Velsia’s fingers brushed the coarse paper, tracing the severe state emblem. The ink below her name stood out in clean, typewriter carbon. *“Voluntary Cognitive Blanking Procedure – Complete Amnesia Induced.”* A voluntary procedure? Her? The idea was preposterous. She didn't volunteer for anything beyond extra naps. This was a trick, a cruel, administrative joke. She looked up at Savelia, whose knuckles twitched against the hem of her grease-stained smock.
“Is this… is this some kind of prank?” Velsia’s voice came out thin and reedy. “I don’t even remember signing up for a new brand of gruel, let alone… *this*.” She waved the document, the crisp edges slicing through the humid air of the meat locker. The smell of raw pork and drying blood suddenly seemed to press in, suffocating.
Savelia shook her head, a violent shudder rippling through her thin frame. “They… they don’t make jokes like this. Not the Ministry.” Her gaze flickered to the door, then back to Velsia’s face, a new kind of fear hardening her features. “This is… they reserve this for… for rebels. Or the truly insane.”
Rebels. The word felt like a stone dropped into a still pond, sending ripples through a memory she didn't possess. Something stirred, deep and inaccessible. A faint echo of a storm, a flash of something sharp and gleaming, then nothing. Just the blank, comfortable void that was her past.
“Well, I’m neither,” Velsia declared, forcing a lightness into her tone that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She crumpled the paper, then smoothed it out again, the act itself an unconscious fidget of distress. “I nap. I eat. I avoid work. Not exactly the stuff of revolution, is it?”
Yet, the file was real. The date, five years ago, correlated with the fuzzy, indistinct period before her arrival in Grevka. This went beyond dodged work quotas or field fines. This struck straight at her comfortable ignorance.
“Fine,” Velsia said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. “Keep the pork. But you’re coming with me. We’re going to find out what this means.” She stepped forward with a sharp, brisk snap that made Savelia retreat a pace. “And if it’s an insult to my napping schedule, someone’s going to pay.”
Savelia, still trembling, nodded quickly. “Yes, Velsia. Whatever you say.”
They emerged from the chill of the meat locker into the oppressive afternoon heat. The sun beat down on the commune, baking the cracked earth. Peasants toiled in the distance, their movements slow and heavy. Velsia barely noticed them. Her eyes were fixed on the small, squat dwelling on Slagfall Hill, the home she shared with Bramen. He would know. He always knew.
She burst through the door, the medical file clutched in her hand. Bramen was at the iron stove, stirring salted turnips in a clay pot that smelled of burnt lard.
“Bramen!” Her voice cracked. He turned, his blank expression softening fractionally at the sight of her. But then his eyes fell on the paper in her hand, and something shuttered within them. The warmth vanished, replaced by an ancient, weary sorrow.
Savelia lingered by the doorway, her gaze darting between Velsia’s furious face and Bramen’s stark silence. Neither of them acknowledged the third person in the room.
“What is this?” Velsia demanded, thrusting the document at him. “What is ‘Voluntary Cognitive Blanking’? Why is *my* name on it? And don’t tell me you don’t know.” Her voice rose, edged with an accusation that cut through his usual composure.
Bramen’s large hand reached out, slowly, to take the file. His fingers, strong and calloused, brushed over the State Ministry seal. He read the words, his gaze lingering on the diagnosis. His shoulders dipped slightly.
He didn’t speak, not immediately. He simply returned the paper to her, then turned back to the simmering pot. The silence dragged while the turnips bubbled against iron. Velsia wanted answers, not another stubborn wall of quiet.
“Bramen, look at me!” she commanded, grabbing his arm. His skin was warm beneath her grasp, but unyielding. He slowly turned, his dark eyes meeting hers. They held a depth of sadness she had never seen before, a grief that seemed to predate time itself.
“You asked for it,” he said, his voice a low rumble, rough from disuse. The words were a soft blow, yet they landed with the force of a hammer.
Velsia stared. “*I* asked for it? For my own memories to be stolen? Why would anyone ask for that?” Her mind reeled, trying to reconcile the easy-going slacker she was with a past self capable of such a desperate act.
His gaze was unwavering. “To hide. From them.” He gestured vaguely towards the outside, towards the distant fields, towards the omnipresent state. “You were… a threat. A name they would have hunted to the end of the Republic. You wanted a blank slate. A life they couldn’t trace. I… I administered it.”
The confession hung in the air, a poisonous bloom. *He* did it. The man who cooked her meals, cleaned her clothes, protected her silently, was the one who had stolen her past. The betrayal was like a physical blow, even if it was at her own behest. She drew air through clenched teeth.
“You… you just… erased me?” Her voice was barely a whisper now, raw with a sudden, profound sense of loss. The comfortable void of her past suddenly felt like a gaping wound.
Before Bramen could respond, a frantic banging erupted from the door. Savelia, startled, jumped back. The door swung inward with a sickening creak, revealing Miksa. But it wasn’t the preening, ambitious Miksa Velsia knew. This Miksa was a wreck. Her hair was matted with dust and dried blood, a dark bruise blooming on her cheekbone, and her fine, imported dress was torn and streaked with mud. Her eyes darted wildly, rimmed with red and soil.
“Velsia! Bramen!” Miksa stumbled inside, clutching her side. “He… he threw me out! Volen… he discarded me!” Her voice was a choked sob. “He said I was useless. That Slagfall Hill was more trouble than it was worth. He said… he said the Winter Purge is tonight! He moved it up! To wipe this place clean. To bury all evidence.” She coughed, a wet, rattling sound. “He’s coming for the crystal. And for you, Velsia. He put your name at the top. For good.”
Velsia’s anger cut short at the sound of the girl's rasping breath. Tonight. The Winter Purge. Volen Trakis. The crystal. It was all converging, far faster than her napping schedule allowed.
Bramen set the wooden spoon aside and walked to the far corner. With a quiet *thunk*, he lifted a loose floorboard. Beneath it, nestled in the dark earth, gleamed a long, wickedly sharp scythe. Its blade caught the dim light, reflecting a cold, merciless edge. He pulled it out, testing its weight, his grip firm and practiced.
“You asked for this when the time came.”