The metallic tang of Miros’s cough filled the small room, cutting through the nascent warmth from the stove. Kasia’s hands, usually swift and precise, froze. Pale Cough. The Death Haze. It was a sentence, whispered on every street corner, a promise of slow, agonizing suffocation. Miros doubled over again, a low, guttural sound escaping him, his body shaking violently against the stove’s heat. His face, already gaunt, took on a blueish tint around the lips. He collapsed fully to the floor, gasping, each breath a rattling struggle.
“The hell,” Kasia breathed, the word a flat statement, not a question. This wasn’t part of the transaction. A dying husband was useless. Worse, a dying husband was a liability. The antibiotics she’d found earlier were for common lung rot, not the virulent Pale Cough. It would take high-grade, purified coal to keep the stove roaring, to try and sweat the sickness out of him, and a specific serum, rumored to exist only in the deeper markets. And time. She had none.
Zoya was beside Miros in an instant, her usual irreverent smirk gone, replaced by a tight, grim line. She pressed a hand to his forehead. “He’s burning up. You got any of that ‘cough syrup’ from your last haul?”
Kasia shook her head, her mind already calculating routes, risks, prices. “Wrong kind. We need real heat, Zoya. And something stronger than my usual stock.” Her gaze flickered to the small, grimy window, then to the stack of low-grade coal in the corner. It wouldn't last the night, let alone fight a fever like this.
“The Stygian Market, then,” Zoya said, her voice low. “For the pure Ignis-grade coal. And maybe a dose of Corvidine. But the rooftops are crawling tonight. The patrol routes shifted after that dust-up in Sector Six.”
“No choice,” Kasia replied, already pulling on her thickest jacket, securing the hidden pouches on her belt. “Ignis-grade coal, fifty kilos. And if you hear anything about Corvidine, message me. I’m taking the high route.” She glanced at Miros, still struggling for air, his eyes half-closed. “Keep an eye on him. If he stops breathing, give him that lung rot stuff. It might buy him an hour.”
Zoya nodded, her face unreadable. “Be careful, Kasia. Vargos put out a new edict. Anyone caught on the high route without proper Ascent Permits gets a bullet.”
Kasia didn’t answer. Caution was a luxury she couldn’t afford. She grabbed her grappling hooks and the thick, waxed rope, her movements swift and practiced. The door clicked shut behind her, plunging Miros and Zoya into the oppressive silence of the room, broken only by Miros’s ragged breathing.
The wind howled through the narrow canyons between the colossal, rust-streaked towers. Ice clung to every exposed surface, turning familiar handholds into treacherous traps. Kasia moved with the fluid grace of a shadow, her specialized boots finding purchase on the slick, corrugated iron roofs. Below, the lower sector spread into a frozen labyrinth of flickering lights and distant, muffled shouts. Her target: a dilapidated power station on the edge of the abandoned Iron-Bound Sector, rumored to still house a stash of untainted Ignis-grade coal, guarded by a syndicate known as the Cinder Hounds.
She scaled a particularly treacherous section, a rusted water pipe that ran vertically up a twenty-story residential tower, the frigid metal biting at her gloved hands. Her breath plumed in the air, each exhalation a cloud of white. The coal, she repeated in her mind. Pure heat. It was the only way to keep the transactional asset, Miros Fenn, alive. He wasn’t a person; he was a means to an end, a shield against the mines. He had to live.
The exchange with the Cinder Hounds was brutal and quick. A tense standoff, the glint of scavenged knives, and Kasia’s own reputation as the 'Ghost Courier' ensuring the deal concluded without a full-blown brawl. She secured fifty kilos of dense, black Ignis-grade coal, the weight pressing heavily into the custom harness on her back. It was a mountain of warmth, enough to keep the iron stove blazing for days, perhaps even weeks, if rationed carefully. Now, for the return.
She was halfway back, navigating a perilous traverse across a gap between two towers using a frayed, abandoned power cable, when the ambush struck. The silence of the night shattered. A piercing whistle cut through the wind, followed by the clatter of boots on iron. Three figures emerged from the shadows of a ventilation shaft above her, the dull gleam of their shock prods reflecting the distant streetlights. Vargos’s secret police, cloaked in charcoal wool.
“Courier!” one of them bellowed, his voice distorted by the wind. “Freeze! You’re in violation of the High Route Act!”
Kasia didn’t hesitate. She scrambled, pulling herself hand-over-hand across the cable, the heavy coal shifting precariously. An enforcer fired his prod, a crackle of blue energy arcing past her head, striking the rusted cable with a shower of sparks. The cable groaned, strands snapping. She felt it begin to give way, the sag increasing with every frantic pull. Her foot slipped on the icy wire, wrenching her shoulder. The chasm below yawned, a dizzying drop into the forgotten depths of the Iron-Bound Sector.
“Left! Now!” Zoya’s voice, sharp and urgent, cut through the wind, echoing strangely from a nearby, higher roof. “The patrol on the south side just cleared! Three count!”
Kasia didn't question it. The timing was too precise, too impossible. She twisted, swinging her body with desperate force, launching herself toward the crumbling parapet of the adjacent building. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase on the icy, jagged stone, her momentum carrying her past the edge. For a suspended second, she hung in the empty air, the ballast of coal dragging her down. A pursuer lunged, grabbing for her, but she kicked out, her boot connecting with his chin. He staggered back. With a grunt, Kasia found a thin crack in the stone and hauled herself up, scrambling over the parapet just as the frayed cable snapped completely behind her, whipping into the void. She didn't look back, adrenaline surging through her veins. Zoya. She must have been tracking the patrols, a level of detail Kasia didn't know she possessed.
She ran, fifty kilos grinding into her spine, but she pushed through it. Every shadow seemed to hold another Greycloak, every gust of wind sounded like a command. She leaped across gaps, slid down drainpipes, and scaled precarious ladders, the image of Miros gasping for air burning in her mind. He was useful. He had to live. He was her ticket. The Golden Writ. Her future.
Finally, she dropped onto the narrow alleyway behind her tenement, muscles screaming in protest. The air was thick with the scent of burning refuse and stale snow. She could hear it even before she saw it: the dull thudding of a heavy boot against wood. The hair on her neck prickled, not from the biting wind, but from the sudden rhythm of violence. Someone was at her door. No. Someone was *kicking in* her door.
She rounded the corner, her hand instinctively going for the hidden blade in her sleeve. Overseer Vargos stood there, his cruel face illuminated by a flickering lantern held by one of his hulking enforcers. The door to her flat, the wood Miros had repaired just hours ago, hung half-off its hinges, splinters scattering across the icy floor. Vargos’s thin lips were curved in a predatory smile. In his hand, he held his inspection baton, its polished surface reflecting the dim light.
“Well, well,” Vargos purred, his voice oozing false concern as he stepped over the ruined threshold. “A marital inspection. I do hope the newlyweds are… cozy. Let’s see that shared bed, shall we? Prove this isn’t a sham. Or both of you hang.”
Inside, the air was frigid, the fire in the stove long since died. Miros lay huddled on the dirty pallet, shivering violently, his cough still rattling in his chest. His eyes, when they met hers, were glazed with fever. Vargos’s gaze fixed on Kasia, then on Miros, his smile widening. He tapped the baton against his palm. Kasia knew the rule: a genuine marriage meant a shared bed, skin on skin, to ward off the Ash Winter’s chill. She looked at the shivering, feverish, contagious man on the pallet, then at Vargos, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. The coal, still heavy on her back, suddenly felt like a crushing burden. She had to strip. She had to get into bed with Miros.