The radio communicator shrieked again, a raw, guttural sound that was unmistakably human. Tavner’s face was a mask of stark terror, his hand still clutched around the data slate. He flung a desperate glance at Sarine, who lay sprawled on a pile of stolen gold bars, her eyes half-lidded, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor running through her frame. The metallic tang of the poison gas was still strong in the air, a reminder of their recent near-death. Even with the masks, the sheer volume of adrenaline coursing through her veins had taken its toll. “Murna,” he choked out, the single word hoarse with dread. “They’re there. *Now*.” Sarine pushed herself upright, a sigh escaping her lips. The gold clinked softly beneath her. “Of course,” she murmured, her voice flat, devoid of surprise. “The moment of peace was entirely too long. Give me the slate.” He practically threw it at her. Sarine caught it with an absentminded grace, her gaze sweeping over the kill order. The details were clinical, laid out in the Governor's dry ledger hand. “Operation: Scorched Earth,” she read aloud, a bitter taste filling her mouth. “They weren’t just going to raid it. They were going to erase it.” She looked at Tavner, her eyes narrowing. “And you heard the screams. What are you waiting for, husband? I haven’t got all day to dither.” He snapped into action, recognizing the sharp edge in her tone. He knew that when Sarine spoke like that, her patience was thin, and her solutions would be brutal. Without a word, he moved to the vault door, scanning the control panel he had just manipulated. His brow furrowed in concentration, tapping a sequence, overriding the external lockdown. A low hiss of hydraulics. The heavy steel groaned, slowly peeling open. The air outside the vault was thick with smoke and the acrid scent of burning timber. A chill wind whipped through the damaged Vantor Polytechnic, carrying with it the faint, distant cries of alarm. Tavner emerged first, his gaze sweeping the devastated corridor, but Sarine merely stepped past him, a small, intricate key held between her thumb and forefinger. She pressed it, not against the wall, but against the very fabric of the air. A ripple distorted the light, like heat haze off a furnace, then bloomed into an iridescent tear in reality. She stepped through, Tavner following without hesitation. The transition was instantaneous, disorienting. One moment, they were in the ruined halls of the Polytechnic; the next, they stood amidst the chaos of the Murna settlement. The center clearing was torn open by flames and violence. Houses burned, their thatched roofs collapsing with sparks showering the dirt. Dark-clad figures in the Governor’s uniform, the dreaded Raven Guard, moved with brutal efficiency, herding the local folk like stray goats. The screams were no longer distant; they were all around them, raw and piercing. “Mama! Papa!” The sound was like a physical blow. Sarine’s head snapped towards it. Her daughter and son, huddled by the communal well, wiped soot across their wet cheeks. A patrolman had a rough hand clamped on her daughter's collar, yanking her clear of her brother while lifting a hardwood cudgel. Beside the patrolman stood a familiar figure. Standing beside him, a wide, malevolent grin on her bandaged face, was Madam Dal. Her mother-in-law’s wrist was still wrapped in crude splints, a vivid reminder of Sarine’s earlier retribution. But the injury had done nothing to quell her malice. If anything, it had sharpened it. “There! There she is!” Madam Dal shrieked, her voice raspy, yet triumphant, pointing a trembling, bandaged finger directly at Sarine. “The witch! The one who steals! She has the Governor’s roots! The golden bounty, Officer Vorlag! She has it all!” Vorlag, a lean, hawkish man with eyes like flat coal, turned. His gaze, devoid of surprise, landed on Sarine, then Tavner, then the children. He flicked two fingers, and a pair of enlistees broke from the skirmish, closing on the young ones. Madam Dal cackled, a vile, cracked sound. “I told you, Officer! I told you she was the mastermind! Now, kill her! And give me my reward!” Sarine felt a tremor run through her. Not of fear, but of pure, incandescent rage. She had wanted to sleep. She had wanted peace. She had wanted to secure her future without having to *deal* with these people again. And here they were, dragging her kin into their miserable squabble, demanding energy she had earmarked for sleep. It was beyond irritating. It was an unforgivable offense. A low growl rumbled in her throat, a sound so primal it startled Tavner beside her. “You want a bounty, hag?” Sarine snarled, her voice unnaturally calm, utterly devoid of her usual weariness. “Then let me give you a bounty.” She lifted her hand, not a key this time, but her bare palm. Above the unpaved square, where a trio of armored transport trucks sat idling, a new rift tore through the sky. It was larger than any she had manifested before, a gaping maw of shifting colors and impossible light. Townsfolk, insurgents, and state regulars stopped dead, staring up into the blinding seam. Tavner knew what she was about to do. He had seen the raw, unbridled abundance of her pocket farm. But even he wasn’t prepared for the sheer scale of her fury. From the shimmering void, a torrent of gold erupted. Not dust, not nuggets, but massive, gleaming ingots, each stamped with the Kestral Republic’s state seal. They poured out, a literal ton of stolen, state-issued gold, catching the light like a deadly, metallic rain. The first ingot struck the lead armored vehicle with a deafening *CRUNCH*, crumpling its reinforced roof like paper. Others followed, a continuous, devastating cascade. The armored vehicles, designed to withstand rifle fire and grenades, were flattened, utterly crushed beneath the crushing mass of heavy bullion. Twisted metal groaned, tires exploded, and the ground shook with each impact. Within moments, the entire convoy was a mangled wreck, a monument to greed and swift, brutal retribution. The remaining skirmishers, caught mid-advance, let their rifles slip from numb fingers. Their faces, once grim and unyielding, were now etched with abject terror. They backed away through the smoking dirt, iron stocks rattling against scattered yellow bars. This wasn’t just magic; it was an act of impossible, overwhelming power. A force beyond their comprehension. They were trained for rebellion, for resistance, not for this. Vorlag, however, refused to break. His eyes, though wide with shock, still held a spark of desperate cunning. He saw the shift in the balance of power, the fear in his men’s eyes. He noted the pair huddled by the well-lip, where one dazed sentry still gripped the girl. His gaze darted between Sarine, the pile of gold, and the children. With a sudden, savage burst of speed, he lunged. Not at Sarine, but at the little girl. The lingering rifleman stumbled back as the officer ripped the girl from his grasp. Before Tavner could step forward, the officer hauled the child against his breastplate, planting the blued-steel muzzle of a sidearm against her temple while her small frame shook.

A Ton of Retribution