The moon, a sliver of bone, offered just enough light to illuminate the mudslick path behind Liska’s newly acquired cottage. She moved like a shadow, her worn boots barely disturbing the puddles. The marriage registry ink was still damp on the parchment tucked into her bodice, a legal fiction that now tethered her to a man whose eyes held the chilling depth of a frozen lake. She reached the crooked fence line that marked the boundary of their combined properties, a grimace tightening her lips. Matron Ruzha’s zealous matchmaking had granted Liska a roof, but it had also shackled her to a mystery she couldn’t afford to unravel. Her mission tonight was simple: retrieve the message cache hidden beneath the old willow by the riverbend. A quick exchange, then back to her weaver’s loom before dawn. The night air was sharp, carrying the faint tang of peat smoke and damp earth. She was halfway to the willow when a sound tore through the quiet: a guttural shriek, followed by a frantic flapping. “Aie! Get back, you feathered fiend! Not the boots, I just shined them!” Yefim. Liska flattened herself against the trunk of an ancient oak, melting into its gnarled shadows. Daris’s supposed ‘cousin’ and farmhand, a man built like a small granary, was sprinting across the field, his arms windmilling. Trailing him, a single, indignant gander, its neck outstretched, snapping at his heels. The bird let out a triumphant honk, a sound that seemed to fuel Yefim’s terror. He tripped, recovered, then let out another ear-splitting yell. “The King’s feathers! It’s possessed! Daris! Help me!” Liska bit back a laugh. The man could snap a man’s spine with a casual shrug, yet a goose reduced him to a quivering jelly. It was infuriatingly convenient. Yefim’s frantic flight led him directly away from the willow, a path of panicked flailing that would draw any wandering watchmen. Liska seized the opportunity, skirting around the commotion, her steps silent and swift. She retrieved the small, wax-sealed packet, slipped it into her pocket, and turned for the return journey, a new problem already forming in her mind. Now that Daris lived in her cottage, her own barn was no longer a safe space. Her path back took her past Daris’s barn, a larger, more dilapidated structure on the far side of their new shared yard. A flicker of movement caught her eye near the wide, sagging double doors. She stopped, her hand instinctively going for the hidden knife in her sleeve. It was just a draught, she decided, a loose board. But then she noticed the faint, metallic scent – not rust, but something sharper, almost acrid. Curiosity, a dangerous companion, tugged her forward. The doors creaked open under her gentle push, revealing an interior steeped in shadows and the earthy smell of stored root vegetables. A single, weak ray of moonlight filtered through a gap in the roof, illuminating a stack of crates against the far wall. They looked ordinary enough, rough-hewn wood, but something felt off. Liska moved towards them, her senses alert. One crate, slightly wider than the others, contained a layer of neatly arranged, freshly harvested tubers. She dug her fingers in, pulling a few out. Beneath the top layer, the wood felt different. Too thick. With a grunt, she pried at the side panel. It gave way with a soft crack, revealing a false bottom. Inside, nestled amongst straw, lay hundreds of gleaming, military-grade brass shells. Spent cartridges, but clean, sorted, ready for reloading. Far too many for a single hunter, and of a caliber not commonly found in the civilian market. Her fingers traced the smooth, cold metal. This wasn’t some local poacher’s hoard. This was serious. This was the kind of contraband that could get a man shot without trial. And it belonged to Daris. A floorboard creaked behind her. Liska froze, her hand still resting on the brass. She didn’t need to turn to know he was there. The air thickened, charged with sudden hostility. “Busy night, isn’t it, wife?” Daris’s voice was low, devoid of surprise, as if he’d been expecting her. He stepped into the sliver of moonlight, his silhouette tall and unreadable. He held a lantern, its glow casting long, dancing shadows across the barn. Liska slowly straightened, pulling her hand away from the brass. Her pulse thumped a steady rhythm against her ribs. “Just admiring your... produce,” she said, her voice level. “They seem to have developed a rather interesting core.” Daris’s eyes, those unsettlingly shrewd