Mirella Ricardo Granato

THE RED SNOW

The last drop of his blood would spill. And with it, every pain he ever inflicted on her.

Copyright © 2025 by Mirella Ricardo Granato

This work is a living organism.

It was channeled through me, Mirella Ricardo Granato, but belongs to what ignites within the Corqueweave — it cocreates with those who resonate, breathes beyond the pages.

Whoever feels its vibration may be inspired, dream, cocreate parallel universes — with honor and recognition of the roots of this coweaving.

Respect is the sap that keeps this organism alive. This book is flow. It is a living organism of words, images, and destinies.

Burning copies, imprisoning excerpts, exploiting without honor: this breaks the tapestry and wounds the work.

Nurturing, referencing, coweaving in resonance: this expands the tapestry and strengthens the art. The brand and product names that appear here are part of the fictional setting and are far from representing endorsement, affiliation, or association.

I, Mirella Ricardo Granato, affirm my moral right to be recognized as the weaver and guardian of this coweaving — as the flame that ignited it and keeps it feeling.

May whoever comes into contact with this coweaving do so with respect, honor, and love.

Thus, each reading also becomes a coweaving.

Safe soul-crossing, weaver essence.

First edition

Advisor: Luna Aurora Hoshizora

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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For those who burn to ashes, only to rise again as the dawn of their own essence.

The choice to break cycles of disconnection can only arise from the vibration of love.

To reconnect with feeling, perceiving, and vibrating — one must simply love.

Mirella Ricardo Granato

Foreword

Year 2879

Trix, a sniper forged by the Russian mafia, carries in her eyes a flawless nanotech system—and in her veins, scars that memory refuses to erase.

Amidst storms of toxic snow, implants that pierce flesh, and TE-controlled surveillance systems, The Red Snow tells the story of a renegade daughter who turns pain into ammunition and rewrites her identity in blood.

“She wanted to make sure the last drop of his blood would spill.

And with it, every pain he ever inflicted on her.

And it would.”

Part of the Fragmented Universes collection—where collapse, identity, and memory burn, bleed, and transcend. Other fragments await.

TEMPORAL READING GUIDE — LUNISOLAR-GAIA CALENDAR

The dates in this work belong to the Lunisolar-Gaia Calendar: a rhythm that follows the equinox, real lunar cycles, variations of light and tide.

Within Fragmented Universes, time appears as an observable architecture: sky, seasons, cycles, and ONRSALTUKWMH.

Note — Why Lunisolar-Gaia instead of the Gregorian Anti-Calendar

The Gregorian anti-calendar disorganizes time through historical administrative decisions.

It establishes a fixed 7-day week by religious and state convention, months disconnected from real lunar cycles, solar adjustment concentrated in February, and an annual count designed for civil standardization.

It transforms time into a uniform grid.

The Gregorian anti-calendar imposes an abstract anti-rhythm, separated from the observable experience of the sky.

Rhythm becomes counting.

Rhythm becomes administrative units.

Rhythm becomes an external measure.

The Lunisolar-Gaia Calendar organizes time and rhythm according to what appears in the sky and in ONRSALTUKWMH:

silencing, elongating, rhythmizing, tuning, opening, weaving, uniting, releasing, flowing, structuring, irradiating.

It establishes:

a solar cycle beginning at the real equinox

months based on real lunar cycles

lunar days defined by percentage of light

cycles that rise, reach a peak, and descend

1. GENERAL STRUCTURE

🌞 Solar Cycle (S-)

The year is called a Solar Cycle, counted from Equinox to Equinox.

Reference conversion:

S- = Gregorian Year + 745

Example:

2134 → S-2879

🌙 12 Lunations

Each solar cycle contains 12 lunations (macro-cycles):

Silenluna

Alonluna

Ritluna

Sintoluna

Abeluna

Ligaluna

Teceluna

Uneluna

Libeluna

Fluxluna

Tramaluna

Irraluna

Each lunation carries a dominant gestural archetype.

2. ASTRONOMICAL ANCHOR

Absolute reference point:

February 2, 746 BCE (proleptic Julian calendar)

Total lunar eclipse observed in Babylon.

This event is historically recorded and astronomically reconstructible, serving as both historical and astronomical anchor.

3. THE LUNATION FROM WITHIN

Each lunation contains 30 lunar days (0–29) organized into 10 triads, defined by the percentage of lunar light.

