the floorboards. Drevic pressed hard against the interior wall next to the main doorway, his service carbine leveled, skin pasty from temporal sickness as he tracked the silhouettes crossing the yard. “The perimeter system!” Olevia barked, pulling herself up to a narrow firing slit she’d cut into the wall. “Steam in three, two…” Just as the lead conscripts reached the edge of the porch, a high-pitched shriek of pressure preceded the geysers. Steam erupted from the ground, boiling and searing, creating an impenetrable wall of white. Men screamed, their forms dissolving into the swirling vapor. A few stumbled back, clutching blistered hands and faces. The commander roared in fury. “Blind fire! Suppress the porch!” Rifle rounds chewed through the siding. Olevia didn’t flinch. Her hands moved with practiced speed, guiding a thick, braided cable to a series of crude, automated mechanisms she’d bolted to the outside walls. These were her ‘Shadow Forge’ creations: retro-tech automated nail-guns, jury-rigged from salvaged logging equipment and powered by the cabin’s ancient boiler system. She pulled a series of levers inside. A low hiss, then a series of metallic clacks, echoed from the exterior. Goran materialized beside the forward bracket, charcoal coat blending into the vapor while violet eyes burned cold. *Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!* The nail-guns began to cycle, driving heavy, sharpened railroad spikes with compressed steam. They punched through the dense fog, audible tearing through uniforms, through flesh, embedding themselves with sickening thuds into the thick trunks of the pine trees behind the advancing soldiers. One man crumpled, a nail protruding from his shoulder. Another shrieked, a spike pinning his boot to the frozen ground. "What in the...?" the officer bellowed, ducking as an iron spike embedded itself inches from his skull. He pulled his sidearm, firing wildly into the steam. Drevic, seeing an opening, burst from the doorway, his rifle spitting fire. Two conscripts collapsed instantly beneath his steady aim. He cut through the swirling steam with brutal efficiency, firing and shifting position before the return volleys could track him. Olevia watched, a strange mix of awe and possessiveness stirring within her. *He was dangerous. He was hers.* Goran tore between the remaining riflemen, claws raking through canvas coats, phantom mass scattering their ranks. Men dropped in panic beneath unseen gashes across their arms and chests. One rifleman dropped his bolt-action piece, clutching at bloody gashes along his throat. The lead squad broke under the converging fire, boiling mist, and phantom strikes. They stumbled back, leaving a trail of blood and abandoned gear. Kasian dragged a wounded subordinate behind an armored wheel, using the body as cover. “Incoming!” Drevic yelled, diving back into the cabin, pulling Olevia down with him. A burst of heavy machine-gun fire from the half-tracks raked the cabin, tearing through the flimsy walls. A distinct *click* echoed from the floorboards. The auxiliary release tripwire had tripped. Secondary pipes by the woodshed burst open, spewing scalding plumes into two troopers trying to flank the porch. Miro and Zosha had held the line. Kasian, seeing his men scattered, bleeding, and humiliated by a single woman and her… *tricks*, roared with incandescent rage. His eyes found Yevra, still cowering by the half-track, her face a mask of terror and a strange, dawning comprehension. “Mortar!” he screamed, his voice raw. “Bring the mortar! Level the witch’s shack!” Two crewmen immediately moved to the rear of the transport, unbolting a short steel barrel while Yevra stared in mounting dread. She had wanted Olevia’s cabin destroyed, yes, but… A gunner squinted through the gray haze. "Sir, too close. Backblast will cook our own transport. We need hard ground and clearance." Kasian snarled, his gaze sweeping the clearing. His eyes landed on a neat, whitewashed house, its windows glowing with faint lamplight – Yevra’s pristine home, directly across the clearing, a mere seventy paces from Olevia’s shack. It was a stark contrast to the Vlas cabin’s decrepitude. It was also perfectly positioned. Yevra had lived in it, untouched by famine, all winter. It was her pride, her sanctuary. “There!” Kasian pointed, a cruel smile spreading across his face. “The civilian dwelling across the way! Set up there! It’s far enough!” “No!” Yevra shrieked, her voice cracking with genuine terror. “Not my house! My… my good curtains! My winter stores! You promised me her stores! Not… not *my* house!” Kasian ignored her, a cold glint in his eyes. “Move it! Now! Prepare a high-angle trajectory. Direct hit, dead center on the roof!” The mortar crew shoved past her without a word. They dragged the heavy mortar towards her home, kicking open her door without ceremony. Yevra watched in abject horror as her sanctuary, her symbol of status and wealth in the ravaged land, became nothing more than a military platform. Inside Olevia’s cabin, the children were silent, pressing closer to their parents. Drevic’s arm tightened around Olevia. The air outside grew still, thick with dread. A dull *thump* echoed from Yevra’s house. Then, a whistling sound, high-pitched and rapidly growing, tore through the fog, a deadly, screaming payload arcing through the cold night sky, aimed squarely at Olevia’s roof.

Nail-Guns and Shadows