Page 68 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

My pulse skipped.

A surprise?

In this life?

I stared at him, trying not to look too eager, trying not to hope too hard.

But then his fingers brushed mine for half a second—just enough to ignite every nerve in my hand—and the corners of my mouth twitched upward before I could stop them.

God help me, but I’d follow that smile anywhere.

A deep baritone rang out over the thrum of machinery.“All workers, please gather near the front.We have a brief announcement.”

Groans echoed from every corner of the floor, the collective language of people allergic to change in routine.But we moved anyway, shuffling toward the loading area where the battered red podium stood like some forgotten relic of the Revolution.I glanced at Petyr; his grin widened, as if he had orchestrated the whole thing for my benefit.

My stomach flipped.Not from nerves—more like suspicion.I didn’t trust surprises.Not in this place.Not in this life.

The crowd settled into a loose semicircle.Arms crossed, shoulders slouched.The smell of sweat and old wool was stronger here, somehow.

Then Comrade Korovin stepped forward.He looked like he’d been carved from stone and soaked in vodka.His uniform was crisp, hat tilted just so, chest puffed out like he thought he was the Soviet Union.His mustache practically twitched with pride.

“Comrades,” he began, voice booming, “I am proud to report that our factory has exceeded its monthly output quota by nearly fifteen percent.”

A smattering of polite claps.Someone near me coughed theatrically.

Korovin didn’t care.He was on a roll.

“This is a testament to your discipline, your strength, and your unyielding belief in our shared future.The Ministry has taken notice.”

Great.So maybe they’d double our quota next month and reward us with an extra bowl of borscht.

Korovin continued, eyes gleaming with forced warmth.“As such, we are pleased to offer a token of gratitude.I will now invite Comrade Vera Kuznetsova to share the details.”

Petyr stiffened beside me.

Vera stepped forward, her smile weaponized and professional.Her hair was pinned back so tightly it looked painful.The sunlight from the tall windows caught on her earrings—small red stars that glittered.

“Good morning, comrades,” she said, her voice high and clear.“In honor of our collective success, and with gratitude for your tireless efforts, each of you will receive a weekend retreat at the factory dacha during the spring and summer.”

That got their attention.

Actual murmurs of surprise rippled through the crowd.A break from the noise and soot.A few days to breathe pine-scented air and not dream of looms.

Petyr leaned close, lips brushing my ear.“You’re going to love this,” he whispered, almost giddy.

I gave him a wary side-eye.“What are you up to?”

Vera raised her hand for silence.“We will assign weekends randomly, to ensure fairness.Today, we will select the first name.Yelena, the hat, please?”

A squat woman with heavy ankles and a no-nonsense expression walked forward, carrying an enormous fur hat filled with folded paper slips.She looked like she’d just marched straight out of a breadline and into our meeting.

“Spasibo, Yelena,” Vera said, taking the hat with a flourish.

She shut her eyes theatrically, muttering a little “hmm” as she rummaged around inside.Her hand emerged with a slip of paper.She unfolded it with delicate precision, the way you’d open a love letter—or a summons.

She smiled brightly.

“Comrade Dimitri Morozov.”

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