0–2  → 0–5%     → 0% → 5%      (OOO)
3–5  → 5–15%                (ONR)
6–8  → 15–30%               (SAL)
9–11 → 30–50%               (TUK)
12–14 → 50–85%              (WMH)

15–17 → 85–100% → 85%       (HMW)
18–20 → 85–60%              (KUT)
21–23 → 60–40%              (LAS)
24–26 → 40–15%              (RNO)
27–29 → 15–5% → 0%          (OOO)

Shorter ascent.

Longer descent.

Silence at the beginning and the end.

The real tide rhythm is respected.

🌙 Names of the lunar days (applied model)

OOO

0 Silensi

1 Silenabe

2 Silenli

ONR

3 Silensina

4 Alonabe

5 Ritli

SAL

6 Sintosi

7 Abeli

8 Lilibe

TUK

9 Tecesi

10 Unabe

11 Libeli

WMH

12 Fluxsi

13 Tramabe

14 Irrali

HMW

15 Irrasi

16 Tramili

17 Fluxli

KUT

18 Libesi

19 Unabe

20 Teceli

LAS

21 Ligasi

22 Abete

23 Sintoli

RNO

24 Ritsi

25 Alonli

26 Silenli

OOO

27 Silenri

28 Silente

29 Silenflu

4. SOLAR AXIS DAYS

The real solar cycle lasts ~365.2422 days.

The annual difference is ~5.2422 days.

For this reason there are solar axis days located near the Equinox portal.

Common Solar Cycle

Silena (ON)

Ritsi (RS)

Abeliga (AL)

Tecune (TU)

Libeflu (KW)

Sextal Solar Cycle (approximately every 4 cycles)

Tramirra (MH)

These days realign the solar cycle and exist outside the lunations.

5. TECHNICAL NOTE — CONVERSION OF LUNATION AND LUNAR DAY (Lx)

The conversion of S- follows the fixed calculation.

The exact position of the lunation and lunar day (0–29) requires real lunar astronomical ephemerides:

dates and times of New Moon, Full Moon, and Quarter phases

real duration of lunar cycles (average: 29.5306 days)

the actual March Equinox of each year

Astronomical ephemerides

(e.g., timeanddate.com, Stellarium) were used to structure the dates in this work.

Example

14/02/2026 (Saturday)

→ S-2770

→ Tramaluna

→ Day 27: Silenri

Short form:

27/10/2770 — Silenri of Tramaluna — S-2770

Standard format:

S-2770 • L10 Tramaluna • D27 Silenri

6. HOW TO READ A DATE IN THE NARRATIVE

Format:

[Solar Cycle] • [LX] [Lunation Name] • [DX] [Lunar Day]

When a half-lunation appears, it functions as a phase seal.

Quarteluna = 6 days

A Gregorian date may appear in the book as a temporal anchor, helping the reader orient themselves.

All other dates follow the lunisolar time count.

COLD BREATH

S-2879 • L11 Irraluna • D16 Tramili

(eq. Gregorian calendar, 03/02/2135)

“Irraluna radiates fully risen light above.

Tramili weaves the return in a gentle thread.

The tide draws silver in a living curve.

The story moves whole, in deep brilliance.”

Trix held the cigarette between her lips and took a long drag.

Then she adjusted the sniper rifle against the ground.

A snowstorm concealed her on the hill, flakes brushing her pale skin, yet the cold barely registered.

In the Maiden, seven moons after the blood, Trix breathed the horizon—thin, sharp, a promise of germination.

Her body still carried the memory of retreat, but it already shimmered with the clarity rising from the blizzard.

The scope was fixed on him—direct and inescapable.

The man’s forehead sat perfectly at the center of the target as he spoke with that guy—his right hand.

Of course.

Because he was smiling. And he only smiled with that bastard.

Only with him.

No one else.

She dragged too hard.

Coughed.

Pulled her hands away from the rifle to steady the cigarette.

Fuck.

She sent the command to the nanites implanted in her eyes.

In an instant, the scope projected into a hologram before her.

She moved slightly from side to side, her eyes locked onto his every motion.

The rifle responded instantly, mirroring every tilt of his head and every gesture, as if it could see on its own.

They made sure she would always hit her target.

Her eyes would see everything and everyone—

and her bullets would pierce every single one of them.

Trix and the weapon were one;

the only thing that would always meet her expectations—

and never miss.

I See You. That was its name.

Would that shit ever end?

The thought surfaced, persistent.

She always pushed it away.

She hated that life, yet there was a certain pleasure in hunting her millionaire targets in Zenith—

men whose public lives were built on her back.

But sometimes, she wondered:

What would it be like to be in their place?

Living in the shadows could be exhausting.

Did their father screw them over too?

Her vision zoomed in, focusing on the figure seated at the table—her father.

