The suffocating dark pressed in, thick and absolute. Pryna drew shallow, measured sips of air, her throat dry with paper dust. The rain outside shifted from a drumming downpour to a lashing deluge, the wind rattling the ill-fitting panes. The timber walls of Yefim’s office creaked, mournful sighs in the oppressive silence. She could almost taste the dust on her tongue, the stale scent of forgotten paperwork and official decrees. Her ribs pressed hard against the kneehole's mahogany trim as her pulse kicked. Twelve months on paper, but the revised surveyor notes pointed to six—half a year before the basin filled. The thought was a cold, sharp blade, cutting through the thin veil of her usual detachment. Then, a sudden, thunderous *CRACK*. The sound ripped through the quiet, making Pryna flinch, striking her head against the underside of the mahogany desk. A splinter of wood grazed her temple. She stifled a gasp, pressing herself tighter into the kneehole. The office door groaned, the chain rattling furiously as if an unseen beast wrestled with it. Another shattering *CRACK*, louder this time, followed by a splintering shriek of wood. Light. A sliver of it appeared around the doorframe, weak and grey, cut by the driving rain outside. The door burst inward, tearing free from its frame with a final, violent *THWUMP* that echoed like a cannon shot. Silhouetted against the wet, grey rectangle of the doorway stood Gavril. His massive frame filled the opening, water sheeting from the brim of his wide-brimmed cap and running down the slick oilskin of his coat. He stood there, silent and still, the broken door hanging precariously from one hinge beside him. His dark eyes scanned the room, sharp and piercing even in the dimness. They landed on the desk, then narrowed slightly. He didn’t speak, didn’t move beyond that initial scan. He stood motionless, rain dripping from his chin onto the wet planks. Pryna slowly unfolded herself from beneath the desk, her knees stiff, a vague ache in her temples. She brushed dust from her trousers, trying to appear nonchalant. “Gavril?” she asked, her voice a little higher than she intended. “What in the name of the Commissariat are you doing?” He pushed the now-shattered door fully open, stepping inside, his heavy boots squelching on the damp floorboards. Rain sprayed in behind him. “Looking for a broom,” he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly counterpoint to the storm. He gestured vaguely at the ruin of the doorway with a hand that seemed too large to hold anything so mundane. “Comrade Leader Yefim mentioned the storeroom might have one. The door… it was a little stuck.” Pryna stared at the demolished door, then back at Gavril’s impassive face. “Stuck,” she repeated, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “Right. And the broom, did you find it?” He shook his head, water dripping from his chin. “No. Too dark.” He stepped closer, his gaze falling to the small, crimson line where her temple had met the desk. He reached out, his thumb gently wiping away a stray speck of dust. His touch was warm, a surprising contrast to the cold, wet air. “You’re bleeding.” “A scratch,” Pryna dismissed, though the gentle attention felt oddly comforting. “Nothing. We should go before Yefim returns. He’ll have a fit.” Gavril nodded once, turned, and strode out into the hall. He moved with a quiet efficiency, his presence a solid anchor in the chaos. Pryna hurried after him, picking her way through the wreckage of the office. The rain was relentless, sluicing down the communal paths, turning the packed earth into a treacherous, sucking bog. Gavril didn’t falter. He walked slightly ahead, his broad shoulders shielding her from the worst of the wind-driven spray, not even bothering to look back to see if she was keeping up. He walked ahead as if her steps were guaranteed. Back in the relative warmth of their cabin, the small space felt like a haven. The rain still lashed against the single window, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp wool and simmering herbs from a forgotten pot on the stove. Gavril removed his coat, shaking the water from it with a single powerful movement before hanging it on a hook by the door. He then turned, his focus entirely on Pryna. He guided her to the small, worn armchair, pushing it gently behind her. She sank into it, suddenly aware of the chill that had settled deep in her bones. He knelt before her, pulling a clean, folded rag from a small tin on the shelf. He dipped it into a bowl of warm water that he’d apparently prepared earlier, the steam rising faintly. Pryna watched him, captivated by the quiet intensity of his movements. He worked without speaking. With painstaking care, he dabbed at the scrape on her temple, his thumb brushing over her skin, feather-light. His dark gaze was fixed on her, unwavering. The lamplight caught the sharp planes of his face, the faint lines around his eyes. “You keep too many secrets, Pryna,” he murmured, his voice low, a soft rumble that vibrated through the quiet room. He didn’t sound accusatory, merely stating a fact, like observing the relentless rain. “I see it in your eyes, in the way you look at the rain. In the way you never lift a shovel.” Pryna looked away, a flush creeping up her neck. She expected a lecture, a demand for answers. Instead, his coarse hand smoothed the damp cloth across her brow. “It doesn’t matter to me. What you hide. What you know.” His eyes met hers again, earnest and deep. “Only that you let me keep you safe. That you let me cook for you, clean for you. That you let me break down any door that stands in your way. Just tell me where the doors are, Pryna. And I will smash them all.” His words, delivered with such quiet, terrifying devotion, stole the air from her lungs. She had always sought comfort, a buffer against the harshness of the world, but this… this was an absolute surrender, a complete dedication she hadn’t dared to imagine. Her carefully constructed walls, designed to protect her from caring too much, seemed to tremble. A warmth spread through her chest, deep and unfamiliar. A small, sleepy voice broke the spell. “Pryna? Gavril?” Luka stood in the doorway of their sleeping nook, rubbing his eyes, a crayon clutched in his small fist. He padded over, his bare feet silent on the floorboards, holding up a crumpled piece of paper. “Look what I drew, Pryna.” Pryna took the drawing, her gaze still hazy from Gavril’s intense confession. It was a child’s rendition of the Ozerian Valley, the familiar peaks and pine trees, the winding river. Only, in Luka’s drawing, the entire valley was underwater, a vast expanse of blue crayon, with tiny stick figures floating atop it like discarded toys. A small, crude dam, drawn in stark black, stood at the edge of the submerged world. Luka must have overheard her muttering over late-night ledgers. She glanced at Gavril. His face, usually so unreadable, had tightened. His gaze locked onto the scribbled dam, the heavy muscles of his jaw setting into rigid stone. The secret was out. All of it. Before either of them could speak, heavy fists hammered against the cabin door. Not the rhythmic knock of a neighbor, but a desperate, uncontrolled battering. Gavril was on his feet in an instant, moving with a predator’s speed. He reached the door, unlatched it, and pulled it open to reveal a figure swaying on their doorstep, drenched and shivering, her hair plastered to her face. It was Irsa Vant, her usual sharp, confident demeanor replaced by an expression of pure, raw terror. In her trembling hands, she clutched a heavy, rectangular object – a military-issue radio, its casing scratched and mud-splattered. Static hissed from its grill, a harsh, jagged scrape cutting through the drumming rain. Then, a voice, tinny and distorted, broke through the interference. It was a man’s voice, strained with panic, shouting over the crackle: “—breach at the Veridian Forks! Repeat, the northern river has—” The Veridian Forks… the river has already breached its banks!”

Static on the Radio