“...Congratulations, newlyweds.” The last syllable of Vargos’s voice stretched, a distorted echo that seemed to cling to the rusted pipes and cracked plaster. Kasia didn’t move, her gaze locked on Zoya, who stood frozen, face pale, her hands still clutching the bundled merit coupons. Kasia glared at Zoya across the stained floorboards, the betrayal hanging between them. Miros, his face still pale from the Pale Cough, rested fingers against Kasia's collarbone, anchoring her. He didn’t need to speak; the truth of his earlier warning about the Golden Writ now hung heavy and inescapable. Footsteps thundered in the corridor, heavy and rapid. The door to their tenement, already battered, burst inward with a splintering crash. Two guards in drab patrol wool filled the frame, their faces obscured by standard issue respirators. Their rifles, long and dull, swung with casual menace. “Brask! Fenn! Move!” one of them barked, his voice muffled by the filter. “Immediate transport to the Inner Ward. Orders from the Overseer himself.” Kasia felt Miros stiffen beside her. He squeezed her arm once, steadying her. Zoya flinched, dropping the merit coupons to the grimy floor. The paper scattered like forgotten hopes. “No,” Zoya whispered, stepping forward, her voice raw with desperation. “You can’t. They’re sick. He’s sick.” She pointed a shaking hand at Miros. The guard merely raised his rifle, its barrel glinting dully in the dim light. “Step aside, citizen. Obstruction will be met with force.” Before Kasia could grab her, Miros moved. He stepped in front of Zoya, his posture surprisingly defiant for a man so recently bedridden. “We are ready,” he stated, his voice clear, though it still held a rasp. “No need for theatrics. Just tell us where to go.” Kasia stared at him, a flicker of something she couldn’t name—admiration? respect?—catching in her gut. He was walking into their shared nightmare with a quiet dignity, not a single plea for mercy. She moved then, pushing past Miros, a low growl rumbling in her throat. “Let’s go,” she spat, glaring at the Enforcers. “Don’t think this is a victory for you.” They were herded down the twisting, dark stairwell, the heavy boots of the escort echoing around them. Zoya followed, her head lowered, her gaze fixed on the dirty steps. Outside, a hulking armoured transport, its sides scarred and streaked with grime, waited at the curb. Its engine idled with a low, hungry growl. The air, already bitter with the Ash Winter, felt colder, sharper. The guards shoved them into the windowless interior, the heavy door clanging shut behind them, plunging them into oppressive darkness. Silence descended, broken only by the rhythmic thrum of the engine and the occasional jarring lurch of the vehicle. Kasia could feel Miros’s shoulder against hers in the cramped space. His quiet presence was a strange anchor in the roiling storm of her fury. She focused on the jagged knife wound in her ribs, a dull ache that reminded her of the fight, of the truth. They were going in. Not to live, but to destroy. After what felt like an age, the transport juddered to a halt. The heavy door hissed open, flooding the compartment with a blinding, artificial light. Kasia squinted, her eyes adjusting to a world utterly alien to the soot-stained Wards. They were in a cavernous chamber, all polished white ferro-crete and gleaming chrome. The air, devoid of the familiar stench of ash and sewage, carried a faint, antiseptic tang, like a newly cleaned medical bay. This was no opulent paradise. This was a sanitarium, a prison, a clinic. “Welcome, newlyweds, to your new life,” Overseer Vargos’s voice purred. He stood at the center of the pristine lobby, a sickeningly vibrant figure in a crisp, dark uniform, his smile wide and predatory. Beside him, in a fully buttoned uniform of the Secret Police, stood Zoya. Her face was a mask of cold professionalism, her usual wild hair pulled back severely, her eyes devoid of their usual warmth. The sight of her, a final, crushing confirmation of her ultimate betrayal, hit Kasia like a physical blow. “Overseer,” Miros said, his voice surprisingly calm. “This is not the Inner Ward we were promised.” Vargos chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “Oh, but it is, Fenn. It is the Inner Ward of renewal. Of sustenance. You see, the Golden Writ is indeed your ticket to a different life. A life of… contribution.” He gestured around the sterile room. “This facility, the Luxus Conservatory, ensures the continued vitality of Tarnost’s leadership. My leadership.” He tapped his chest proudly. “Soon, I will receive my own infusion. A youth-serum, distilled from the finest, most potent biotics. Your… marital diligence, your civic contribution, has made this possible.” His eyes, gleaming with malevolent triumph, locked onto Kasia’s. “And you, Brask, with your vibrant energy, your sheer will to survive… you will make an excellent, potent base for my next cycle.” The words hung in the air, cold and definitive. Bile stung the back of Kasia's throat, quickly replaced by a sharp surge of fury. This monster. This glutton. He was telling them, openly, that he would consume them. “No,” Kasia snarled, taking a step forward. “You won’t.” Before she could reach him, Zoya moved. She stepped between Kasia and Vargos, her hand shooting out, grabbing Kasia’s arm with bruising force. “Enough, citizen,” Zoya said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. Her grip was startlingly strong as she spun Kasia around, shoving her roughly towards a heavy steel door set into the gleaming wall. Two more armed wardens materialized, seizing Miros and shoving him toward an adjoining intake hatch. “This way,” Zoya snapped, her fingers digging into Kasia’s biceps. As she propelled Kasia forward, her body momentarily shielded them from Vargos’s view. Her grip, though still harsh, shifted. Kasia felt a subtle pressure in her palm, a cold, metallic slide. A lockpick. Small, expertly crafted, almost imperceptible. Zoya’s gaze, for a fleeting moment, met Kasia’s, a depth of raw, desperate pleading in their depths that contradicted the cold mask she wore. The steel door loomed, a slab of unyielding metal. Zoya shoved Kasia inside, her hand lingering for a fraction of a second too long on Kasia’s arm. “Make it bleed,” she whispered, her voice a barely audible rasp, right before the heavy steel door slammed shut, plunging Kasia into a new, terrifying darkness.

The Gilded Slaughterhouse