A sharp, disorienting snap. The obsidian soil, the silent acres, vanished. Svetra stood, swaying, in the same grimy alleyway, the chill wind immediately biting through her threadbare coat. Liska still clung to her hand, her small face streaked with dirt and fear. In Svetra’s other hand, a heavy, rough-hewn wooden crate, not there a moment before, rested against her hip. It smelled faintly of earth and an impossible sweetness. She glanced down. The black vine was gone, but a faint, pulsing warmth lingered on her wrist where it had touched her skin. “Mama?” Liska’s voice was a reedy whisper, her eyes wide as she stared at the crate. “What’s that?” “Food,” Svetra said, her own voice hoarse. “Plenty of it. Now, we go home.” Home. The word was a bitter taste. The Kragansk Slums loomed around them, a skeletal landscape of rust and cracked mortar under the perpetual industrial twilight. Every shadow held a potential threat, every gust of wind carried the acrid tang of industrial smoke and desperation. She clutched Liska’s hand tighter, the child’s small bones fragile beneath her grip. The container throbbed with a silent promise. This wasn't just food; it was leverage. They navigated the labyrinthine alleys, past skeletal laundry lines and shuttered windows, until the familiar, decaying façade of their tenement building rose before them. The front door, usually hanging askew, was now haphazardly jammed shut with a splintered board. A low thudding sound echoed from within. Svetra pushed open the protesting door, the hinges screaming. The air inside was cold, thick with the smell of stale cooking and mildew. In the dim light filtering through the grime-caked windows, Kavol stood hunched over their door, desperately trying to secure another plank across it. His shoulders were slumped, his usually vibrant hair dull and matted. A dark bruise bloomed like a sickly flower across his temple, and one eye was swollen nearly shut. “Kavol!” Svetra stopped short, taking in the raw, unvarnished evidence of Matya’s brutality. Her husband, the brilliant mind behind the abandoned hydroelectric designs that could have powered half the nation, reduced to a common brawler, beaten and terrified. He whirled around, his good eye fixed on her in disbelief. “Svetra? Liska? You’re alive!” Relief warred with a deeper despair in his voice. He stumbled towards them, arms outstretched, then stopped, his gaze falling on the crate of fruit. “What… where did you…?” Before he could finish, a heavy knocking rattled their door, followed by Matya’s grating voice, amplified by the thin wood. “Vorzin! Open this door, you spineless slug! I know you’re in there! The authorities have arrived to collect!” Kavol recoiled, pressing himself against the wall. “They’re here,” he whispered, his face chalk-white. “The Directorate’s debt collectors. Matya… she told them I wouldn’t pay. That I couldn’t.” Svetra’s lips thinned. This was it. The public humiliation, the final crushing blow Matya had orchestrated. A cold, focused rage began to simmer in Svetra’s chest. Kavol’s fear, Liska’s trembling, the bruise on her husband’s face—each detail was a barb, twisting deeper. She looked at the crate, then at Kavol, then at the door. Her voice was flat, devoid of warmth. “Move, Kavol. Let them in.” “Svetra, no! Liska, hide! They’ll take her as collateral, Matya said so!” Kavol pleaded, grabbing her arm, his grip surprisingly strong despite his injuries. Svetra peeled his grip away, her gaze unwavering. “They won’t take anyone.” She walked to the door, the crate surprisingly light in her hands now. With a decisive shove, she sent the barricade clattering to the floor. The door swung inward, revealing Matya Vorzin flanked by two uniformed agents of the Debt Reclamation Bureau. One, a burly man with a perpetually sneering mouth, the other, younger, with a nervous tic in his eye. “Well, well, look what the gutter dragged in,” Matya crowed, her eyes gleaming with malice. She barely glanced at Svetra, focusing on Kavol, who cowered behind her. “Thought you could evade your responsibilities, did you, Kavol? The Directorate doesn’t forget its debts. And since you have no coin, no assets, they’ll be taking what little value you possess.” Her gaze flicked to Liska, a predatory gleam in her rheumy eyes. “The girl will make excellent collateral. A shame, really, for such a pretty thing to waste away in a reclamation labor camp, but needs must, eh?” Svetra’s control was absolute. Not a muscle in her face twitched. She stepped fully into the doorway, blocking Matya’s view of Liska. The cold air rushed in, carrying the stink of the slums, but a strange, sweet scent now emanated from the crate in Svetra’s hand. She lifted it, the rough timber digging into her palms. With a casual flick of her wrist, she upended the crate onto the small, rickety table in the center of their meager apartment. The crimson produce tumbled out, a cascade of deep red against the drab, grey surroundings. Pristine. Unblemished. Their skin glowed with a waxy sheen, their fragrance filling the room, sharp and sweet, a defiance against the freezing air. They were larger, deeper in color, and firmer than any harvest seen across the province in decades, let alone in the dead of winter. The two collectors, hardened by years of extortion, stared. Matya’s jaw went slack. The sneering man stepped forward, name tag glinting as his eyes narrowed. “What… what is this?” he demanded, suspicion warring with a dawning awe. “These are… out of season.” “Indeed,” Svetra