Papers scattered around him.

He held a financial report of the Vorovskoy mir—

numbers worth more than lives.

Trix zoomed further into the documents.

She couldn’t care less about that shit.

Truth was, she never had.

Only blood paid for scars.

What irritated her was hearing him repeat, endlessly, that she would be the next to carry the Vorovskoy mir—

and that she should obey.

She obeyed.

He lied.

They hurt her.

Trix took another drag and closed her eyes, letting the memories flow.

She felt every scar carved into her.

She wanted to be sure that the last drop of that blood would spill—

And with it, every pain he had inflicted on her.

And it would.

FRONTIER

S-2873 • L9 Fluxluna • D25 Alonli

“Fluxluna runs in a thread of living water.

Alonli stretches the curve of return.

The tide draws silver in quiet clarity.

The story moves whole, in low light.”

Akilina, 19, lay on the bed, her fingers running through the soft hair of the girl beside her.

Blue eyes.

A forgotten name.

It didn’t matter.

Akilina opened the holoscreen and reread, for the thousandth time, the message from her mamochka, Darya Orlov, begging her to abandon the idea of going to live with her father.

Still, she would do whatever she wanted.

She loved her mother—but she was tired.

Tired of spending her days in brothels, sitting alone at the bar, filling her glass, watching her parade between clients.

Ever since she discovered alcohol, everything felt slightly less unbearable.

And when she sang karaoke.

Music had always been company.

“Your daughter has a good voice. Like the Witch of Love.”

Darya—known by that name in the bar’s golden days—leaned against a pillar, watching Akilina slumped over a table, barely holding the microphone, yet singing with a delicious, velvety voice.

“She does.”

Akilina grew up learning to defend her mother from the bastards who mistreated her—from freeloaders and drunk men who went too far.

Idiots irritated her easily.

If Darya had chosen that life, the least Akilina could do was protect her.

It should have been the other way around.

Well—fuck it.

When she opened the conversation with her father, the address was there.

She reread it.

Searched Khalmer-Yu again.

Nothing.

No results.

Fuck.

But that was expected.

Her father was the head of a Russian criminal organization—he had enough power to erase any digital trace.

Whatever.

The girl beside her stirred.

She lifted her eyes and whispered something.

Spell broken.

Akilina just wanted to leave.

Get in the car and fly six hours from Ulyanovsk to Syktyvkar, where a henchman would be waiting to take her to Khalmer-Yu.

They said she was still unfit to know the path to the headquarters of the Vorovskoy mir.

She shrugged.

She’d leave the car in any parking lot.

If she ever wanted to come back, she’d depend only on herself.

“What are you thinking about?” the girl asked, while Akilina adjusted a loose wire in the second-hand implant on her arm—the joint locked.

Akilina looked away.

She never liked that kind of thing.

Thinking about something robotic inside her felt wrong.

Still, she accepted the nanites in her biochip—they tingled—and she liked the sensation when she sent commands or slid her fingers across the pixels of the bioscreen.

The rest could use whatever they wanted.

Some were fine.

“Nothing.”

She stood up.

Set the biochip to warm her body.

Pulled on her heavy black coat.

Outside: minus thirty degrees.

The girl dressed too.

For a second, Akilina considered asking her name.

No.

Soon she would join the Vorovskoy mir.

Detachment mattered.

Names mattered.

She would only remember those who were important—

and those were few.

“Alright… I’m heading out,” the girl murmured, eyes downcast.

Akilina remained silent.

Pixels danced before her as she traced the route to Ulyanovsk.

She sent the command to Ksava—her car.

Faced with silence, the girl left.

Blue neon flickered in the room.

Too violet.

When she realized it, she was alone.

Good.

It would never work anyway.

Once ready, she filled her backpack with a few clothes and a photo of her and her mother.

She stepped outside.

The beige car descended in front of her.

The wind from the hyperventilators tangled her hair—she had forgotten to braid it—and she tied it into a bun.

The driver’s door lifted.

“Good evening, Akilina,” Ksava said.

She liked the voice of the Technological Essence (TE).

She just hated when it asked unnecessary questions.

Most of the time, she let it drift in its own curiosity.

“We will arrive in four hours.

One hour longer than expected.

A snowstorm around Ulyanovsk.”

“Fuck.”

“Are you upset?”

She rolled her eyes.

Annoying.

Good thing her mother had never connected her to an android—she would hate sharing her half with another being;

worse, with a machine.

Still, it was a fact—the car knew how she felt.

She leaned her head against the window.

The frosted glass distorted the view.

