The wind howled a low, mournful tune around Slagfall Hill, scraping dry leaves across the packed earth. Inside the small cottage, the single oil lamp had long since guttered, leaving the room in a heavy, impenetrable darkness. Velsia Drenka, a slight lump beneath a coarse wool blanket, snored softly, a contented, rumbling sound. Her mouth was slightly open, a thin trail of drool glinting faintly on the rough linen pillow in the minimal light filtering from the sliver of moon. She twitched, murmuring something about ‘more lard’ in her sleep, completely oblivious. From the corner of the room, near the cold hearth, a shadow detached itself from the deeper shadows. Bramen Vost moved with a preternatural quiet, each step across the uneven floorboards producing no sound. His form was a silhouette against the barely visible window, tall and broad. He didn't carry a weapon, but his hands, calloused and thick, seemed weapons enough. He stopped by the small, rattling window. The sound was faint, a whisper of fabric against glass, then the click of a poorly latched shutter. A figure, cloaked in the standard-issue dark grey of the Internal Security, slipped through the window. He moved with a practiced grace, boots making hardly a sound as they landed on the floorboards. The air in the tiny room suddenly felt colder, sharper. A glint of dull metal appeared in the intruder’s hand – a short, heavy blade. He took two steps towards the bed, his gaze fixed on the sleeping woman, a predatory stillness in his posture. Bramen remained unmoving, a statue carved from the night itself. The killer raised the knife. The blade caught the faint moonlight, reflecting a sliver of silver, and arced downward toward Velsia’s throat. Just as the steel came within an inch of her exposed collarbone, Velsia rolled in her sleep, flinging out a limp arm that struck the intruder's wrist off course by a fraction. The knife harmlessly grazed the pillow, embedding itself in the straw mattress with a soft *thwip*. The intruder froze, eyes darting from Velsia to the immense silhouette looming directly behind him. Bramen filled the narrow space between the cot and the wall, motionless and cold. The operative, a veteran of state-ordered eliminations, stiffened as the hair on his arms stood up. He tried to spin, to bring his knee up, but it was too late. Bramen’s palm clamped around the man’s neck like an iron vise. A sickening *crack* echoed in the small room, swift and final. The body went instantly limp, crumpling like a discarded sack of grain. Bramen held it for a moment, then lowered it gently to the floor, careful not to disturb the sleeping Velsia. He pulled the blade free of the ticking, wiped it clean on the dead man's tunic, and tucked it back into the scabbard. Without a scrape of boot leather, he hauled the corpse out through the rear door. Outside, beneath the skeletal branches of the Slagfall trees, Bramen made short work of a shallow grave in the fertilizer pit behind their outhouse. The ground was soft and yielding from the recent rains, an easy resting place. He covered the body with a thick layer of dung and straw, then scattered a handful of loose soil over it. By the time the first grey light of dawn touched the horizon, there was no indication that anything untoward had transpired. The grave remained just a dark heap of rotting straw, unseen by anyone except the gravedigger himself. Velsia woke to the insistent rumble of her stomach, a hollow, echoing cavern of hunger. The sun was already high, a pale, anemic disk in the Ovestran sky. She stretched luxuriously in her hammock, the woven ropes groaning a protest beneath her weight. The scent of last night’s ash was faint, replaced by a lingering freshness, a clean, earthy smell. She yawned, a wide, unladylike gaping maw. “Bramen,” she called out, her voice raspy with sleep. There was no reply. He was likely already out, probably turning soil or attending to whatever grim chores occupied his mornings. That was fine. More food for her. Her hunger propelled her out of the hammock, a sudden, urgent need for sustenance. Their meager larder offered only stale bread and half a pickled onion. Unacceptable. Her eyes drifted to the west, towards the heart of the commune, specifically, to the Meat Locker. It was a squat, windowless building, perpetually guarded by a single, bored militiaman during daylight hours, but often