The iron pry-bars clanked against the rough-hewn timber of the Ozerov sled. Two soldiers, hulking figures draped in frost-rimmed pelts, knelt beside Radmila’s cot, their faces hard. One aimed his bar at the loose floorboard Valeska knew hid the weapon. Her throat constricted. A panicked shriek tore from her. “No! Stop! The Rot! Don’t touch!”
Every head in the wagon snapped towards Valeska. Her kin, huddling in the back, froze. Radmila’s eyes, wide with a trapped animal’s terror, found hers. The men, momentarily startled, paused their work, their faces turning toward her, brows furrowed with annoyance rather than concern.
“What pestilence, woman?” the lead brute, a man with a scarred jaw and a heavy iron ring through his ear, grunted, his voice a low rumble. “There’s no rot in this wagon. Just northern steel, I wager.”
Valeska pushed past Kresnic, who recoiled from her abrupt shove. Her gaze darted frantically across the bundled forms of her grandchildren, seeking any sign, any pretext. Her eyes landed on little Danica's toddler, a two-year-old bundle of whimpers. His left arm, peeking from under his swaddling, showed a faint patch of redness where he’d been scratching. It was nothing more than a dry patch of winter skin, but Valeska’s mind, sharp and desperate, seized it.
“The Crimson Rot!” she shrieked again, her voice cracking with manufactured hysteria, yet laced with a chilling authority. She lunged forward, snatching Lyuben from his mother’s lap. “Look! Look at him! The tell-tale rash!” She thrust the boy's wrist toward Commander Vojin, who stood unmoving by the wagon entrance, his face set in weary patience.
Vojin’s eyes, dark as slag, narrowed. He took a hesitant step back, a flicker of professional caution crossing his hard features. The soldiers straightened, their iron lowering slightly, confident sneers replaced by unease. The threat carried teeth sharper than any decree on the Shattered Steppes, promising an agonizing death that could hollow out whole columns of refugees.
“He’s burning up!” Valeska cried, pressing her palm to the boy's brow. The toddler, alarmed by her sharp motion, let out a wail, his small face scrunching up. “His glands are swollen! See the mottled crimson creeping across his skin, Commander? It starts as a harmless itch, but within hours, it blossoms into weeping pustules, consuming the flesh! It spreads through touch, through spittle! One infected person, and the entire fleet is doomed!”
She painted the picture with a nurse’s precision, recalling forgotten medical textbooks, inventing symptoms with chilling specificity. “It leaves lesions, Commander, deep, necrotic pits that fester and drip. The fever rises, the mind clouds, and then… the lungs fill with blood. A quick death, but a messy one. We’ve seen it devastate entire settlements in the Northern Reaches. They called it the ‘Shattered Lung’ there. It’s highly resistant to all known balms.”
The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. Even the scarred leader looked pale beneath his tan. Vojin’s gaze flickered between Valeska’s frantic, desperate face and the whimpering child. His jaw worked, a muscle twitching in his temple. His duty was to the fleet, to uncover traitors. But an epidemic, especially one spreading through close quarters, was a threat far greater than any single spy.
“Stand back!” Vojin barked, stepping back and raising a leather-clad hand. “No one touches them! Everyone out! Seal this wagon. No one enters, no one leaves. Not until the Ozerov matriarch confirms this child is clear of the Rot. If this spreads, Valeska, I will hold you personally responsible for every life lost.” He shot her a look of utter disgust before turning on his heel. “Double guard outside! Don’t let a single soul in. Not even for water.”
The searchers, visibly relieved, scrambled out, heavy soles thudding across the planks. The wagon door slammed shut, the heavy iron bolt grating home. The quiet settled like ash, broken only by the child's sniffles and the shallow respiration of the Ozerov clan.
Valeska sagged against the wall, the little boy still clutched in her arms. Her hands trembled. Her clan stared at her, a mixture of fear and dawning awe on their faces. Even Kresnic looked at her with something akin to respect. She slowly lowered the boy, patting his wool hood. “He’s fine,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Just… dry skin. A small scratch.”
Radmila rushed to her, embracing her fiercely. “Valeska! You saved me! You saved us!” Her voice was thick with emotion, her body shaking. “I thought… I thought it was over.”
“It’s not over,” Valeska said, pulling away. Her eyes, still wide with adrenaline, fixed on the area beneath Radmila’s cot. “Not until we secure whatever you’re hiding.” She knelt, her fingers fumbling at the loose floorboards. The clan watched in stunned silence as she levered up the plank, revealing the shallow cavity beneath.
