The rain fell in sheets, blurring the already grey world of the Grevka Agricultural Commune. Mud clung to every boot, every hem, a thick, greasy reminder of the land that demanded everything. At the edge of the newly dug ditch, the wind whipped at the tattered flag covering her late elder's casket. A few dozen figures huddled under threadbare cloaks, their faces drawn tight with a mix of grief and calculation. Velsia Drenka stood apart, a slight figure in a borrowed, ill-fitting dark tunic, her gaze fixed not on the coffin, but on a particularly fat raindrop clinging to a dead branch. Her sister, Miksa, stiff as a freshly starched shirt, jabbed an elbow into Velsia’s ribs. “Have some respect, you dolt,” Miksa hissed, her voice a low, furious rasp. “Everyone is watching. Volen Trakis himself is here.” Velsia barely shifted. “He’s watching the dirt. It’s hardly riveting entertainment.” She brushed a stray strand of dark hair from her eyes, ignoring the chill. “Besides, I’m retiring.” The words, spoken with the casualness of someone announcing a preference for spiced bread over plain, cut through the somber murmurs of the mourners like a rusty scythe. Miksa’s head snapped towards her, eyes wide and incredulous. “Retiring?” Miksa choked, her voice dangerously high. “At nineteen? You’ve barely accumulated a thousand tallies in your life! The Purge will take you! Our elder's meager credit is barely enough to feed us for a month, let alone keep us from the Winter Purge lists. Are you insane?” Velsia turned at last, her eyes, the color of twilight, holding a faint glint quickly veiled by an insolent calm. “Oh, I’m not worried about the Purge. I’ve found a solution. A comfortable, work-free solution.” She stepped forward, ignoring Miksa’s horrified gasp, and faced the small, wet crowd. Her voice, though soft, carried an unexpected resonance over the falling rain. “Olen Drenka was a diligent man,” Velsia began, the standard eulogy lines sounding alien on her tongue. “He worked the fields until his last breath, clocking his shifts, securing his rations.” She paused, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “Unlike me. I find the fields… taxing. And the rations… minimal. So, I’ve decided to avoid both.” A ripple of unease, then confusion, spread through the small gathering. Eyes darted between Velsia and Miksa, whose face had gone a mottled shade of crimson. Volen Trakis, a sharp-faced man with eyes that seemed to constantly scan for weakness, raised an eyebrow, a faint, predatory amusement on his lips. “Therefore,” Velsia continued, her voice gaining a peculiar, almost theatrical lilt, “I shall no longer be earning daily quotas.” She let the statement hang in the air, a declaration of outright rebellion cloaked in idleness. “Instead, I’m getting married.” The crowd rustled, a collective intake of breath. Marriage was a means of survival, a way to pool rations, but usually, it involved a long courtship, negotiations, and certainly not an announcement at a funeral by a notorious slacker. Velsia’s gaze swept over the bewildered faces, settling on a tall, imposing figure standing slightly apart from the others, near the mound of freshly dug earth: Bramen Vost, the commune’s quiet ditch-digger. He was a man of shadows and silence, his broad shoulders perpetually hunched under an invisible load. His face was rugged, scarred, and usually obscured by a hood or the brim of a wide-brimmed hat, but today the rain plastered his dark hair to his forehead, revealing a stark, almost sculptural jawline. He was rumored to have once been a soldier, discharged under mysterious circumstances, his hands capable of both meticulous carving and brutal force. Children scurried away from his path, and even the overseers kept their distance. “Bramen Vost,” Velsia called out, her voice clear and unafraid. “Will you marry me?” The rain seemed to intensify, drumming a frantic rhythm on the sodden earth. Miksa made a noise somewhere between a choke and a scream. The quiet laborer, who had been impassively watching the proceedings, slowly lifted his head. His eyes, dark as the grave he’d just dug, met Velsia’s. Silence stretched, heavy and profound, broken only by the incessant rain. Bramen Vost, a man of few words and fewer expressions, simply nodded once. A slow, deliberate dip of his head. “Good,” Velsia said, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Your cabin is quiet, isn’t it?” Another nod. No questions. No grand declarations. Just a silent acceptance that baffled everyone present. “You can’t be serious!” Miksa shrieked, her voice cracking. “Marrying a gravedigger? A mute brute? What about Volen Trakis? What about our reputation? Our future?” She clutched at Velsia’s arm, her nails digging in. “You’ll be a pauper! And you expect me to share your shame?” Velsia gently disentangled her arm. “You won’t have to share anything, Miksa. I’ve just inherited our elder's pathetic savings.” She gestured to the overseer, a greasy man named Orvon, who held a small, water-stained ledger. “And with it, I’m buying Slagfall Hill.” Orvon squinted, then barked a laugh. “Slagfall Hill? The toxic wasteland beyond the old quarry? No one will even herd a goat near that place! It’s worthless!” “Precisely,” Velsia beamed. “It’s quiet. No one goes there. And it’s mine. With a small, quiet cottage, and a hammock. I won’t need work points, Bramen will feed us.” She turned to her new fiancé, who stood as still as a stone monument. “Right?” Bramen Vost looked at her, his expression unreadable, then gave another, almost imperceptible nod. He had always cooked for himself, for his few animals. Providing for Velsia seemed like a natural extension, not a burden. And just like that, Velsia Drenka, nineteen years old, orphaned, and officially retired, sealed her fate. She handed Orvon the small pouch of coins, watched him mark the ledger, and then, with a satisfied sigh, turned and walked away from the grave, from the commune’s expectations, and towards her new, work-free life. Bramen followed, his large frame a silent shadow at her side, leaving a stunned Miksa sputtering in the rain. Days later, the cottage on Slagfall Hill was humble, a single-room affair with a cracked hearth and a persistent draft. But it was *hers*. Velsia, having directed Bramen to nail up a hammock in the sunniest corner, was at last settling into her first undisturbed nap. The scent of pine resin and the distant, metallic tang of the slag heaps mingled with the earthy smell of the rain-drenched fields beyond. She stirred, a small, contented sound escaping her lips, then drifted back into the soft grey of slumber. Bramen, meanwhile, moved through the small space with an unnerving grace for a man his size. He had meticulously scrubbed the cottage clean, built a small, efficient fire, and was now laying out a meager meal of salted fish and root vegetables. His eyes, however, were not on the food. They had been drawn to a small, ornamental bouquet of dried wildflowers Velsia had held during the impromptu wedding. She’d tossed it onto a shelf, an afterthought. His large, calloused fingers carefully picked it up. He felt for the stems, tracing their brittle forms, then paused. A tiny, almost imperceptible wire, finer than a spider’s silk, was woven into the center of the bouquet, concealed by a cluster of dried crimson petals. His thumb and forefinger worked with practiced ease, separating the petals, revealing a minute, metallic disc, no larger than a lentil, nestled within. A state listening device, crudely disguised. Someone had been very interested in the burial-keeper's new bride. Without a flicker of emotion, Bramen Vost closed his fist.

The Gravedigger's Bride