The scent of embalming fluid and lilies, thick as the Ostrava-Krin smog itself, clung to the velvet-draped hall. Laima Varnas, clad in the scratchy black crepe that had seen three family wakes already, stood stiffly near the grand, brass-plated sarcophagus of her grandfather, Elder Theron Varnas. Her gaze tracked the ornate clockwork gears etched into the polished Krinite wood, each cog chronicling the old man's obsession with temporal mechanics and, more practically, his vast estate. An inheritance that now, by the will’s cruel decree, hung precariously over her head like a loosening chandelier. She adjusted the brim of her mourning bonnet, wishing it were a cowl to hide her face entirely from the judgmental whispers that floated around the opulent wake. The Karmic Book of Etiquette, though entirely a figment of her own anxious imagination, clearly stated that a kinswoman, particularly one teetering on the edge of destitution, must maintain an air of stoic grief, lest she be accused of opportunism. And Laima, above all, wished to avoid any scenario that might force her to beg Ruta for a loan. Then the doors to the Balcony of Benefactors burst open. Ruta Varnas, a vision in a theatrical, wide-brimmed hat adorned with weeping willow feathers, swept in like a gale force wind. Her usually perfectly coiffed raven hair was artfully disheveled, and her face, usually a canvas of serene ambition, was distorted by what Laima immediately recognized as ‘performative anguish.’ Ruta bypassed the line of genuine mourners, her silk skirts rustling with manufactured urgency, and launched herself with an audible gasp onto the very bronze box Laima had been so carefully admiring. The Krinite brass rang with the impact. A collective murmur rippled through the gathered elite of the Krin Conservatory of Sciences. “Oh, Grandfather! My past-life vision… it is clear!” Ruta shrieked, her voice carrying through the hushed hall with an operatic flourish. Her hands clutched the polished lid, her knuckles white. “The threads of destiny, so tangled, so cruel! I saw it, Grandfather, in a flash of pure Krinite light! My soul, my precious destiny, is irrevocably bound to Dr. Ignas Balodis! Not… not to the other!” She flung a dramatic hand towards Laima, then pointed her finger like an accusation at the gathering's designated ‘other’ fiancé, Captain Jurgis Ruzgas, who stood by the far wall, a dark, stoic figure leaning heavily on a brass-tipped cane. Laima’s meticulously constructed stoicism crumbled. Her scalp prickled with mortification. Her brain, already a frantic beehive of imagined societal rules, screamed. *Bier decorum!* the Code of Etiquette shrieked in her mind. *No theatrics! No… betrothal swaps at a wake! What will the Grand Council of Gracious Gravitas say? This is a level five violation!* Her lungs struggled to pull in air that suddenly felt thin and sharp. All eyes were on Jurgis. The Captain, a man whose war-weary frame seemed perpetually stooped by old campaigns, shifted his boots. A low, raspy chuckle escaped his lips, shocking in its utter lack of warmth. He pushed off the wall, his cane tapping a rhythmic, almost mocking beat on the polished floor. His eyes, the color of tarnished steel, met Laima’s for a fleeting, unsettling moment. A smirk, sharp and cold, touched his mouth. “Well, dear Ruta,” Jurgis drawled, his voice a gravelly murmur that still managed to carry, “if the cosmic threads truly demand it, who am I to argue with divine prophecy? I accept. Dr. Balodis is yours, and…” He gestured with his chin towards Laima, a casual, almost dismissive flick. “My… *destiny*… is apparently hers.” The words hit Laima like a physical blow. Her carefully constructed world, her quiet plan for survival, shattered into a million glittering shards. *He accepted?* Her mind reeled. *He accepted! This isn’t how it was supposed to go! I was supposed to marry a quiet botanist, not a cynical war veteran whose only ambition seems to be a comfortable coffin!* Her throat tightened. This was a nightmare. A public, irreversible, betrothal-swapping, service-disrupting nightmare. The whispers intensified, now laced with outright fascination. Just then, a figure, sleek and shadowed as an alley cat, detached himself from the wall near Jurgis. Borys the Undertaker, a man whose smile rarely reached his eyes, glided towards Laima. His black suit, impeccable as always, seemed to absorb the ambient light. “A most… *spirited* display of familial devotion,” Borys purred, his voice a low thrum. He paused beside Laima, offering her a sympathetic glance that felt entirely too knowing. Then, with a casualness that made Laima’s stomach clench, he produced a small, engraved brass plate from his inner jacket pocket and pressed it into her trembling hand. Laima stared at the plate. Etched into its surface, in elegant, swirling script, were the words: *Betrothal Re-allocation Tax: One Thousand Karmic Chits. Payable to the Ostrava-Krin Bureau of Auspicious Unions. Due upon confirmation of Fated Exchange.* A cold dread, far deeper than her mortification, settled over her. This wasn’t just an embarrassment; it was a financial catastrophe. A fake rule, but with a real price. Jurgis, now standing a few paces away, his gaze fixed on her, lowered his voice to a whisper that only she could hear. “Congratulations, Laima Varnas. You’re now engaged to the man whose family legacy is rapidly becoming scrap metal, and whose personal balance is a ticking clockwork bomb. We’re both destined for the gutter, it seems.” Ruta, meanwhile, had gracefully detached herself from the bronze lid, now beaming up at a bewildered Dr. Ignas Balodis, who looked less like a stolen fiancé and more like a particularly confused laboratory specimen. “Oh, Ignas! Our true fate unfolds!” she trilled, her voice sickeningly sweet. She then turned her triumphant, glittering gaze back to Laima and Jurgis, a smug, victorious smile playing on her lips. “Enjoy the sinking ship, cousin.” Jurgis turned his head slowly, his steel eyes meeting Laima’s panicked ones. “Well, wife. Shall we begin our mutual descent into poverty?”

The Undertaker's Ledger