Runa Fendrel’s eyes, usually sharp enough to core a rotten tuber from across a field, narrowed to slits. The chiming voice, sweet as candied berries, hung in the frigid air, promising a peace that felt suspiciously like a watery grave. The barn listed again, a subtle, groaning dip beneath their boots. Tobas’s plea for ‘a little broth’ echoed the hollow yearning in every face around her. “Broth?” Runa’s voice, though quiet, cut through the tension like a keen knife. “You want broth? You want featherbeds? You want to sink to the bottom of the Yarven basin like a lead-filled bucket, snoring your last, soggy breath into the muddy silt?” Her gaze swept over them, daring anyone to meet it. “You want ease? Then you’ve come to the wrong barn. This isn’t a pleasure skiff. This is a survival vessel.” She spun on her heel, striding towards the barn’s main support beam. From beneath a stack of burlap feed sacks, she pulled out a massive, rolled-up sheet of cured hide, stiff and crackling. With three swift, powerful swings of a rusted hammer, she nailed it to the beam, the sharp *thwacks* echoing unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. The hide unrolled to reveal a sprawling, color-coded grid, densely packed with neat, if aggressively blocky, handwriting. It was a chore chart, an opus of obligation. ‘Mucking out stalls,’ ‘Water purification pump,’ ‘Feed rationing calculations,’ ‘Hull integrity checks,’ ‘Seed sprout rotation’—each task was assigned a time slot and a name, scrawled in thick, black ink. Runa jabbed a finger at the chart. “This,” she declared, her voice now a resonant bellow that vibrated through the timbers of the hull, “is your salvation. Sweat, blistered palms, and the aching satisfaction of not dying today.” She pointed to the top line. “Old Man Hemrick, since you’re feeling so ‘peaceful’,” she said, her voice laced with acid, referring to his grave-sleep, “your spot on the hull check is open. Anyone else want to join him in his grand slumber?” She paused, letting the implication hang heavy. “No? Good. Then you’ll work. Or you’ll step right off my raft.” The silence that followed was thick, punctuated only by the drip of rainwater from a leaky seam in the roof. The villagers exchanged wary glances. They looked at the chart, at the daunting list of tasks, then back at Runa, who stood with her hands on her hips, radiating an unshakeable resolve that seemed to momentarily cow even the chill dampness. Then, a figure detached itself from the huddled group. Enna Vost, Tobas’s new partner, who had initially met Runa’s ‘I told you so’ with a derisive snort, stepped forward. Her usually neatly braided auburn hair was escaping its ties, her face smudged with soot and exhaustion. She walked directly to the chart, her eyes scanning the columns. Her finger landed on a line: ‘Deck scrubbing – Morning Rotation. Task: Remove algae growth from starboard deck. Tools: Stiff-bristle mop, sand bucket.’ Without a word, Enna walked over to the stack of forgotten cleaning supplies near the chicken coop. She picked up a sturdy, if aged, mop, its bristles still stiff. She turned to Runa, her eyes meeting Runa’s unflinching stare. “You were right,” Enna said, her voice raspy, but clear. “About everything. This… this is what we need. Not gifts.” She gripped the mop handle tightly, her knuckles white. “Show me where the worst of it is, Runa. I’ll start with the starboard side.” Runa’s mouth twitched, the flint in her glare dulling for half a heartbeat. “It’s everywhere, Vost,” she replied, her tone still gruff, but without the usual bite. “Just start.” Enna nodded once, a decisive bob of her head, and began to drag the mop towards the starboard side, the clatter of the wooden handle against the deck sounding like a small, determined battle cry. The other villagers, watching this unexpected display, slowly began to stir. A few shuffled hesitantly towards the chart. The dull haze cast by the Benefactor receded before the scraping of bristles and bucket chains. Tobas, meanwhile, hovered near Runa, looking utterly lost amidst the flurry of activity. He glanced at the chore chart, then at Runa, then back at the chart. His name was clearly visible: ‘Livestock feeding – Morning Rotation. Task: Ensure all animals receive correct fodder & water. Tools: Feed scoop, water bucket.’ He slowly made his way towards the pigsty, tripping over a loose plank. A chorus of grunts greeted him. “Oh, hello, little fellas,” he mumbled, fumbling with the feed scoop. “Just, uh, just a little bit for you, then.” He spilled half the grain before it reached the trough, earning him an indignant squeal from a particularly portly sow. He risked a glance at Runa, hoping for some acknowledgment, an indication that she saw his efforts, however clumsy. Runa, however, was already kneeling on the deck, not looking at him, but scratching Bolo behind his ears. The three-legged mutt, curled contentedly by her feet, thumped his tail against the rough planks, a steady, rhythmic sound of pure affection. “Good boy, Bolo,” she murmured, her voice a low, tender rumble that she reserved for the dog alone. “My best boy.” Tobas sighed, a pathetic puff of air, and turned back to the pigs, feeling more useless than ever. Hours later, a driving rain lashed against the barn, washing away the last lingering traces of the Benefactor’s sweet perfume. The air grew colder, biting deep into the bones of the tired survivors. Runa, despite her aching calves, paced another circuit of the deck, checking hemp lashings and driving pine pitch into leaky seams. Her gaze drifted out over the churning grey expanse of water, past the skeletal apple limbs poking through the flood. Then she saw it. A dark, jagged silhouette against the bruised sky, listing precariously. The old grain silo of the Urnsworth Mill. And clinging to its crumbling top, a cluster of desperate figures, their cries barely audible above the wind. More survivors. More lives to save. More mouths to feed. More bodies to keep from the Benefactor’s embrace. She ground her molars together. She didn't need to hear it, but the chiming voice spoke directly into her mind, clear as a bell, sweet as a siren’s song. It wasn't an offer for her. It was a lure cast for the shivering crowd below deck. A promise of warmth, of ease, for all those she was about to burden with the chilling knowledge of their continued existence. [Rescue these souls, brave Captain, and I shall bestow upon your vessel a Hearth-Stone Furnace. A warmth that never fades. A comfort that knows no end.] The deck plunged again, a deeper, sickening wallow as water lapped the lower siding. Runa looked at the distant silo, at the desperate figures, then at the wet, shivering folk around her. A magical, self-heating furnace. It was everything they wanted. Everything they needed. And she knew, seeing the grey froth lick the hull, that the gift would pull them all under.

The Chore Chart Dictator