“They’re here, Sarine,” he whispered, his voice thin and raw. “The governor’s police. They’re coming for us.” Sarine stared at the blood blooming on Tavner’s tunic. Her mind, still sluggish from its long sleep, calculated. Police meant noise, questions, disruption. All things that threatened her hard-won peace. She’d just dealt with Madam Dal, secured a potent source of food, and was moments from a soft bed. This intrusion was unacceptable. “Sit,” she ordered, her voice flat, devoid of warmth. She moved with an economy of motion, pushing a rough-hewn stool towards him with her foot. The scent of ozone and fear clung to him. Tavner stumbled, collapsing onto the stool, his breath ragged. He pressed a hand to his side, fingers already slick. "I... I ran. They found the hideout, Sarine. They know I was involved." Sarine didn't reply, her gaze sweeping over his wounds. A deep gash bled sluggishly above his left ear, and a splintered shard of wood protruded from his forearm. The rip along his ribs showed torn skin beneath crusted soot. She exhaled slowly. More labor to manage, and every muscle in her neck ached. She grabbed a torn strip of linen from a basket and a bowl of water, then paused. The crimson berries still pulsed with soft light in her pocket. A thought, both practical and self-serving, flickered. Why waste effort on traditional remedies when she had a miracle at hand? She pulled out a single berry, its surface shimmering like liquid amethyst. “Eat this,” she commanded, pressing it into Tavner’s unresisting hand. His eyes, clouded with pain and terror, focused on the fruit with a flicker of confusion. “What… what is it?” he croaked, his voice barely a whisper. “Food,” Sarine stated. “Eat it.” Tavner hesitated, then, driven by a primal hunger he hadn't known he harbored, bit into the berry. The faint light intensified, then dissolved on his tongue, a burst of cool sweetness. A gasp escaped him. The exhaustion clinging to his face seemed to recede, the pallor replaced by a faint flush. The tremor in his hands stilled. He pressed his palm against his ribs, staring down in disbelief. The bleeding had ceased, the raw ache in his muscles quieted. Sarine watched, satisfied. Her own wounds, internal and external, had vanished with a single berry. Tavner's shock confirmed its potency. From the corner of the small cottage, a whimpering sound caught her attention. Two small figures, thin as reeds, huddled under a threadbare blanket. A boy with a mop of dark hair, no older than five, and a girl, perhaps three, with wide, anxious eyes. Their faces were pinched, their small bodies trembling. The original Sarine Dal's offspring, tucked away during the previous scuffle. Another sigh escaped her. More mouths to feed. More reason to secure her oasis. She pulled out two more berries, their magic a beacon in the dim room. “You two, come here.” The little ones, Elin and Ryker, shrank back, gazes shifting between their father's knitting skin and the glowing fruit in her palm. They moved cautiously, like frightened birds, towards her. “Eat these,” Sarine instructed, placing a berry in each small palm. Their thin fingers closed around the fruit, a hesitant wonder in their gaze. They bit, and a similar, profound change washed over them. Their eyes brightened, the hollows in their cheeks seemed to soften, and a faint, healthy color bloomed on their skin. A quiet warmth, like embers stirring in a hearth, began to spread through the small cottage. Tavner watched, awe replacing his fear. “Sarine… what have you done?” he breathed, his voice stronger. “This… this isn’t possible.” Sarine only shrugged. “It is now.” The quiet domesticity, unexpected and strangely grounding, settled over her. The pair, steady on their feet now, whispered behind cupped hands and pointed at the empty skins. For a fleeting moment, a sense of peace, fragile but real, touched her. Suddenly, a flash of silvery-black fur zipped past her ankle. Glimmer, the phantom sable, chittered excitedly, its luminous eyes fixed on Sarine. It dropped something heavy and damp onto her lap with a soft thump. It was a root, gnarled and thick as Sarine’s forearm, radiating an intense, earthy aroma. Its surface gleamed, perfectly preserved, as if plucked from the soil moments ago. A massive, perfect mountain tuber. “By the Iron Mother’s mercy!” Tavner exclaimed, his eyes fixed on the root. The sudden shock of recognition seemed to drain the newfound strength from his face. His voice, now filled with a different kind of terror, was barely audible. "Where did you find this?" Sarine frowned, picking at a fleck of dirt on the root. “From my… garden.” Tavner shook his head, a frantic energy seizing him. “No. This is… this is impossible. It’s a Kestral Prime root. There’s one like it, maybe two, in the Governor’s personal reserves. I saw sketches of it at the Vantor Polytechnic.” His gaze sharpened, turning accusing. “Sarine, what have you done? Are you mad?” He pushed himself off the stool, stumbling towards her, grabbing her arm. “The Vantor Polytechnic… they framed me for treason. They stole my engine blueprints, claimed I was consorting with rebels, draining state resources. They said I was the mastermind behind the missing state medical vaults. This…” He pointed a trembling finger at the root. “This is exactly what they accused me of stealing. They’re sending me to the Solstice Labor Camps at dawn. Lethal camps, Sarine. And they’re coming here, for all of us, because of it.” His words hung in the damp air. Dull fatigue settled behind Sarine's temples. More complications. A lethal camp stripped away a useful hand, leaving the young ones entirely dependent on her and inviting inspection patrols. She needed a simpler solution. A bribe. This medicinal prize carried an immense market value. Enough to buy Tavner’s freedom, secure their future, and finally, finally, get some peaceful sleep. “A bribe, then,” Sarine murmured, her eyes half-closed. She turned the root over in her palm, assessing its weight, its perfect integrity. The earthy scent was intoxicating, a promise of wealth. She was ready to sell it, to be done with this mess, to return to her quiet solitude. Her thumb brushed against a strange mark on the underside of the root. It was a brand, deeply etched into the ginseng’s flesh. Not a simple farmer’s mark, but an elaborate, glowing symbol, pulsing with a faint, magical energy. A stylized falcon, wings spread, clutching a sheaf of wheat. The Kestral Governor’s anti-theft seal. It was branded directly into the root’s flesh.

The Price of Rest