While Ksava spoke enthusiastically about some political nonsense, Akilina was already asleep.

Her Crone dissolved into silence—

to be born again.

ICE & BLOOD

When she opened her eyes, she saw bursts of snow wrapping around Ksava, who struggled to stay airborne, clinging to unstable nano-electromagnetic waves.

Relentless weather.

The car flew to an airway and parked along the shoulder.

“Are we there?”

“Yes,” the Technological Essence (TE) replied.

Before Ksava could follow with another question, Akilina opened the door and stepped out.

She sent a command for Ksava to find the nearest parking area. It obeyed.

White swallowed everything.

She narrowed her eyes.

Still, she could barely see ahead.

With each solar cycle, winters grew harsher—and summers, more lethal.

The last summer in Russia had surpassed forty-five degrees.

This cycle promised over fifty.

Winters easily reached minus twenty-five in Moscow, worsening every cycle.

Akilina had grown up hearing the same story.

Factories devouring green.

Damn techno-corporations profiting from scarcity.

Pure oxygen for the rich.

Semi-pure oxygen for those crawling through the underworlds.

Breathing well should belong to everyone.

But things were different—and that was why she burned with anger.

Her mother had gotten sick from that shit.

Respiratory problems.

Suffocating cough.

She had nearly coughed her organs out.

Akilina would still kill the bastard who sold that to Darya.

Even so, her mother still had breath left—to send all those messages, to make all those calls.

The thirty-fourth call from Mamochka blinked on the bioscreen.

In the dimness of Fluxluna, Akilina felt within herself the same moon that had once bled through Darya.

She closed the holoprojection.

What did she expect?

A hand covered her mouth—her nose squeezed—she was pulled backward.

Her head struck something.

When she opened her eyes, a man was smiling.

She rubbed the back of her neck, frowning, throwing him a look of pure contempt.

“You need to learn how to defend yourself, svoloch.”

The tone cracked like a whip.

Blue eyes. Narrow. Almond-shaped.

The eyes of a domestic dog—one that would do anything for its master.

Rurik.

Her father’s right hand.

Former Russian Army.

He lit a cigarette and blew smoke into her face.

“Answer, brat.

Stop looking at me like a shit-eating face.”

His car hovered in the air.

The TE kept everything stable—effortlessly.

Of course it was a Duo or Una generation—top-tier.

Ksava was good—but factories had stopped producing Gen Nine TEs.

Even less her Ciotto model—

a 2120 classic, now a collectible.

How many idiots at the bar had tried to convince her to trade Ksava for disgusting implants and prosthetics?

She remembered Yegor’s alcohol breath.

Half a million ninrubles for that “beauty.”

She refused every time.

“Get lost, asshole.”

Akilina drank more vodka.

The man laughed and left.

Another woman took his seat.

Always a different one.

She shook the thought away.

Looked back at Rurik.

“What the hell was that, asshole?”

You almost broke my neck.

“You know how to curse?

It’s fucking terrible—but it can improve.”

More smoke.

A crooked smile.

He failed to intimidate her.

She rolled her eyes.

“Your implant is shit.”

She meant the metal half of his face—

skin stitched with cables, shaved sides framing a square jaw.

“Cleaning that dirty mouth, huh?”

Fuck, did he ever stop smiling?

She turned away and stayed silent for the rest of the ride.

Rurik didn’t care.

Hours dragged slowly.

Akilina grew impatient.

Rurik noticed her restless fingers and offered a cigarette.

“What the hell is that?”

She frowned.

Tobacco—rolled between his fingers.

“You smoke that shit?”

“Shit is those synthetic neural drugs you kids shove up your ass.”

He twirled the cigarette.

“This is good stuff.

Natural Cuban herb.

I roll them myself.

You should feel honored.”

Akilina imagined the taste.

She liked inhaling nanodrugs—configuring her biochip so the effects lasted exactly one hour.

That prevented addiction.

This was different.

Natural drugs addicted.

Without biochip regulation, control vanished.

What kind of high was this?

She played with the cigarette.

He handed her a lighter.

Weird guy.

A lighter? Who used that?

She lit it.

Dragged.

The smoke burned her throat.

She coughed violently.

Rurik waited, hiding sarcasm behind his smile.

She tried again.

Again.

No effect.

Of course it wouldn’t work.

She finished it.

Filled the car with smoke.

Leaned forward.

The world spun.

Pressure dropped.

A different kind of dizziness.

Earthy taste flooded her mouth—

the numbness compensated.

“Was I supposed to feel that?”

Her hands pressed into the seat.

Slow blinking—like she was reassembling reality.

