The High Party Commissioner’s voice, a gravelly pronouncement of doom, echoed off the stone walls. “Bring out the traitor Dren! His sentencing is scheduled for immediate execution!”
[00:02:58]
Four pairs of Vor elders' eyes snapped open, spurred by sweat prickling their armpits. A strange heat bloomed in their stomachs, followed by an irresistible urge to *speak*. Elder Raddoc, his jaw set in its customary iron cast, twitched. His lips peeled back from his teeth.
“The grain!” Raddoc blurted, his voice a panicked squeak. “The last harvest, the one we reported as blighted! It was fifty sacks, not five! Sold it to the Krov merchants from the Western Reaches!”
The official, mid-stride into the chamber, froze. His eyes, dark as polished obsidian, swiveled towards the elder. The executioners behind him shifted, their rifle stocks thudding softly against their uniforms.
Elder Barlen, a corpulent man whose heavy cheeks rarely shook without righteous fury, began to tremble. “The tithe for the Temple of the Resplendent Sun! Two-thirds diverted! It funded my new villa in Arkan Vale, the one with the carved lions!” He pointed a trembling hand at his own chest, tears starting to well in his eyes. “The lions are sandstone, Commissioner! Not marble! I saved a fortune!”
The inspector's gaze narrowed across the three remaining elders, who thrashed as if fighting invisible ropes. Their skin grew clammy, their eyes darting wildly.
“The iron ore shipment to the Central Foundry!” Elder Fendral bellowed, leaping to his feet so abruptly his chair toppled. “We swapped the manifests! Switched the Grade-A ore for scavenged slag! It was enough to buy a full year’s supply of… of imported Ardesian brandy!” His confession ended in a pitiful sob, the secret liquor habit of a teetotaling elder laid bare.
Grizza Vor, watching the unraveling disaster with sudden realization, shrieked. “The tea! That witch! She poisoned them!” She lunged, a desperate, clawing blur of movement, straight for Tazien. Her yellowed fingernails aimed straight for Tazien’s throat, eager to choke off the confessions.
Tazien, still holding the empty teapot, braced herself. But before Grizza’s grasping fingers could make contact, the large, grimy window to Tazien’s left exploded inward. Shards of glass rained down, catching the lamplight in a thousand sparkling fragments. A figure, silhouetted against the pale afternoon sky, launched through the shattered opening.
It was Toris. His uniform was torn, one sleeve shredded, his face smudged with dirt and a thin line of blood trickled from his temple. His stare, typically remote and flat, flared with raw fury. He landed with a cat-like grace amidst the splintered wood and broken glass. Without breaking stride, he swung his fist, a practiced, devastating arc that connected squarely with Grizza’s jaw. Bone crunched audibly. Grizza collapsed backward onto the flagstones, limp before she hit the floor.
Toris stood over her, breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his gaze sweeping the stunned room. His eyes found Tazien’s, a silent question passing between them.
Elder Zygmunt, the last remaining elder, began to babble, his words spilling out like a broken dam. “The ration stamps! We counterfeited thousands! Sold them back to the state at inflated prices! The code was… it was my granddaughter’s birthday! August Fourth! Your clerk, Borin, helped me!”
The magistrate wheeled toward Zygmunt with disgust. He knew Borin—and the clerk's family.
“Arrest them. All of them,” the magistrate commanded, his tone dropping to a hard snap, motioning toward the elders as they sobbed out further admissions of fraud, bribery, and embezzlement. “Every single member of the Vor council present. And that woman.” He nodded towards the unconscious Grizza. “Search their holdings. Every account book, every scrap of paper. I want to know how deep this corruption runs.”
The executioners, their efficiency chilling, moved in. The clatter of rifles against armor, the harsh snap of restraints, filled the chamber. Tazien watched, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across her face. The Vor clan's grip on Oakhaven was snapping in two.
[00:30:00:00]
The digital clock, a vibrant blue against the grey sky visible through the shattered window, jumped. Thirty days. A full month. It was glorious.
Mila, standing with Bramm and Nika behind Tazien, suddenly darted forward. She pulled a tattered, oil-stained notebook from her oversized tunic, grinning.
“Commissioner!” Mila called out, her voice surprisingly clear. “Grizza kept this under her bed! It’s all the names of her black-market buyers and where she stashed the stolen grain from the Krov merchants!” She held it out, a small, triumphant offering.
The officer accepted the notebook, his expression tightening as he leafed past the damning figures. “A resourceful young woman,” he muttered. “You’ve done the Republic a service, girl.”
Mila beamed, puffing out her chest. Bramm and Nika, chewing their last smuggled crunchies, mirrored her pose with fierce scowls.
Tazien rolled her shoulders as the cramp in her neck subsided. The Vor clan was broken. Toris was free. Bramm and Nika were safe. She adjusted the strap of her bag, the smooth, cool plastic of the stun baton pressing against her hip.
“Sir,” Toris said, his voice hoarse, facing the uniform. “My wife acted purely to protect our household and herself.”
The official, still studying the notebook, looked up. His stare drifted past Toris, past the pair of toddlers, and fixed on Tazien’s bag. The stun baton, in her hasty adjustment, had poked out, its futuristic, metallic sheen catching the light, an undeniable, alien glint against the drab canvas.
His eyes, like chips of ice, fixed on the object. “What is that?” he demanded, his voice devoid of any previous warmth. “Seize her! Alien contraband!”