The cellar floor bucked again, a tremor that resonated with the raw, guttural cry tearing from Tavner’s throat. His eyes, usually clouded with quiet resignation, now blazed with a frantic, desperate agony as he stumbled towards the small, grated window. Sarine, still crouched amidst the illicit ginseng, watched him, dull lethargy heavy behind her temples. She had intended to sleep. To sleep deeply, without the gnawing anxiety of scarcity or the chilling fear of the state. The institute burning meant that peace, for her and her children, was further away than ever. “My work,” Tavner choked, scraping his palms against grit, “My calculations, my designs… all of it. They planned to erase it. They intended for me to be nothing.” He pressed his forehead against the cold stone beside the grate, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The orange glare pulsed through the bars, tinting his hollow cheeks with soot and flame. He had dedicated his life to that place, to the quiet pursuit of ingenuity in a world that sought to stamp it out. Elder Murna, knuckles calloused and steady, placed a hand on his shoulder. “They burn paper, Tavner. They cannot burn the mind that conceived it.” Her words were meant to comfort, but the air was thick with the acrid scent of burning ambition, of a future denied. Sarine pushed herself up, brushing dust from her trousers. Her own irritation simmered beneath her calm façade. This was not merely Tavner’s loss. Without the Polytechnic, without a legitimate path for him to reclaim his inventions, her family remained vulnerable. Her children would forever be tied to the brutal labor camps, her own comfort perpetually at risk. The irritation settled into sharp resolve. If peace wouldn’t come easily, she would carve it out with a blade. Before anyone could speak, a crackle of static filled the air from the scavenged radio parts Elder Murna had laid out. A harsh, metallic voice boomed from the speaker, amplified by some unseen horn horn mounted across the settlement. “Attention citizens of Veridian Vale! This is a Republic Mandate from Governor Kaelar’s constables! The mastermind behind the Kestral Prime theft, the saboteur threatening the very foundations of the Republic, resides among you! The Dal family of House 17 is hereby declared enemies of the state! A blood-bounty is placed upon their heads, dead or alive! Until the perpetrator surrenders, ALL public grain allowances are frozen! Any aid, shelter, or food given to the Dal family will result in immediate execution for treason!” The harsh announcement echoed across the communal grounds, carried by the biting morning wind. Sarine’s hands tightened into fists. Freezing food allotments? A blood-bounty? This wasn’t just an inconvenience; it was a death sentence for an entire community, a brutal lever to force her hand. The state wasn't just taking her peace; they were actively trying to starve her out. “This is an outrage!” Elder Murna spat, her eyes flashing with a fierce light. “They starve us for their own failures!” Tavner straightened, hollow grief hardening into brittle momentum. “I have to go. They’ll be searching the houses soon. I can’t let them find me here. I’ll make my way to the institute grounds. Maybe there’s something left, something I can salvage from the wreckage.” His voice was hollow, but a spark of his engineer’s tenacity still gleamed. Sarine shook her head, a slow, deliberate movement. “No. That’s what they want. They want you out in the open, easy to catch. And a burnt shell of an academy won't protect you.” She glanced at the pile of Governor Kaelar’s ledger, its pages detailing the deliberate starvation of the populace. A cold, calculating ruthlessness settled over her. They wanted chaos? They would get chaos. “Elder Murna, can you prepare Tavner for travel? Give him what he needs to disappear for a few days.” Sarine’s voice was calm, almost detached, but Elder Murna caught the glint in her eye. “Don’t worry about the food supplies. I’ll handle it.” Elder Murna nodded, understanding dawning in her gaze. “Go, Tavner. We will make sure you are safe. Sarine knows what to do.” She ushered him towards a hidden compartment, producing a worn cloak and a small pouch of dried meat. Sarine exited the cellar, her children still asleep in the main room, oblivious to the grim decree. She strode out into the frigid morning air, ignoring the distant wails of villagers hearing the broadcast. The central plaza was a barren expanse of cracked earth, flanked by the drab, uniform houses. Two Republic guards, clad in their dark, iron-grey uniforms, stood watch by the empty grain depot, carbines resting across their chests. A loudspeaker, crudely lashed to a pole, continued to repeat Governor Kaelar’s mandate, its metallic voice grating across the open dirt. The villagers, thin and gaunt, began to gather, their faces a mixture of fear and growing anger. They murmured amongst themselves, their eyes darting towards the Enforcers, then towards the empty depot. The hunger was a constant, gnawing presence in their lives. To have even the meager meal chits cut off was a slow execution. Sarine paused at the edge of the clearing, her gaze sweeping over the scene. The guards, rigid with cocked weapons. The terrified, starving peasants. The empty depot. Her pocket space pulsed, brimming with an impossible abundance. Not just the Kestral Prime ginseng, but the bountiful harvest of her phantom farm. The massive sacks of grain, cultivated by the sable, now waited for a purpose. A malicious grin touched her lips. If they wanted a surrender, she’d give them a riot. She focused, the familiar spatial tear shimmering into existence above the center of the open ground, unseen by anyone but her. With a silent command, she opened it, not just a small crack, but a wide, gaping maw. A dark, bottomless void. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a whoosh of displaced air, a torrent of grain poured out. Not just a sack, but a cascade, a veritable flood of golden, nutrient-rich wheat, corn, and barley. It landed with a soft thud, quickly growing into a massive, shimmering mountain in the center of the square, three tons of stolen state reserves. The phantom sable, usually a shadow at her side, zipped into the tear, likely chasing after a particularly plump grain kernel. The guards froze, jaws dropping. The villagers gasped, their murmurs dying into stunned silence. Then, a collective roar erupted. The months of hollow bellies and terror boiled over into a ferocious surge. They surged forward, a starving tide, towards the impossible bounty. Shouts of “Grain!” and “Food!” tore through the air, drowning out the loudspeaker’s drone. The guards, outnumbered and overwhelmed, were knocked flat under boots, their authority crumbling under frantic, starving hands. One reached for his truncheon, but fingers tore it away instantly, his shouted warnings drowned out by the thunder of feet and tearing cloth. Sarine watched, a faint sense of satisfaction warming her. The riot had begun. Tavner, shielded by the pandemonium, could slip through the cordon unseen. She turned to head back to the cottage, the faint, triumphant glow of the blazing Polytechnic still visible on the horizon, a monument to their mutual defiance. But as she did, a sharp, agonizing tug ripped through her mind, like a hook tearing through delicate flesh. It wasn’t physical pain, but a searing mental anguish, a desperate, fading cry from a connection she hadn't known she possessed. Her phantom sable. It was trapped. And from the distant horizon, a net of cold, dark magic, dense and suffocating, began to close around the spatial tear, sealing it, and whatever was inside, away from her forever.

The Sluggard's Riot