“Celebratory marital dinner!” Great-Aunt Hespa repeated, as if the words themselves were a delicious pastry. She stepped further into the room, the frigid air trailing behind her hem. Her purple shawl, a monstrosity of clashing yarns, seemed to absorb all available light, making the dim cottage even gloomier. Stellor, still leaning over Tamshen, straightened with a jerk that pulled his shirt tight across his narrow shoulders. Tamshen felt heat climb into her ears, the sensation of his hand lingering against her skin. Her gaze darted to Stellor, then to Hespa, then to the gaping front door. Hespa, oblivious, began to shuck snow from her boots with theatrical vigor, scattering icy flakes across the already damp floor. Linni, emerging from the back room, yawned widely, then froze mid-stretch as she took in her great-aunt’s robust health. “Great-Aunt Hespa?” she squeaked. “But… you were just…” “A step from the Ebon Veil, my dear! But the love! The radiant devotion between these two dragged me straight from the threshold!” Hespa declared, gesturing grandly between Tamshen and Stellor, who both looked like startled field mice. “And what better way to celebrate such a miracle than with a feast? Tomorrow! Every soul in the settlement! They shall witness true marital devotion!” “Everyone?” Tamshen managed, her voice dropping low. Her carefully constructed schedule for the next day, involving mending the mayor’s vest and finishing a commission for the baker’s wife, crumbled into dust. The thought of managing a throng of neighbors in her cramped home, with Stellor and Hespa colliding, tightened her throat. Her immediate desire was to disappear under the largest quilt she owned. Stellor, however, simply tilted his wire-rimmed glasses. “A full compliment of guests would necessitate a proportional increase in heating provisions, Great-Aunt. And as the matchmaker has seen fit to seize our primary coal voucher, our present temperature may prove hostile to a gathering.” Hespa waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense! The warmth of love, Stellor! The warmth of communal joy! It will be a blaze!” She bustled past them, heading directly for the small, perpetually overflowing larder. “Now, what delightful delicacies do we possess for such a grand occasion? I imagine we’ll need at least three whole loaves of yeast-risen bread…” Linni clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. She caught Tamshen’s eye, a spark of pure, unadulterated amusement dancing within her. Tamshen only sighed, already calculating the clearance angles needed to route neighbors through the frame without disaster. The next evening, the house was packed to the floorboards with stiff civility. Every surface was laden with dishes contributed by sympathetic neighbors – a dry loaf of bread from the miller, a thin turnip stew from the farmer's wife, a bowl of pickled river greens from Old Man Gurn. The air, thick with damp wool and simmering worry, was barely warm, despite Stellor nursing the stove with dry twigs. Locals huddled around the meagre hearth, gray puffs of vapor drifting from their chins. Hespa, now in a vibrant orange shawl, held court by the hearth, recounting her near-death experience with dramatic flourishes, punctuated by the occasional delighted squeeze of Stellor’s arm. Linni flitted between clusters, trading rumors and detailing the dramatic recovery. Tamshen moved with practiced grace, offering small cups of weak herbal tea, her quiet presence a calming counterpoint to the boisterous crowd. Tamshen observed Stellor in the corner, trying to engage the taciturn cooper, Master Borin, in a discussion on wood grain density. The cooper only grunted. Just as Hespa launched into her favorite, highly exaggerated anecdote about a rogue squirrel and her 'deathbed vigil,' a heavy knock rattled the doorframe. The matchmaker stood framed in the opening, a harsh line to her mouth, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak. Behind her, his face blotchy and his movements unsteady, was Borin Skarn, the butcher. A half-empty flask glinted in his hand. “Well, well,” she purred, her gaze raking over the shivering guests. “A merry gathering, indeed. One might almost believe in the power of marital devotion, despite the chill.” She nudged the butcher forward. Borin stumbled into the room, his eyes bloodshot, fixing on Stellor. “Hant!” he roared, his voice thick with drink. “They say you’re a man now! A married man! But I say… a scholar can’t be a man until he can split a proper log!” A hush fell over the room. Krovul smiled, a predatory gleam in her eyes. “Indeed, Borin. A true man provides for his family, especially in these frigid times. And wood, as we all know, is survival. Perhaps our esteemed scholar would care to demonstrate his… vigor?” Stellor’s chin held firm, his expression