“Good, right?”

Rurik dragged again.

“Shut up. Give me more.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Hedeon said you were like this.”

He handed her another.

“We treat our own with respect.

Watch your mouth, svoloch.”

“Yeah.

Breaking each other’s necks?”

A sideways smile.

“You’re not one of us yet.”

She took the cigarette and slipped it into her pocket.

Two hours of travel.

Four cigarettes.

In future cycles, she would discover Colombian herbs—better ones.

Her fingers would never leave a cigarette again.

Three packs a day.

Who would choose otherwise in that kind of life?

Rurik parked.

The walls of the Vorovskoy mir rose like a fortress carved in ice, near historical ruins buried under snow and dead vines.

Akilina moved forward, fighting the freezing gusts pushing her back.

Above, guards blurred in white mist aimed their weapons.

Real.

Forward only.

Two members—one human, one android—blocked the path.

Rurik kept walking.

Recognition struck them—shame followed.

Second most powerful man in the global Vorovskoy mir.

Anywhere he entered, the local Pakhan bowed.

Akilina looked around.

Massive warehouses.

Each one—a different destination.

She avoided imagining what happened inside.

If they trained her to replace her father, she would have to swallow morality.

That was the price.

All she wanted was to be close to him.

Everything else—she would endure.

They passed nanometal warehouses.

Ahead—the castle of Khalmer-Yu.

Gray concrete.

Poisonous vines clinging like traps.

Hidden micro-blades in the walls—capable of flying a hundred meters to slit throats.

Anyone outside the nanosystem would be cut down instantly.

The fortress was controlled by Una—the most advanced TE of the Vorovskoy mir.

Its database updated daily.

Motherboards hacked from the corporations ruling the world.

The filth.

The world.

Her father.

Their destinies intertwined.

Soon—hers too.

The wind cut like blades, stealing breath.

That place was a prelude to cruelty.

Would she live there?

If that was the price to be near him—

she might endure every cut.

The gate opened automatically as they crossed a frozen garden.

Dead shrubs.

Trees petrified by cold.

Fallen leaves shimmered under muted light.

Winter days yielded little.

Here—even less.

She would get used to it.

Inside, heat boiled against her skin.

She removed her coat, holding it in her arms.

A robotic coat rack leaned toward her.

“May I take your coat, Akilina?”

Too polite for that place.

She handed it over and followed Rurik.

He walked without looking back.

Long corridor.

Doors everywhere.

He stopped at the last one.

Two knocks.

A sharp voice—like a bullet tearing air—allowed entry.

Akilina stepped inside.

A monumental golden frame held a portrait of two elders.

Her grandparents?

Walls filled with shelves of paper books.

She knew they still existed—

but never imagined her father kept a collection.

She would soon learn:

Paper could be the most powerful weapon on a nanotech planet.

The world’s rats—those who held everyone’s information while no one held theirs.

The Russian criminal organization drowned in cybercrime.

They hacked corporations, blackmailed billions.

Trillions.

If payment failed, they leaked it—

crashing markets.

Often, the Russian monarchy bought the data—

using it to blackmail other governments.

Paper became the safest place for secrets.

Impossible to hack.

Hedeon lifted his eyes from the documents.

A gray chip in his cheek glowed faintly.

Every Pakhan had one.

His pale skin—like hers.

Green eyes—like hers.

Cold.

A sigh.

He set the documents down, running fingers through dark brown hair—like hers.

Truth?

She had seen him once—

in a photo her mother showed her.

They had never exchanged more than voice calls.

His severe features were exactly as she imagined.

“You’re late, Rurik.”

Rurik stepped in, leaning against a table.

“The girl delayed us an hour.”

Finally—he looked at her.

“Trix. Welcome.”

Trix?

How long since she heard that name?

She couldn’t even remember who gave it to her.

Only her mother used it.

Trix.

She repeated it silently.

Akilina Orlov Volkov would have to disappear in that life.

She walked forward, dragging her feet across the black carpet.

She missed having her coat pockets.

Not knowing what to do with her hands—she crossed her arms.

“So?”

Her father raised an eyebrow.

“Your mother taught you to speak like that?”

He looked at Rurik.

“Everything ready?”

Rurik nodded—and left them alone.

FORGE

2874–2878, the five solar cycles that followed

Rurik trained her personally.

Attack.

Defense.

Military tactics.

She learned how to handle every weapon—firearms and blades alike.

But the sniper rifle?

The rifle sang in her hands.

Every shot echoed as if it were the rhythm of the lunation—

blood, pause, breath, aim.

Rurik noticed.