It wasn’t a small pistol. It wasn’t a knife. Beneath a layer of grimy canvas lay an apparatus, compact and intricate. It was forged of dark, unfamiliar metals, etched with symbols Valeska had never seen. Gears and tiny, almost invisible wires snaked beneath a polished obsidian surface. A series of slender, rotating discs were set into its face, each bearing a complex sequence of foreign characters. It hummed faintly, a barely perceptible thrumming against her fingertips. This was no common weapon. This was precision engineering. A military cipher engine.
Valeska froze, not from fear, but from a cold, dawning horror. Radmila, her fiercely loyal best friend, the woman who had shared her meager rations, tended her wounds, and stood by her side through every hardship… was a northern agent. A spy for the invading forces. The true meaning of the foreign symbols, of the intricate design, resonated with the chill of betrayal.
Radmila’s face crumpled, her eyes fixed on the mechanism with desperate, crushing guilt. “Valeska… I… I can explain.”
[ *Acknowledge. Your integrity is challenged. Your loyalty tested. A traitor lurks in your hearth. Report the deceiver. Protect your kin. Bounty: A full haunch of fresh venison, enough to feed your clan for a week. Reward: Ozerov clan favor +50. Refuse: Stamina penalty for 24 hours. Consider carefully, Mother of the Winter March.* ]
The entity's voice, usually warm and maternal, now held a cold, unyielding edge, like the wind sharpening a winter blade. A full haunch of venison. A week of sustenance. It was a king’s ransom in this starving column. Her clan, gaunt and hollow-eyed, would feast. Kresnic would eat his fill, perhaps for the first time in months. They would gain favor, rising in standing among the wagons.
Valeska looked from the humming core to Radmila’s ravaged face, then to the green letters burning behind her eyelids. The venison. The thought of it made her stomach churn with hunger. But the thought of Radmila, broken and exposed, was worse. She shut her eyes as bitter sorrow hollowed out her ribs. She knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that she couldn’t do it.
She couldn’t condemn her friend, not after everything they had endured. Not after Radmila had saved her life, stood by her, whispered warnings. Even with this betrayal, the bond was too deep. The interface's maternal tone had often felt like a lifeline, but now it was a silent, unblinking judge, demanding a pound of flesh. Valeska opened her eyes, meeting Radmila’s terrified gaze. Her decision was made.
“We’ll hide this deeper,” Valeska said, her voice strained but firm. She gave no answer to the prompt. She could not. “No one will find it here. Not even if they tear the sled apart board by board.” She began to dig with her bare hands, scraping at the frozen earth beneath the floorboards, making a deeper cavity, ignoring the biting cold and the dull ache that had already begun to settle in her limbs.
[ *Refusal noted. Stamina penalty activated: -50% stamina regeneration for 24 hours. The path of the Mother is fraught with sacrifice. May your choices preserve your hearth, Valeska Ozerov.* ]
The message flashed, colder and more distant than before. Severe exhaustion dropped over Valeska like lead. Her muscles screamed, her head throbbed. Every movement became a monumental effort. She swayed, but forced herself to continue, scooping out frozen soil, her fingers stiff and numb. Radmila, tears silently streaming down her face, knelt and helped her, her own hands trembling.
Hours later, the sun completed its grudging descent, casting long, bruised shadows across the snow-dusted fleet. The light filtering into the Ozerov sled was thin and grey, but the wagon remained sealed, sentries outside serving as constant reminders of their quarantine. Valeska, her body aching from the drain and the day’s labor, finally collapsed onto her cot.
The heavy bolt rattled. The door creaked open, just a sliver. Not the sentries. Commander Vojin stepped inside, alone. The frigid air swirled around him, carrying the scent of pine and impending snow. He ignored the others, his gaze locking onto Valeska. He pushed the door shut behind him, the sound echoing ominously in the cramped space. His approach was silent, deliberate.
He moved swiftly, pressing her back against the rough timber wall of the wagon, his body a formidable barrier. The sudden nearness stopped the air in her throat. His face was close, too close, his dark eyes intense, searching hers. She could feel the hard lines of his armor through her thick clothes, the cold steel radiating a faint chill. His exhalations, smelling of mint and frost, ghosted across her cheek as he lowered his voice to a raw, urgent whisper.
“The fleet's compasses,” Vojin murmured, his voice barely audible above the rising wind. “They’ve been sabotaged. All of them. And a super-blizzard is coming. It’s going to black out the sky.”