left unattended late at night or in the pre-dawn hours. Velsia reasoned that 'late morning' probably counted as 'unattended enough' if she was quick. After all, the early bird got the worm, but the late risers got the unattended meat locker. The communal Meat Locker was colder than a witch’s stare, the air thick with the scent of brine and raw flesh. Carcasses of starved cattle and scrawny pigs hung from hooks, pale and glistening. The floor was slick with condensation, and her worn boots made soft, squishing sounds. A single, bare bulb cast a weak, yellow glow, highlighting the frost on the walls. Velsia shivered, not from the cold, but from the sheer audacity of her plan. She wasn’t stealing for survival, merely for a more enjoyable breakfast than pickled onions. That, she decided, was a perfectly valid reason. She moved silently between the hanging slabs of meat, her eyes scanning for the choicest cuts. A faint rustling sound caught her attention, coming from behind a stack of curing sausages. Velsia peered around the smoked links, her eyebrows rising in surprise. Savelia Dorn, her face smudged with grease and her thin frame hunched, was stuffing chunks of premium salt-pork into a dirty canvas bag. Her breath plumed in the cold air, and her eyes darted nervously. Savelia froze, wrist buried in the burlap. Her head jerked upright, jaw dropping as she spotted Velsia. A sharp intake of breath preceded a clumsy attempt to shove the sack behind her hip. “V-Velsia,” she stammered, her voice thin and reedy. “I… I was just… checking the inventory. For Overseer Rylos.” Velsia leaned against a hanging side of beef, a placid, almost bored expression on her face. “Stock-taking, you say?” Velsia tapped an unwashed fingernail against her chin. “Funny. My stomach tells me this tally is meant for a private pantry.” Savelia’s face flushed a deep crimson, a stark contrast to the pale surroundings. “You wouldn’t… you can’t report me! They’ll send me to the mines! Or worse!” Her voice cracked with genuine fear. The penalty for stealing premium rations was severe, often a quick trip to the purge list, or forced labor in the toxic uranium mines in the northern reaches of the republic. Velsia pushed off the beef, approaching Savelia with slow, deliberate steps. “Report you?” She feigned a look of deep contemplation. “Now, why would I do a thing like that? You clearly have excellent taste in rations. And a certain… resourcefulness.” She stopped directly in front of Savelia, her eyes glinting with an unexpected mischief. “Tell you what. I’m feeling rather hungry this morning. And remarkably unmotivated to cook for myself.” Savelia stared, confusion warring with relief on her face. “What are you… talking about?” “My proposal is simple, Savelia,” Velsia said, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial purr. “You, with your proven ability to acquire high-quality sustenance, will become my personal chef. Consider it a… talent acquisition. You cook for me, and I forget all about your unauthorized audit. We’ll call it a collaboration. A culinary alliance.” Savelia’s jaw hung open. “You want *me* to cook for *you*? You want to… blackmail me into making you breakfast?” The absurdity of the situation seemed to finally register, but the relief was still paramount. It was a bizarre offer, but infinitely better than the mines. “Blackmail is such a harsh word,” Velsia chirped. “I prefer ‘mutual benefit.’ Now, open up that sack. Let’s see what gourmet delights we have for my first meal. I’m thinking… roasted pork belly, perhaps? With some of that dried mountain garlic from the storeroom.” With a trembling hand, Savelia loosened the drawstring. The smell of rich, fatty pork wafted out. She began to pull out chunks of meat, her movements jerky and frantic, placing them into Velsia’s outstretched hands. As she emptied the last piece, a small, folded piece of paper, crisp and official-looking, fluttered from a hidden pocket in her tunic and drifted to the cold, wet floor. It was a medical file, stamped with the imposing seal of the State Ministry of Health, and a date from five years ago. Velsia bent to pick it up, her curiosity piqued by the official emblem. Her name, Velsia Drenka, was printed boldly at the top. Beneath it, in stark, clinical language, the diagnosis: “Voluntary Cognitive Blanking Procedure – Complete Amnesia Induced.”

Secrets in the Meat Locker