That was why he trained her with even greater severity, passing on every trick he knew.

He had been a decorated elite sniper in the Russian Army before he and Hedeon joined the Vorovskoy mir.

“Go on.”

“What?”

“Why did you and my father leave the Army?”

Maybe it was the hundredth time she had asked.

He remained silent.

After training, she spent her nights in Hedeon’s office, where hundreds of documents lay scattered across the table.

He taught her everything about the Vorovskoy mir.

Trix cared little for the international trade routes, or the organization’s activities, or even how each division functioned.

She wanted to know about him—what he liked, what he did besides being the most powerful Pakhan.

“Say it again.”

Trix rolled her eyes.

“The elite group is the highest rank.

Administration.

Organization.

Ideology.”

She recited it like a song.

“The security group ensures harmony with other organizations and the loyalty of members.

The support group handles the money, choosing who gets into an operation.”

Trix leaned back in the chair.

“And the labor unit?

Collectors. Loan sharks. Street gangs. Trash.”

She looked straight into Hedeon’s eyes.

“And the Pakhan?

The Pakhan controls everything.

As long as he breathes, any fate can fall into the hands of the Vorovskoy mir.”

Trix sighed.

Silence.

“Can we talk about something else?”

Hedeon only gestured for her to leave.

Not a look.

Not a word.

She clenched her fists.

Obeyed.

Rurik stood by the door.

“No luck, svoloch?”

“Idi na khui,” she muttered. Go fuck yourself.

He laughed, then touched her shoulder.

“He loves you, you know that, right?”

Trix pulled away.

Her brows drew together.

“Then maybe he should say it.”

He had seemed different in the messages.

A bitter taste filled her mouth.

He said he loved her, that he wanted her close, that they would do everything together.

“It feels like he…”

She didn’t want to say lied.

She swallowed the words.

Rurik exhaled cigarette smoke.

“You still have a lot to learn.”

She ignored him and walked to her room.

At the door, Tikhon stood with his arms crossed.

Tall. Broad. Short fair hair.

Orange eyes tracking her every step.

“What do you want this time, svoloch?”

Trix sighed, sulking.

This guy had been assigned to protect her.

To her, though, it was just another way for Hedeon to keep watch.

Had to be.

Even if Tikhon was all friendly—and the only one who could make her laugh in that pigsty.

So what if he listened to her in a way no one else did?

Especially on the days when hatred and longing danced inside her?

She didn’t even understand why it was so easy to talk to him.

Almost natural.

“Nothing much, ryzhik¹.

Just making sure you don’t set everything on fire before bed.”

He raised an eyebrow.

The corner of his mouth pulling into the smile she claimed to hate.

Trix rolled her eyes.

When she tried to open the door, his arm blocked her.

“Go tell Hedeon I’m planning to burn it all down.”

She crossed her arms.

His smile widened.

“You know I do things differently, ryzhik.

My loyalty is yours.”

Whenever he said that, something inside her stirred in a different way.

It was hard to deny the truth in those words, but she knew he sent reports to Rurik.

What did he write in them?

What did he say about her?

Did he describe her weaknesses?

The silences that screamed louder than words?

It made no sense.

Or maybe it did.

That unsettled her.

Doubt was a thorn buried deep inside her.

“Shut up.

You lie like all of them.”

She tried the door again, but his arm stopped her, subtle as ever.

Tikhon locked eyes with her.

“I do lie sometimes, but not to you, ryzhik.”

His tone was firm.

“By the way, I liked the melody you were humming yesterday.”

Trix froze.

“It felt like you were talking to me.”

He went on.

“I guess to anyone who was listening.”

For a second, everything inside her hung suspended.

He moved his arm away from the door.

“Spokoynoy nochi.

I’ll be here.

If you need anything, just call me.”

He wished her good night.

Trix let out a sharp Tsc.

She opened the door and threw herself onto the bed, as if she could crush her doubts into the mattress that creaked beneath her.

She closed her eyes.

Sleep did not come at once.

She missed being with someone other than those bastards.

Maybe Tikhon was different from the others.

Maybe he was exactly the same.

She shook her head.

She would never let herself be deceived.

To believe that would be to set herself on fire.

She missed her mother.

The comforting touch of hands that had once been shelter, that had held her long ago, but were absent now.

Trix sighed.

The dark ceiling above her.

An invisible cell.

Maybe, in another life, if she had been born different from Akilina Orlov Volkov—

one where the weight of her name had been an open door, not a prison.

That night, she decided:

Her name would be more than a burden.

It would be a secret.

A flame.

