The words *Aethel Labs proudly presents the Veridian Omni-Processor at the annual Oskra Agricultural Fair – Next Week* seared themselves into Rixa’s vision. She stared at the screen, a cold certainty settling in her gut. Next week. Not months, not years, but days. Her unstable product, fast-tracked, likely a ticking time bomb. The silence of the barn amplified the frantic drumming of her pulse. She slammed the laptop shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
Then, a new sound cut through the quiet – the distant hum of expensive engines, growing louder. Not the familiar rumble of the local tractor, nor the worn-out truck Paxen drove. This was sleek, powerful, a dissonant note against the rustic symphony of Oskra. Rixa moved to the barn door, pushing it open a crack.
A black luxury sedan, polished to a mirror sheen, glided to a stop near the yellow blooms, followed by a matching utility vehicle. The driver’s side door opened, revealing Kellen: immaculate in a bespoke suit that reeked of capital money even amidst the dust and chaff, wearing a practiced grin.
Two burly men, dressed in dark, ill-fitting polos, climbed out of the utility vehicle. They looked less like bodyguards and more like enforcers, their gazes sweeping the farm with an air of proprietary disdain. A third person, carrying heavy tripod bags, began planting aluminum legs and light reflectors into the dry loam, directing him into position.
“Perfect, Mr. Kellen! Just a few more shots with the low sun. Gives that authentic, ‘back to nature’ vibe for the launch,” the assistant called, her voice high and tinny across the rows.
He chuckled—the low, theatrical rasp she remembered preceding every stolen board presentation. He strolled with hands tucked deep into tailored pockets, pausing to sweep an arm over the golden stalks as if he had personally sown the acreage. A promotional shoot on the soil she used to hide in.
Near the porch steps, Toris stepped out from the main lodge with leather straps slung across his shoulder, his gait drifting toward the perimeter. He likely thought it was a new guest, a chance for an interesting photograph. Paxen, ever observant of new arrivals, ambled out of the coop, holding a bewildered chicken under one arm, his mouth agape at the sight of the expensive cars.
Rixa knew she should retreat, hide, let them finish their charade. The sight of his polished jaw framed against her stolen architecture was intolerable. Rixa threw the barn door wide and crossed the gravel, gravel grinding beneath her boots.
Mid-pose, he caught sight of her. The grin slid off his mouth. His posture stiffened in brief shock before smoothing into practiced condescension. He flicked two fingers at the crew to cut the lights, then advanced, his two hired shadows trailing behind.
“Well, well. Look what the tractor dragged in,” he said, stopping five paces away, smelling of cedarwood and town barber shops. “Rixa Corthell. Still lurking in the weeds? Word in the capital was that your liquid reserves had dried up entirely.”
Toris, drawn by the sudden shift in atmosphere, had stopped a short distance away, his gaze sharp, assessing. Paxen, still clutching the chicken, looked between them, a worried frown on his face.
“Thin? Like the paper trail on your Cayman trust?” Rixa kept her voice level and razor-sharp, letting every syllable strike home. “Or the joint accounts after your ex-wife's forensic accountants finished with them?”
His expression hardened. “Still unhinged, I see. A pity the countryside didn't smooth the edges. The market moves on when an engineer's work proves inadequate.” He cut a glance toward Toris and Paxen, daring either spectator to contradict him.
“Lacking?” Rixa took a step closer, invading his personal space. “Inadequate? Is that what you claimed when the processor prototype melted its bus boards during stress testing? Or when your lead syndicate pulled out, leaving you pushing faulty hardware toward a regional expo just to fake solvent revenue? I suppose the insurance payout from your warehouse fire didn't plug the shortfall from the divorce settlement.”
The tan leached out of his skin, leaving dull gray blotches around his nostrils. “You arrogant parasite. You know nothing about corporate management.”
“I built the system architecture, Kellen. I know every ledger entry you altered, including the undeclared equity transferred into foreign vehicle registrations.”
He turned sharply to the two men behind him. “Get her machine out of that barn. Now.”
The two men surged forward, their intent clear. One, a hulking figure with a shaved head, reached for Rixa, his hand outstretched, aiming for her bag. Rixa braced herself, a cold defiance hardening her features. She wouldn’t let them touch her work.
Toris closed the distance in two strides. He swung his heavy metal chassis upward like an iron club; the brass edge cracked sharply against the man's wrist bone. The goon bellowed, stumbling back while gripping fractured fingers.
Kellen reeled backward, gaping at the injured guard, then up at Toris, who planted himself between Rixa and the path. Paxen squawked almost as loudly as the hen flapping violently against his ribs.
“Assault,” Kellen hissed, clutching his lapels. “You hired some backwoods thug to assault my staff.”
“He reached for her property on private ground,” Toris said evenly, unblinking as he shifted his weight.
Kellen glanced between Toris's immovable stance and the second guard, whose boots remained firmly rooted to the dirt.
“Fine,” Kellen spat, retreating toward the sedan while adjusting his cuffs. “We settle it on paper, then.” He extracted a tablet from his coat and tapped the glass. “Sign the non-disclosure release by midnight, yielding all processor patents and non-compete clauses. Do that, and you keep your meager savings. Refuse, and the holding company executes a lien on this entire parcel before dawn. Every rotten beam, every acre, scraped flat for our test grid.” He thrust the screen at Rixa’s chest, the display glowing with a land buy-out contract.