said, her voice a cool blade. She picked up an apple, its weight substantial in her palm. She bit into it, the crisp snap echoing in the stunned silence. The juice, impossibly sweet and tart, burst on her tongue. “The debt, I believe, is for two thousand kreds, plus interest, for a total of two thousand, three hundred and eighty-seven kreds.” She swallowed the mouthful of fruit. “I’m told these fetch ten kreds apiece at the black market, if you can find them. Considering the season, the quality, and the sheer volume, I’d say we have enough here to cover Kavol’s… unfortunate indiscretion.” She gestured to the pile of fruit with the half-eaten apple. “Count them. There are three score and fifty times five.” Matya sputtered. “Preposterous! Where did you get these? They must be stolen! Or… rotten! They’ll be worthless!” She lunged for a piece, her hands trembling with greed, but the senior collector’s arm shot out, stopping her. His gaze remained fixed on the pile, then on Svetra. “Three hundred and fifty, at ten kreds each…” he muttered, his sneer replaced by a calculating glint. “That’s three thousand, five hundred kreds.” His gaze swept over the luxurious, vibrant pile. Far more than the debt. Enough to make a hefty profit for him and his partner, before it even reached the Directorate’s coffers. The younger collector, his brass badge reading Jeren, nervously swallowed. “Sir, the debt is clearly covered. Overcovered, in fact.” The senior man slowly turned to Matya, his face hardening. “You told us they had nothing. You wasted our time.” His voice was low, dangerous. He saw the opportunity, the sudden, inexplicable shift in fortune. The village shrew had somehow brought forth a small fortune in out-of-season produce. And the man, always eager to skim an illicit margin, recognized a new player in the Kragansk Slums. Matya’s face twisted, her carefully constructed victory crumbling before her eyes. “But… but she can’t have! This is a trick!” Svetra merely watched her, a faint, almost imperceptible curve to her lips. The silent slap was delivered, precise and brutal. Matya, the orchestrator of their ruin, had just been publicly shamed, her greedy machinations foiled by a pile of apples. The officers, seeing their own profit, would not side with Matya now. The debt master scooped up an armful of the produce, hefting its weight. “The debt is settled,” he announced, his voice ringing with finality. He tossed a few to Jeren, who fumbled to catch them, his eyes wide. “We are finished here. Let’s go, Jeren. And Matya, if you bother us again with false information, you’ll be dealing with us, not the Vorzins.” He fixed Matya with a chilling stare, then turned and strode out, Jeren scurrying after him, a bewildered grin on his face. Matya stood frozen, her eyes darting from Svetra’s impassive face to the remaining apples on the table, then to the door where her enforcers had just vanished. Her mouth opened and closed, no sound coming out. Finally, with a choked gasp, she spun on her heel and fled, her heavy boots clattering down the tenement stairs. Kavol stared, bewildered, at Svetra, then at the pile of fruit, then back at Svetra. Liska, no longer trembling, tentatively reached out, her small thumb brushing the waxy skin. “Mama,” she breathed, her voice filled with wonder. “They’re beautiful.” Svetra simply nodded. The cold fury began to recede, replaced by a quiet satisfaction. This was just the beginning. Matya had felt the first bite of the Iron Winter. Hours later, the room was warmer, the faint glow of the oil lamp softening the harsh lines of their poverty. Liska, fed and no longer terrified, had fallen asleep nestled against Kavol, who still seemed in a daze, occasionally reaching out to stroke the remaining fruit. Svetra had made tea, a rare indulgence. A knock echoed at the door, lighter this time. Svetra opened it to find Yennya, her best friend, a small, hopeful smile on her face. “Svetra! Kavol! I heard the news! Is it true? Matya really left with her tail between her legs? And you paid the debt with fresh fruit?” Yennya’s eyes danced with a mix of disbelief and admiration. She held a small, carefully wrapped package. “I brought some rationed sugar cubes. To celebrate. You really did it, Svetra. You saved them.” She embraced Svetra warmly, a rare, genuine show of affection. Her arms were strong, comforting. They sat, sipping the sweetened tea, the warmth a welcome balm against the enduring chill. Yennya chattered, her voice a comforting presence, recounting the whispers already spreading through the slums about the ‘Vorzin miracle.’ Svetra listened, a small part of her analytical mind filing away the details, noting the ease with which Yennya had seemingly gained information. “I should go,” Yennya said eventually, rising from her chair, her smile still bright. “Don’t want to attract too much attention to you two. Keep that stash hidden, Svetra. It is a dangerous kind of wealth.” She gave Svetra another quick hug, then slipped out into the night. Svetra walked back to the table, her hand absently tracing the rough wood. Her gaze drifted under the table’s edge, where the shadows deepened. A small, metallic glint caught her eye. She reached down, her knuckles grazing something cold and smooth. It was a listening device, sleek and modern, no bigger than her thumbnail. A Directorate wiretap, freshly stuck to the underside of their table. She knew, with a certainty that chilled her more than the Vostorian winter, exactly who had placed it there.

Out of Season