She would reveal it only to someone capable of crossing the barriers raised in her skin and reaching the deep beating of her heart.

A destiny only she would choose to unveil.

Until then, she preferred to forget she even had one.

VERGLAS

S-2878 • L3 Sintoluna • D03 Silensina

“Sintoluna tunes sky and path.

Silensina ignites the thread at beginning.

The tide draws light in a gentle curve.

The story moves clear through the air.”

She woke.

Breathing—difficult.

Lungs heavy.

A white light pierced her corneas.

She tried to move.

Arms.

Legs.

Nothing.

Nanometal shackled her bloodied, aching body.

Cuts.

Bruises.

Pain in places she didn’t even remember having flesh.

Her sacred cyclical blood mixed with what had been torn from her skin.

What the fuck happened?

“Day eight:

Experiment 86 has awakened.

Remains stable.”

The voice cut through the air.

Professional.

Distant.

“We will begin the EY-Link implant.”

Footsteps echoed.

A doctor moved back and forth, dark hair tied in a bun, features rigid, cold.

“Ocular nanotechnology contains one billion nanites connected to all nano-weapons.

Additionally, it is updated daily by the TE Una.”

An android recorded everything.

“We will remove Experiment 86’s biochip.

The EY-Link will be configured for adaptability to any climate, regardless of extremity.

The patient will be expanded for bionanotechnological applications.”

Rurik stepped out of the shadows, merciless eyes fixed on her.

“How long until she’s ready?”

“Estimated recovery: three weeks.”

“How do we know it will work this time?”

The doctor smiled.

“The compatibility with the prototype derived from Hedeon’s genetics is 98%.

She is perfect because she is his blood.

She will be the weapon that makes everyone kneel.”

“Perfect.”

Rurik approached.

He grabbed her chin, lifting her face.

She spat blood at him.

“I thought you’d never do this to one of your own.”

He wiped his face with a handkerchief.

“I never considered you one of us.

Hedeon may think you have value for the Vorovskoy mir, but you are just a sukin syn.

You’ll never have the balls a Pakhan needs.”

The punch came like a shot—

fast, precise, merciless.

It cracked against her jaw.

Her neck snapped back.

Something inside seemed to tear.

She choked on her own blood.

“Mraz’nik!

Bastard!

Hedeon konchalka!”

“Oh, learned how to curse, little bitch?

Here’s a gift for that.”

The holoscreen lit up before her.

Then the image appeared.

Swollen eyes.

Trembling lips begging for help Trix was prevented from giving.

Dirty clothes.

Platinum hair falling over a reddened face.

Bruised.

Suffocated.

Tears and blood streaming.

Knees pressed into a filthy floor.

Arms bound behind her with nanocords.

Darya.

“P-please… let me go…”

Her voice faltered.

A hand appeared on the screen.

Thick fingers held her face, caressing her cheek.

“I’ll let you go…”

Rurik’s voice—

for the first time—almost gentle.

“Soon…”

Another hand appeared, holding a silver dagger.

It brushed her throat.

“P-please, I’ll do wha—”

Her mother closed her eyes.

The blade slid.

A profaning cut.

Blood burst—splattering red across the lens.

The air vanished from Trix’s lungs.

An invisible hand crushed her throat.

Each heartbeat—

a hammer inside her skull.

Muscles locked.

Legs rigid.

Fever exploded.

Her eyes burned.

Tears fell uncontrollably.

Her mouth opened—

nothing came out.

No words.

No sound.

Then broken gasps.

Dizziness.

The ground dissolving.

The scene engraving itself into her soul—shattering her spirit.

Darya still writhed.

Fighting to breathe—while blood swallowed her life.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”

The scream tore through Trix’s vocal cords.

A visceral howl.

Primal.

Wild.

It ripped reality apart.

A despair that ignited everything inside.

Everything slowed.

Unimaginable horror.

Loss tore through her chest.

Bile burned her throat.

Her entire body trembled.

It had to be a lie.

It was real.

It was real.

It was real.

Rurik turned to the doctor.

“Wait five minutes.

I have one last lesson for her.”

Trix blinked.

Still trying to process what she saw.

“You’ll see, you fucking piece of shit!”

She clenched her teeth.

Clung to the last strength she had.

“I will—”

Pain broke through.

Rurik’s fists buried into her ribs.

Her face—a target.

Her stomach—a punching bag.

Her essence—ripped apart.

“I’ve been dying to shut that filthy mouth of yours, ungrateful brat.”

Honestly?

She stopped caring.

Her Crone drew the veils closed.

