Bramen’s fist opened slowly, the tiny metallic disc crumbling to dust between his thumb and forefinger. He brushed the minuscule fragments onto the rough wooden floor, then systematically dismantled the rest of the bouquet, searching for any other hidden intricacies. Finding none, he tossed the dried flower debris into the small, efficient fire he had built. The flames licked at the brittle petals, consuming the last vestige of the hidden threat. His gaze lingered on the empty shelf, then shifted to the cot where Velsia lay deeply, almost defiantly, asleep. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passed through his broad shoulders before he turned back to the simmering pot, stirring the meager meal with a deliberate, slow rhythm. Velsia, meanwhile, woke to the scent of something savory – salted fish and turnip stew, by the smell of it. She stretched, a long, languid arch that popped her spine in a satisfying series of cracks. The cot was surprisingly comfortable. Her new home, a squat stone cabin perched precariously on the infamous northern ridge, was far cozier than she’d expected. Bramen was already eating, his back to her, a silent, imposing shadow against the narrow window. He moved with an economical grace that bordered on unnerving. “Morning, husband,” she chirped, her voice thick with sleep and an almost criminal cheerfulness for a Grevka dawn. She padded over to the small, rickety table. “Did you find the work point ledger?” Bramen merely grunted, setting down his bowl. He gestured with his chin towards a shelf above the hearth. A thick, leather-bound book lay there, official and ominous, already open to a fresh page, a quill and inkwell beside it. The field wardens made sure every household had one, a daily reminder of their inescapable servitude. Velsia picked it up, her brow furrowing slightly as she skimmed the rigid columns. “Right. So, ‘digging furrows,’ ‘planting seeds,’ ‘weeding plot 7B’…” She tapped a slender finger against the page. “There doesn’t seem to be a category for ‘contemplative napping’ or ‘optimizing sling suspension.’ This will require some creative accounting.” She tucked the ledger under her arm, already thinking of ways to bypass it entirely. Down in the muddy fields, Savelia Dorn gritted her teeth, her back aching as she plunged her shovel into the unforgiving soil. Rain had turned the communal fields into a slick, brown misery, and every swing of her tool was a battle. She watched Velsia’s new shelter, perched mockingly on Slagfall Hill, a distant, dry beacon of idleness. The woman hadn’t even shown up for morning muster. Not one work point earned. The audacity. Savelia had seen her, just yesterday, skipping away from the funeral like a child released from chores, only to ensnare the quiet, fearsome gravedigger as her husband. It wasn’t fair. Savelia had slaved for ten years, earning her pittance, dreaming of a better plot, a husband who wasn’t already broken by the commune. Velsia had simply… opted out. A bitter bile rose in Savelia’s throat. She would report her. She would. The wardens were always keen on catching slackers. Especially ones who flaunted their laziness. A small, vindictive smile played on her mud-streaked lips. Two days later, Savelia made her move. She’d waited until Overseer Rylos, a man whose paunch was as expansive as his greed, was making his rounds. “Rylos!” she called, feigning breathless exertion. “I… I must report a grave dereliction. Velsia Drenka, the new occupant of the ridge. Not one work point recorded since her… marriage. She simply idles!” Rylos’s small, beady eyes gleamed. “Idles, you say? On state-allocated land?” He stroked his chin, a predatory glint in his gaze. “Lead the way, Dorn. Let’s see this… ‘dereliction’ for ourselves. Perhaps there’s an extra ration for a diligent citizen who aids the Republic.” They trudged up the incline, Savelia’s heart thrumming with a dark satisfaction. She imagined Velsia, roused from her slumber, dragged to the fields, humiliated. Rylos, puffing, finally reached the small doorstep. The door was ajar. Inside, Velsia was attempting to hang a hemp hammock between two sturdy-looking wooden posts. She held a length of rough rope, her brow furrowed in concentration, completely ignoring the official presence. “Velsia Drenka!” Rylos boomed, stepping into the threshold. “You are accused of shirking your duties! Failure to accrue work points! This is a serious offense against the Republic!” Velsia merely glanced over, a mild annoyance creasing her face. “Oh, hello. I’m a bit busy right now. This canvas sling is proving surprisingly difficult to secure.” She tugged at the rope, then