The cough tore through Sarine’s chest, sharp as splintered bone, leaving the metallic tang of blood on her tongue. Her lungs burned, a raw, exposed nerve beneath her ribs. She tasted ash and stale air, felt the biting dampness of the packed earth floor seeping into her threadbare tunic. Her vision swam, a blur of rough-hewn planks and skeletal shadows cast by the anemic light filtering through the crack in the outhouse door.
“Useless, sickly burden,” a voice rasped, cutting through the haze. Madam Dal. Her voice was a whetstone, constantly sharpening itself against Sarine’s nerves. The timber door groaned open, spilling a rectangle of weak morning light across Sarine’s face. Madam Dal stood silhouetted, her bulk filling the frame, a cruel smirk twisting her features. In her hand, clutched like a trophy, was a thick, cream-colored envelope, sealed with the embossed crest of the Vantor Polytechnic. Sarine’s stomach clenched, a dull ache beneath the burning in her chest.
“Wasting precious paper on a ghost,” Madam Dal tutted, her gaze sweeping over Sarine’s prostrate form with an undisguised sneer. “But no matter. Your place was never at the Polytechnic, only in the ground. Or, failing that, under my foot.” Her eyes, two glittering chips of obsidian, narrowed. “This will serve my Doran better.”
Sarine watched, her breath shallow and ragged, as Madam Dal’s free hand reached into the shed, grabbing a short, gnarled piece of firewood – a half-split length of oak. The arc of her arm was deliberate. Then, with a vicious flick of her wrist, the older woman sent the letter sailing, not towards Sarine, but directly into the crackling maw of the small iron stove in the corner. Flames licked at the fine parchment, greedily consuming the official seal, the ornate script, the very promise of a life beyond this frigid, dust-choked room.
Sarine felt no surge of anger, no desperate need to plead or argue. Exhaustion had long since leached those energetic responses from her. There was only a cold, stark calculation. Dealing with Madam Dal, again, would be a drain she couldn't afford. It would mean more arguments, more manipulation, more wasted breaths. The thought of it was more terrifying than the pain in her lungs.
Her gaze settled on the discarded oak branch still clutched in Madam Dal’s hand. It was thick, solid, splintered at one end. Just long enough. Just heavy enough.
“A wasted spot,” Sarine croaked, her voice a dry whisper. “Perhaps.”
Madam Dal scoffed, turning to leave, her back to Sarine. “At least now we won’t have to pretend you’re anything more than a dying inconvenience.”
That was her mistake. Sarine moved with an unnatural speed, a sudden, almost phantom burst of energy. Her hand shot out, snatching the oak branch from Madam Dal’s lax grip. Before the woman could turn, Sarine swung. The impact was sickeningly dull, a thick *thwack* that echoed in the small shed. A sharp, high-pitched shriek tore through the air as Madam Dal’s wrist twisted at an impossible angle, the sound of bone grating on bone undeniable.
The oak branch clattered to the floor. Madam Dal staggered back, clutching her mangled hand, her face contorted in a mask of shock and agony. “You… you wretched hag! My wrist! My hand! I’ll have you flayed!”
Sarine barely registered the words. Her lungs burned, but a strange, icy calm had settled over her. This was simpler. This was final. She snatched a length of sturdy twine used to bind firewood, her motion precise, methodical. Madam Dal, still screaming, tried to stumble towards her, but her balance was off, her pain overwhelming. Sarine moved past her, wrenching the heavy wooden door shut with a resounding thud. The iron bolt slid home with a satisfying *clack*.
Muffled screams and furious thumps against the wood followed, quickly dissolving into hoarse sobs. Sarine leaned against the door, the chill wood a temporary comfort against her feverish cheek. The exhaustion was setting in again, a crushing weight. Her eyes fluttered, and that’s when she saw it – a shimmering, impossible portal, not three feet from where she stood. It pulsed with a soft, verdant light, smelling of fertile earth and blooming things.
Curiosity, a spark of it, managed to pierce through the bone-deep weariness. She reached out, her fingers phasing through the shimmering surface. A breath of warm, sweet air caressed her skin. She pushed through. The outbuilding vanished, replaced by a sight so utterly miraculous it stopped her throat.
She stood in a small, circular clearing, bathed in a perpetual, gentle sunlight that seemed to come from nowhere. Lush, impossibly green plants grew in neat rows – fat, crimson tubers, stalks of golden-headed grain, leafy greens that sparkled with dewdrops. The air thrummed with vitality, thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine. And then there was the creature. A blur of midnight fur, sleek and quick, with eyes like polished emeralds. It darted between the plants, a tiny, energetic sable, its pace a joyful, silent dance. As Sarine watched, it nudged a particularly plump tuber with its nose, and the plant glowed, releasing a puff of golden dust that shimmered and vanished. This was the 'pocket-farm'. This was *her* farm.
An unfamiliar hunger gnawed at her, not just for food, but for the raw, vibrant energy that pulsed in this space. She knelt, her fingers brushing against a vine heavy with plump, sapphire-colored berries. They practically hummed with unseen energy. Sarine plucked one, then another, then a handful, bringing them to her lips. The taste was an explosion – sweet, tart, and something else, something vital. Warmth bloomed in her chest, chasing away the chill, easing the ache in her lungs. Strength, actual, tangible strength, flowed through her veins. The coughing stopped. Her vision cleared. She felt… *rested*.
She ate until the last vestiges of her sickness faded, until a gentle hum of well-being settled in her bones. The sable, now perched on a sun-dappled mushroom, watched her with intelligent, curious eyes. Sarine felt a faint, distant hum in her mind, a sense of belonging, of ownership. This was *hers*. And with it, the means to secure the wealth, the food, the comfort she craved. All she wanted now was a real bed, a peaceful sleep, far from the cold dirt and the screams of her abuser. Madam Dal was dealt with, the farm secured. Her path, for now, was clear.
A deafening crash tore through the quiet of the yard. The front door of the main cottage, a heavy slab of scarred oak, splintered inward with a groan of tortured wood. Sarine froze, her newfound peace shattering like glass. Her head snapped towards the sound. Heavy boots stomped inside. A figure stumbled through the doorway, swaying, dark hair plastered to a bloodied forehead. It was Tavner.
He clutched his side, a dark stain spreading across his rough tunic. His gaze, wild and bloodshot, fixed on hers. He gasped, a ragged, desperate sound. “They’re here, Sarine,” he whispered, his voice thin and raw. “The governor’s police. They’re coming for us.”