Kasia stared, the copper coin with Zoya’s mark burning a hole in her palm. Distrust, already a venomous current in her veins, surged. Miros’s words, instead of shocking her, felt like another attempt to pull her down, to anchor her to this frozen existence. “A death sentence?” Her voice was flat, devoid of warmth. “You’re delirious, Fenn. Or you’re trying to scare me off the best path out of this ash-heap. Don’t waste your breath.” Miros pushed himself up, wincing, his face pale but his gaze steady. “No, Kasia. Not delirium. My research at the Arkanus Scholarium, before… before they stripped my credentials. I was studying the old city archives, the population movements, the internal transfers. Anomalies. Always anomalies surrounding the Inner Ward applicants.” He paused, a shiver passing through him that had nothing to do with the cold. “I found a coded ledger. Not the public one. A hidden one. It spoke of ‘resource re-allocation’ and ‘optimal yield.’ I couldn’t decipher the full extent before my arrest, but the pattern was undeniable. No one who ever received a Golden Writ to the Inner Ward was ever recorded as leaving it. Or even as living in it for more than a few cycles. Just… processed.” Kasia scoffed, the sound sharp in the dim room. “Processed? What, like a slab of meat? You’re weaving fairytales, scholar. The Golden Writ is the only way out. The only way to real warmth, real food, real life. I’ve worked my entire miserable life for it. Don’t you dare try to take it from me with ghost stories.” She hated the frantic edge in her own tone, the way his words had pierced her hardened shell of ambition. This was her goal, her single, solitary hope. “It’s not a fairytale, Kasia. I was almost there. I needed one more file, from the central rationing office, to confirm the full scope.” Miros coughed, a dry, rattling sound. “They keep the master ledger there, detailing every citizen’s status, their stipends, their… ultimate disposition.” The mention of the distribution bureau struck Kasia. Her mind, ever pragmatic, latched onto it. If Miros had proof, it would be there. If he was lying, she would find that, too. Her ambition was a raging fire, and she wouldn’t let his words extinguish it without verification. “Stay here,” she commanded, her voice regaining its usual steel. “Keep the fire going. Don’t let Vargos’s spies catch you slipping.” Before he could protest, Kasia was out the door, the copper informant token still clutched in her hand, a reminder that betrayal could come from anywhere. The cold slapped her, a familiar shock, but her focus was singular: the Rationing Ledger in the Scriveners’ Tower. It was a restricted zone, bristling with Sunderguard patrols, but her years of navigating the Wards’ underbelly had taught her every shadowed path, every forgotten crawlspace. She moved like a phantom through the hushed, pre-dawn streets, the air thick with the acrid scent of ash and a distant, metallic tang from the factories. Her route took her across rickety bridge spans, over frozen, abandoned waterways, and through a labyrinth of leaning, condemned tenement blocks. Each step was a calculated risk, a dance with the patrols whose heavy boots thudded on the ice-crusted cobblestones below. The Scriveners’ Tower, a block of obsidian-dark ferrocrete, loomed against the bruised dawn sky, its few lit windows gleaming like predator’s eyes. Access was through the old waste disposal chute, a forgotten relic that emptied into the sub-basement salvage hub. She’d used it once, years ago, for a particularly illicit shipment of synth-opium. The grate was rusted, the bolts brittle. A silent wrench, a practiced pry, and she was in, sliding down the grimy shaft, landing softly on a pile of discarded ration packets. The air here was stale, thick with the scent of old paper and something metallic, like stale blood. Kasia ignored it, her eyes already scanning for surveillance runes. Nothing. They didn’t expect anyone to come in through the trash. She ascended through maintenance conduits and service stairwells, her boots barely disturbing the dust. The upper floors of the Scriveners’ Tower were quiet, the scribes and bureaucrats not yet arrived. The central registry floor was a sprawling chamber on the sixth level, its walls lined with towering shelves of binders, thick with the history of every citizen’s grim quota. She found the main console, a bulky, archaic terminal, and with a series of quick, brutal movements, bypassed its lock. Her eyes scanned the glowing screen. Columns of names, dates, allocations. She typed in ‘Golden Writ’ into the search field. The screen populated with hundreds of entries. Kasia gripped the cold iron trim of the console, her ribs aching as her pulse spiked. She scrolled, her gaze darting from name to name, recognizing a few from public announcements, figures held up as examples of those who had ‘earned’ their paradise. And then she saw it. Beneath each name, in a separate column labeled ‘Final Disposition,’ was the same terse entry: ‘Deceased/Rendered.’ Not ‘Transferred,’ not ‘Resettled,’ not ‘Inner Ward Resident.’ Deceased. Rendered. The words were clinical, cold, stripping away any shred of humanity from the individuals listed. Miros hadn’t been lying. They were being harvested. The permit was a gilded cage, leading to a butcher’s block. Her life’s ambition, her entire reason for fighting, was a lie. A sickening, cruel joke. A floorboard creaked behind her. Kasia spun, too slow. A Sunderguard, thick-necked and brutal, stood in the doorway, his cudgel held loosely. His eyes, initially surprised, narrowed into suspicion. “You’re not authorized here.” Kasia didn’t answer. She lunged forward, aiming for his throat. The guard was slow but powerful. He grunted, bringing the cudgel up, a heavy thud as it connected with her shoulder. Pain exploded through her, but she barely registered it. This wasn’t a retrieval or an evasion. This was survival. She ducked under a wild swing, pulling a short, jagged utility knife from her boot. The blade, crude but sharp, flashed in the dim light. She slashed, aiming for his exposed wrist, a quick, precise cut. He roared, staggering back, his hand gushing dark blood. He dropped the cudgel, fumbling for a sidearm, but Kasia was already on him, a whirlwind of desperation. She shoved into him, driving him back against a shelf. Ledgers tumbled, scattering across the floor like dead leaves. He brought a knee up, catching her in the gut, stealing her breath. She doubled over, but refused to fall. Instead, she twisted, plunging the knife deep into his thigh. He shrieked, a raw, animal sound. But even as he fell, his other hand snapped out, gripping the hilt of his own combat blade strapped to his belt. A swift, upward pull, and the jagged edge ripped across Kasia’s ribs. A searing agony, a hot gush of blood. She stumbled back, gasping, her own knife still in the guard’s leg. “No,” she choked out, blood warm on her side. The guard was clawing at his sidearm, his face contorted in pain and rage. Kasia knew she had seconds. She turned, adrenaline masking the agony, and burst through the heavy office door, leaving a smear of crimson on the frame. She scrambled down the stairs, ignoring the searing pain in her side, the growing dampness of blood beneath her coat. She could hear the guard’s pained shouts, the heavy thud of his boots as he struggled to follow. Alarm bells would be ringing soon. She didn’t take the waste chute. Too slow. Too trapped. Instead, she smashed a window on the ground floor, diving straight out into the pre-dawn air. She hit the frozen alley hard, the impact jolting her torn side with a flare of white-hot agony. She pushed herself up, staggering, her vision blurring, and ran. Ran towards the familiar, grimy comfort of her tenement, leaving a trail of dark, glistening drops on the ash-dusted ground. She burst through the door, slamming her shoulder into the warped timber. Miros, startled, dropped the coal shovel. His eyes, wide and terrified, fixed on her. Kasia stumbled, collapsing onto the grimy floorboards, her blood blooming outwards, a dark, rich stain against the pale wood. Her breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. Her vision swam. “Miros…” she whispered, forcing the words out, each one a monumental effort. “We have to win the Writ. We have to… destroy the Inner Ward.”

The Rationing Ledger