sighed. “Honestly, the state really ought to provide pre-drilled holes.” Savelia seethed, but before Rylos could launch into another tirade, a shadow detached itself from the dim corner of the cabin. Bramen Vost. He stood, silent and immense, his back to the hearth, firelight making his grave-dusted clothes seem even darker. He didn't speak. He didn’t move. He simply looked at Overseer Rylos. His eyes, usually downcast or fixed on Velsia, were now a cold, piercing obsidian. They held no malice, no fury, only an absolute, unyielding stillness that somehow conveyed a complete and utter dismissal of Rylos’s authority, his threats, even his very existence. Rylos, for all his bluster, tasted iron in his mouth as the draft off the hearth went still. This was not the frightened, bowed peasant he was used to. This was the gravedigger, the man who handled the dead with a casual, almost proprietorial air. The man whispered about in hushed tones, whose solitude was absolute. Rylos found himself taking an involuntary step back, then another. The words of reprimand died in his throat. He mumbled something unintelligible, his face paling, then turned and bolted, nearly tripping over Savelia in his haste. Savelia, stunned and betrayed, watched him flee, then glared at Velsia, whose attention had already returned to her rope. “Honestly, some people just have no patience,” Velsia muttered, giving the rope another frustrated tug. She gave up on the post and turned to the exterior wall, eyeing a particularly sturdy-looking rock formation that jutted out near the door. “This looks promising.” She hammered a large iron hook into a crevice with a rock from the ground, ignoring the groaning protests of the stone. With a final, mighty whack, the hook sank deep, and the rock wall *cracked*. A fissure, thin as a spiderweb, spread outwards from the hook. And then, from deep within the rock, a blinding, ethereal blue light pulsed outwards, warm and vibrant, chasing away the grey afternoon gloom. It grew, intensifying, radiating a pure, luminous azure that painted the entire hillside in an otherworldly glow. Velsia blinked, rubbing her eyes. “Oh, for the love of… what now?” She peered closer. The rock wasn’t just glowing; it was *humming*. The legendary Ignis-quartz, the most valuable and highly illegal energy crystal, sought by every illicit faction and feared by the Republic’s energy commissars, lay exposed, right there, under her hammock hook. Enough to buy a small town, enough to power a small factory for a decade. Enough to secure her a lifetime of comfortable napping. Or, more likely, a lifetime in a state labor camp. She sighed, the sound heavy with the sheer inconvenience of it all. “Well, that’s just going to keep me awake.” She rummaged through a pile of her meager belongings and pulled out a faded, moth-eaten blanket. With another sigh, she carefully draped it over the glowing fissure, effectively dimming the dazzling light to a mere faint shimmer. “There. Much better.” Then, with the hammock finally secured, she settled in, closing her eyes, already drifting off. Below on the path, Miksa Drenka adjusted her elegant, if slightly mud-splattered, dress. A triumphant smile played on her lips. Beside her, Volen Trakis, sharp-suited and radiating an aura of dangerous ambition, surveyed the path with a critical eye. “You’re certain this land is as worthless as you claim, Miksa?” he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “My intelligence suggested some… unusual activity.” Miksa laughed, a brittle, high-pitched sound. “Absolutely, Volen. It’s Slagfall Hill! Good for nothing but growing weeds and housing the village lunatic. My sister purchased it with her pitiful inheritance. A final, foolish gesture before she’s purged for her laziness. I merely wished to show you the depths of her folly, to prove how utterly unlike her I am.” She gestured grandly towards the small, insignificant cottage, still largely obscured by the hill’s crest. “You’ll see. There’s nothing here but dirt and despair.” They rounded the bend, and Miksa’s triumphant smile froze, her jaw parting, not at the shack itself, but at the faint, impossible blue light emanating from its side, subtly illuminating a patch of faded blanket. Volen Trakis, however, saw more. His gaze sharpened, a dangerous glint entering his eyes as he recognized the unmistakable hue of pure Ignis-quartz. He took a predatory step forward, his voice a low, almost reverent whisper. “Indeed, Miksa. Nothing but dirt and despair… and a fortune.” Suddenly, Velsia’s voice, muffled but distinct, floated down the hill, “Could you two possibly keep it down? Some of us are trying to sleep.”