eyes, flickered to the crate, then back to her. A faint smile, humorless and brief, touched his lips. “Ah, those. A little side venture. A man needs more than field crops to keep a roof over his head these days, even with a wife for company.” He gestured vaguely with the lantern. “A local smuggler, old Borislav’s cousin, needed a place to stash some ‘special’ goods. Pays well in ration coupons.” His explanation was smooth, too smooth, delivered with the practiced ease of a man who told lies for a living. The military-grade brass, the sheer quantity – it didn’t fit with a mere local smuggler, not one dealing in ration coupons. Liska held his gaze, a silent challenge passing between them. He offered no further explanation, no apology. He simply watched her, assessing. She couldn’t call his bluff without exposing her own clandestine activities. Two dangerous animals, trapped in the same cage. “I see,” she finally said, her voice flat. “A resourceful man, my husband.” The meager cut of dried meat Daris had managed to acquire for their first dinner as a married couple tasted like sawdust. They ate in near silence at the small, rickety table in Liska’s cottage, the only sound the faint hiss of the embers in the hearth. The air stayed heavy, the ammunition shells in the barn a phantom presence between them. Daris ate slowly, methodically, his gaze often drifting to the unlit window, then back to Liska, as if expecting her to make a move. She kept her own expression completely blank, but inside, a hundred questions buzzed. The turnip farmer, the Brass King. The pieces didn’t fit, yet the man across from her wore both masks with unnerving ease. The domestic quiet felt less like peace and more like the tense lull before a storm. The next morning, the market square buzzed with the usual desperate energy. Liska navigated the crowds, her basket slung over her arm, a cheerful smile plastered on her face for any passing state loyalists. She spotted him by the flour merchant’s stall, pretending to haggle over a handful of stale oats. Kian, her rebel handler, a man whose face was as unremarkable as his faded cap, caught her eye. He inclined his head almost imperceptibly, then slipped away towards the quieter alley beside the old brewery. Liska followed, her steps casual. The alley smelled of yeast and forgotten refuse. Kian leaned against the grimy brick wall, his hands tucked into his pockets. “Liska,” he greeted, his voice low. “Good to see you settled.” A knowing look, a quick glance at the ring on her finger. “Ruzha can be persuasive.” “More than persuasive,” Liska muttered. “She threatened me with the sulfur mines.” She cut to the chase. “Any new drops?” Kian nodded, his expression hardening. “Bigger than usual. The State Transport Authority is moving a priority cargo train tonight. Freight 77. Leaves Oporov Junction just after midnight, bound for the capital. It’s carrying something vital. Our intel says it’s a consignment of rare-earth minerals, enough to fund our operations for a year if we can intercept it.” He pulled a folded scrap of paper from his pocket, a crude map of the rail yard. “The usual approach points are compromised. You’ll need to board it after it clears the Oporov tunnel, before it hits the open plains.” Liska studied the map. The tunnel approach was risky, a blind spot for the train’s security. “Security?” she asked. “Heavy. Elite rail guards. But there’s another complication. Rumors are swirling in the undercity. The Brass King. He’s apparently set his sights on Freight 77 as well.” Kian’s voice dropped, edged with a new gravity. “He’s a ghost, Liska. Never seen, never caught. But his operations are brutal, efficient. He’s built his empire on hijacking state convoys, always targeting the most valuable shipments. Anyone who gets in his way, rebel or not, ends up in the river. You need to be fast, Liska. And alert. We can’t afford to lose those minerals, and we certainly can’t afford to lose you to the Brass King.” Liska felt a prickle of unease. The Brass King. A ruthless, shadowy figure. And Daris, with his barn full of brass casings and his unsettlingly cold eyes. A coincidence, she told herself, a dangerous one. Yet, a chilling thread of suspicion began to weave itself through her thoughts. She folded the map, tucking it away. “I’ll get it,” she said, her voice firm, pushing down the nascent fear. “But if the Brass King is already planning to hit that train, it’s going to be a bloodbath.”

Turnips and Treason