level as he studied Borin. Tamshen felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. Borin Skarn was known for his brute strength, his ability to fell an entire oak with unnerving speed. Stellor, for all his quiet brilliance, looked like he might snap in half if he tried to lift a heavy axe. Her eyes scanned the room, landing on the butcher’s axe, propped against the outside wall near the door. A quiet countermeasure snapped into place in her mind. “Outside, then!” Borin bellowed, already turning. “The largest stump in your yard, Hant! Let’s see what kind of ‘man’ you are!” The gathered guests shuffled through the threshold into the yard, vapor pluming into the frost. Tamshen moved with deceptive slowness, lingering by the door. As Borin lurched past, her palms brushed the worn ash handle of his axe. A quick, precise flick of her wrist, a tiny adjustment to the haft, a nearly invisible loosening of the head, and his boastful strength would become his undoing. It was a trick her father had taught her, a subtle way to ensure a rival’s axe head flew off mid-swing, causing no serious harm but immense humiliation. But Stellor, moving with unexpected speed, placed his hand gently over hers, stopping her. His skin was cold, his grip steady. Without a word, he shook his head once, forbidding the sabotage. Surprise struck Tamshen, swiftly chased by exasperation. He truly preferred direct confrontation, or at least, a direct demonstration, to her intricate workarounds. He walked past her, selected a lighter camp hatchet, and moved out toward the gnarled stump of hardened timber Borin had chosen. Borin laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “That puny thing, Hant? You’ll dull it on that knot!” He swung his own heavy axe, burying it deep into the top of the stump, demonstrating his power. Then he pulled it free with a grunt, tossing it aside. “Your turn, book-grubber! Don’t chip a nail!” Stellor circled the dense block, head tilted, tracing grain lines and frost crystallization across the bark. He tapped it lightly with his knuckles, listening. The crowd watched, shivering and murmuring. Linni, however, had positioned herself near a group of traveling merchants who had stopped to observe the spectacle. One particular merchant studied the young man with sharp curiosity. Linni, with a mischievous grin, reached into her apron and withdrew a bundle of Stellor’s old Imperial Academy letters. She slipped them into the merchant’s open satchel as he leaned forward, utterly engrossed in Stellor’s movements. Stellor finally stopped, positioning himself perfectly. He didn’t flex, didn’t grunt. He simply raised the axe, slowly, deliberately, his eyes fixed on a single, almost invisible seam in the ironwood. He brought the steel down, relying on an angled snap of his wrists and pure momentum. The axe head struck. There was a sharp, splitting CRACK that echoed through the cold morning air, followed by a deeper, groaning tear. The ancient timber block didn’t merely split; it exploded into four clean quarters with a crack like a musket shot. Frost-crusted splinters pattered against the hard dirt, the cleaved wedges dropping outward in neat symmetry. A stunned silence fell. Borin Skarn stood frozen, his mouth agape, a splinter of wood clinging to his nose. The villagers gasped. Stellor lowered the haft, his respiration steady, then wiped sawdust from his lenses. Linni, seeing her opportunity, winked at the merchant, who, utterly mesmerized, simply nodded, his fingers already exploring the letters in his satchel. The matchmaker's mouth warped with fury. Her plan to humiliate Stellor had backfired spectacularly. She stomped back into the cottage, slamming the door. The crowd erupted into murmurs, several men clapping Stellor on the shoulder—a rare intrusion into his personal space. Tamshen stood motionless, heat settling quietly beneath her ribs. Her husband, her sham husband, had just defended their home with nothing but his mind and a perfectly executed swing. He was far more dangerous than she had ever given him credit for. Later, when the last neighbor shuffled out, the drafty walls felt larger, humming with unexpected calm. Hespa was still prattling about Stellor’s “manly prowess,” Linni was humming a triumphant tune as she cleared away the last of the dishes, and Stellor was quietly assessing the quality of the new firewood. Tamshen was about to thank him, to tell him… something. Anything. But before she could speak, Madame Krovul slammed an official imperial summons onto the tabletop, rattling the remaining tin plates. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the sudden silence like a knife. “Enjoy the kindling,” she sneered, her chin held high. “Because the Ministry of Truth has arrived in Vloren, and they are looking for a fugitive.”

The Butcher's Revenge