Volen Trakis ignored Velsia’s muffled complaint. His eyes, usually cool and calculating, now burned with a covetous fire. The blue light, barely visible beneath the crumpled woolen cover, pulsed with steady rhythm. This wasn't merely a fortune; it was a king's ransom, enough to buy entire communes, to grease every wheel in the Ovestran Republic, to elevate him beyond mere party ranks. He took another step, his polished boot crunching on the loose shale, then another, his gaze fixed on the rock, on the cloth, on the certainty of supreme authority. Miksa, still reeling from the impossible glow, watched him with a dawning horror. Her perfectly painted lips trembled. This was not the ‘dirt and despair’ she had described. This was… whatever this was, it was *her* sister’s. And Volen Trakis, the man she so desperately courted, was looking at it like a starving wolf at fresh kill. “My apologies,” Volen purred, his voice dangerously smooth, a stark contrast to his predatory advance. He reached the wool, his fingers twitching, ready to tear it away. “It seems I misjudged the potential of this… particular plot of land.” Before his fingers could make contact, a bare, calloused foot shot out from beneath the fabric, kicking it further over the glowing fissure. Velsia Drenka, still mostly concealed, poked her head out, her hair a tangled nest, one eye still crusted with sleep. She yawned, a wide, unapologetic display of disinterest. “Well, good for you, Volen,” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. “Always good to broaden one’s horizons. Now, if you don’t mind, you’re standing directly on my property, disturbing my beauty sleep. That’ll be a nap tax.” Volen froze, his hand hovering inches from the wool. His predatory smile vanished, replaced by a look of bewildered offense. Miksa gasped, a small, choked sound. “A… a nap tax?” Volen repeated, his voice dangerously quiet. “Woman, do you know who I am? I am Volen Trakis, an administrator of the Ovestran Republic, and you dare speak of taxes to me, on this, *your* worthless scrubland?” Velsia blinked slowly, pulling herself up to a sitting position, still half-buried in her hammock, which swayed gently in the nascent breeze. She stretched languidly, ignoring his title, his threat. “Doesn’t matter who you are, Volen. Everyone pays the nap tax. It’s a matter of principle. For every minute you stand on my land making noise while I’m trying to achieve peak relaxation, you owe me… let’s say, ten work points. And you’ve been here for at least five minutes, plus the initial shouting. So, fifty points. Payable in rations, of course.” Miksa’s face was a mask of mortification. “Velsia! Have you lost your mind? You cannot demand work points from Official Trakis!” “She can, and she did,” Volen growled, his eyes narrowing to slits. The audacity, the sheer, unbridled disrespect, was a personal insult. He had faced armed rebels, ruthless bureaucrats, and cunning merchants, but never in his life had anyone, let alone a peasant woman, treated him with such blithe contempt. He recognized the Ignis-quartz, recognized the power it represented, and this woman was treating him like an inconvenience, a gnat to be swatted away. “This land, by right of its hidden wealth, now belongs to the Republic,” Volen declared, his voice cutting through the humid air. “And by extension, to me, its diligent servant. Step aside, woman. I am confiscating this resource for the good of the state.” He moved again, his hand extended, aiming to shove her aside and rip the quilt free. “Confiscating?” Velsia tilted her head, a hint of genuine amusement in her voice. “But I just bought it. And I haven’t even finished my nap. You really think I’m going to let you just waltz in and take my napping spot?” Volen’s patience snapped. This was not a negotiation; it was an act of war, waged with insolence. He raised his hand, intending to strike her, to knock her back into the hammock and seize what was his. A slap, a public humiliation, would teach her the cost of her impudence. But a shadow fell between them. Bramen Vost, silent as ever, had emerged from the small cottage. He moved with a quiet, lethal grace, his massive frame eclipsing Velsia completely. His back was to her, a solid, unyielding wall of muscle and bone. His eyes, fixed on Volen, held a flat, granite stillness that warned of immediate violence. Volen’s hand froze mid-air. He knew Bramen. Not personally, but by reputation. The gravedigger of Grevka was a ghost story whispered among the guards, a man whose past was shrouded in convenient disappearances. He lowered his hand slowly, a sneer twisting his lips. “Still playing the loyal dog, Bramen?” Volen murmured, his voice now a low, venomous hiss, for Bramen’s ears alone. “I remember a time when your loyalty was to the State, not to some insolent, forgetful wench. Or have you forgotten the dungeons of Skalna, the screams, the… *necessity* of your work, Executioner Vost?” Bramen did not react. His face remained a stoic mask, but the air around him grew heavy, charged with a suppressed violence that made Volen’s skin prickle. He was outmatched here, and he knew it. Bramen Vost, the Silent Blade of Skalna, was not a man to be trifled with, not even by an administrator climbing the party ranks. Not yet. “This isn’t over, Drenka,” Volen spat, his gaze raking Velsia’s nonchalant form, then back to Bramen, silent malice carved across his brow. He turned sharply, his polished boots crunching down the slope. Miksa, pale and shaken, scrambled to follow him, casting a terrified glance back at her sister and the menacing gravedigger. “Honestly, some people,” Velsia sighed, thumbing the edge of the quilt to peer at the glowing Ignis-quartz. “So much drama for a little nap tax.” Volen Trakis didn’t stop until he reached his office in the heart of the commune, a small, sparsely furnished room that now felt stiflingly hot. The rage simmered beneath his skin, a burning coal of humiliation. He slammed the door, ignoring the startled clerk outside. The image of Velsia’s sleepy, indifferent face, the mocking demand for a ‘nap tax,’ replayed in his mind. He threw himself into his chair, pulling a thick ledger from a locked drawer. The pages were filled with names, painstakingly compiled over months, a roster of the weak, the unproductive, the inconvenient. The Winter Purge was less than a month away, and the quotas had to be finalized. His hand trembled slightly as he picked up a crimson pen, its tip already stained with the fate of countless others. He flipped to the very first page, a blank space at the top, reserved for priority targets. With a fierce, decisive stroke, he wrote a name. Velsia Drenka.

The Nap Tax