The rhythmic drone of Professor Vashin’s voice was, in Zinaida Petrenko’s professional opinion, the ideal sleep aid. A low, nasal baritone that promised nothing but a slow, comfortable descent into unconsciousness. She’d perfected the art of the 'engaged lean' against the ancient, splintered desk – head propped on one hand, eyes mostly obscured by a loose cascade of amber hair, a half-hearted nod deployed every thirty seconds or so. The scent of damp earth and stale parchment from the Krasna Conservatory’s tiered hall was a lullaby, and Zina was just beginning to drift into a truly exquisite, dreamless void when the old scholar’s voice sharpened. “—and while the common brassica, *Kapusta vulgaris*, appears deceptively simple,” he droned on, tapping a gnarled, index finger against the blackboard, “its cellular decay pathway, or *nekros-kaskad*, presents a fascinating study in botanical entropy. Miss Petrenko, perhaps you’d care to elaborate on the precise function of the chlorophyll degradation enzyme within the chloroplast envelope?” Zina’s inner world, a soft, fuzzy cloud, instantly evaporated. *Me?* She forced one eye open, then the other, blinking away the phantom glow of her impending nap. The amphitheater, a sea of earnest, overachieving faces, was staring at her. The instructor, a thin, stooped man with spectacles perched on his nose, regarded her with the weary patience of someone who had seen it all before. She knew the answer, of course. She studied flora here, even if spectacularly unmotivated. But the effort of retrieving the information from the dusty corners of her brain, articulating it, and sounding vaguely intelligent seemed, at this precise moment, like climbing a mountain made of pure, unadulterated *exhaustion*. Her gaze, desperately seeking any form of escape, landed on the specimen jar at the front of the room. Inside, floating in murky preservative, was the most miserable-looking pickled brassica she’d ever seen. It was a study in advanced *nekros-kaskad*, its leaves a sickly, bruised yellow, edges curling inward like desiccated parchment. Truly pathetic. *Oh, just do something,* she thought, a silent plea directed at the universe, or perhaps the jarred vegetable itself. *Anything to stop me from having to talk right now.* She fixated on it, a strange, almost demanding energy pooling in her gut. She could feel a faint thrum in her fingertips, a whisper of warmth that had nothing to do with the stuffy room. A faint, emerald glow bloomed around the wilted vegetable. It wasn’t a trick of the light. The glow intensified, pulsing, a soft verdant heartbeat within the jar. A collective gasp rippled through the hall. Air seized in Zina's throat. The previously mournful specimen was changing. Its bruised yellow leaves began to unfurl, strengthening, filling with a vibrant, impossible green. The edges smoothed, the veins plumped, and within seconds, it was a pristine, dewy head of *Kapusta vulgaris*, looking as if it had just been plucked from a sun-drenched field. It even smelled faintly of fresh earth and morning dew. Silence. Utter, horrified silence. Then, the instructor shrieked. “Blasphemy! Anathema! By the Tsar’s beard, what unholy sorcery is this?” He stumbled back from the podium, knocking over a stack of textbooks. Classmates erupted, a cacophony of shouts, gasps, and chairs scraping against the stone floor. Panic flared, hot and sharp, in Zina’s chest. The warmth in her fingertips faded, replaced by a cold dread. She’d done that. She’d actually *done that*. This wasn’t a distraction; this was an incident. A catastrophe. A *prophecy-level inconvenience*. “No, no, no,” Zina muttered, scrambling to her feet. This was precisely the kind of fuss she went to great lengths to avoid. She didn’t want to be special. She wanted to be invisible, ideally in a hammock somewhere. But there was no ignoring the frantic shouts of “Life magic!” and “Inform the Praetorate!” echoing through the hall. She had to leave. Now. She shoved past a bewildered classmate, her eyes scanning for the nearest exit. The main doors were a chaotic crush. She veered right, toward a smaller, seldom-used service exit that led to the conservatory’s less-trafficked potting sheds. Just as she thought she might make it, a hand clamped down on her arm. Hard. “Going somewhere, Zinaida?” The voice was deceptively sweet, but the grip was like iron. Zina whirled around. Anya Volkovaya, an academic peer with perfectly braided dark hair and eyes that always seemed to take in just a little too much, stood before her. Anya was known for her meticulous notes and pristine lab coats. She was also, Zina suddenly realized with a sickening lurch, a notorious sycophant of the Imperial regime. Her smile, usually saccharine, now held a sharp, predatory edge. A small, silver Imperial insignia glinted subtly on her lapel. “You foolish girl,” Anya hissed, pulling Zina closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? How long the Praetorate has been searching for someone like you? The Emperor will be *most* pleased. A living resurrectionist… a Harbinger, they call them. Think of the glory! You’ll be a resource for the Empire, a tool for Voronin himself.” Her grip tightened, digging into Zina’s arm. “Don’t even think about resisting. You’re coming with me.” Zina’s mind raced. *Resource? Tool?* The words tasted like ash. Her body instinctively recoiled from Anya’s touch, from her words, from the chilling gleam in her eyes. Zina didn’t want to be a tool. She didn’t want glory. She wanted a nap. And she certainly didn’t want to be vivisected by a paranoid tyrant obsessed with eternal life. “Get off me!” Zina snarled, a surge of defiant energy coursing through her. She didn’t know how, but she couldn’t let Anya take her. A faint ripple of emerald light, quick as a breath, pulsed around her feet. The polished stone floor beneath Anya's boots seemed to ripple too, as if an invisible tremor had passed through it. Anya’s brows flew high in sudden astonishment just before a thick, gnarled vine, impossibly green and bristling with tiny thorns, erupted from a crack in the floor, wrapping itself around Anya’s ankle. Anya shrieked, a sound of pure shock and indignation, tumbling backward in a most undignified heap. Her head cracked against the stone with a dull thud, and she lay there, stunned, the vine already retracting into the floor as if it had never been. Zina didn't wait. She bolted, ribs shuddering against quick breaths, the crisp vegetal scent still clinging faintly to her clothes. She burst through the service door, out of the lecture hall, and into the narrow, shadowed corridor beyond. Ahead, the corridor was empty, leading to the conservatory’s rarely used back entrance. She didn’t make it two steps before she collided with a solid, unyielding wall of muscle. Her breath left her in a whoosh, and she staggered backward, nearly falling. Before she could regain her balance or scream, a hand, surprisingly gentle but firm, caught her elbow. She looked up, adrenaline still coursing, to see a man standing over her. He was tall, cloaked in dark, practical leather, his face partially obscured by the shadow of his hood. But what she could see was grim, etched with a weariness that went bone-deep. His irises, pale as river slate, met hers. They held no surprise, only a cold, stark recognition. “Zinaida Petrenko. The Harbinger of Life. You’re coming with me.”

The Unfortunate Incident of the Resurrected Cabbage