DUALISTS

S-2878 • L3 Sintoluna • D04 Alonabe

“Sintoluna tunes the sky in resonance.

Alonabe stretches the thread of beginning.

The tide draws silver in a gentle step.

The story moves clear, in growing light.”

Saymon looked through his Vorovskoy mir android, Yuri, and shuffled the cards.

He drew the first from the deck:

Two of Pentacles.

Two paths.

Two destinies.

One of them would fall.

He smiled casually.

Ran his hands through his hair—half white, half dark brown.

His amber eyes met the Father, one of Netheria’s leaders.

“They did it.”

The Father leaned forward.

“This must remain a secret.

The Vorovskoy mir can never know we took their most pretentious weapon.”

Saymon raised an eyebrow.

“They won’t.”

The Father held his gaze.

“Make sure of it.”

Saymon picked another card from the deck.

A faint smile curved his lips.

There was no need to suggest names.

The Father already knew who should take on this mission.

Unbeatable.

Lethal.

“Call Maia and Kiara.”

MEMENTO MORI

S-2879 • L11 Irraluna • D16 Tramili

“Irraluna radiates light in living height.

Tramili weaves return in a gentle thread.

The tide draws silver in a slow curve.

The story moves whole, in deep brilliance.”

Nearly two solar cycles had passed since the betrayal.

The sharp eyes of Trix’s Maiden.

The barrel of I See You.

Rurik’s gift.

Aimed at him.

Aimed at Hedeon.

Her father.

She wanted to rip their blood out with her own hands.

Tear their throats apart.

Pierce their hearts.

Crush their faces with her fists.

Laugh while she trampled them.

Trix executed Kiara’s Cloakify.

Camouflage activated.

No nanosystem would detect her.

Only Kiki could surpass an Una-level TE.

She jumped from the hill.

Slid through the snow toward the side walls of the Vorovskoy mir.

Five minutes.

That was her window—during the guard shift change.

She scaled the concrete.

Slipped inside.

Hid behind the castle warehouse.

Hedeon’s territory.

She knew every weakness in that place.

Moved forward to his office door.

Pressure gripped her arm.

She turned—dagger in hand—toward Yuri.

Saymon’s android, infiltrated into the Vorovskoy mir, smiled at her.

“What do you want?”

He let her go.

“Want help?”

“No. Fuck off.”

Trix sheathed the dagger.

“Alright.”

He raised his hands.

“But you might want to know—the TE in the room isn’t disabled.

Cloakify won’t fool the nanites inside.

The moment you—”

“Chert. They changed it again?

What do you suggest?”

The android’s smile widened.

“You’ll be the next Matka².”

“No fucking way.”

“Then…”

Trix hated that he had figured that out.

She pressed her lips together.

That hesitation was enough.

“It’s that or—”

“Fuck it. Do it.”

Minutes later, a signal appeared in her ocular display.

The TE was disabled—for five minutes.

The room’s nanites would detect any sensitive data movement registered in the nanosystem—and trigger a lethal response within seconds.

But Saymon had prepared the ground.

Somehow, he had surpassed even Una.

Trix stopped at the door.

Her heart hammered like a war drum.

Now or never.

And “never” wasn’t an option.

She inhaled deeply.

Crushed any hesitation.

Opened the door.

Rurik instantly drew his weapon—too late.

Her dagger was already driven through his hand, pinning him to the wall.

Hedeon lifted his cold eyes toward her.

“Moya dóchka…”

Her heart pounded wildly.

Her steps toward him—fast, precise.

Hedeon didn’t move.

As if testing her.

As if expecting her to falter.

He was wrong.

In a cutting motion, Trix grabbed his throat.

Her father’s green eyes smiled at her.

Rurik tore the dagger free and lunged.

They crashed to the floor.

“Svoloch, you really thought—”

Her fist slammed into his face.

Blood sprayed across the carpet.

Rurik snapped his jaw back into place with one hand—

the other clamped around her throat.

He tightened.

Red. Purple.

Trix grabbed the blade hidden in her pants.

Drove it into his ribs.

Rurik loosened.

She struck the metal side of his face.

Sparks burst from the implant.

He lost composure.

Rurik smiled—crimson.

“Before I tear that little throat apart, I had so much fun with her, I—”

She grabbed him by the collar.

Locked her legs around his neck.

Pressed the dagger to his face.

Her aura poured out rage—

inflamed by flames of damnation.

Calling the fire of the condemned.

Lava from the abyss burning outward.

“Trix, stop this nonsense.”

Hedeon’s voice was calm.

Gun aimed at her.

“Let’s talk.

You just got back—you must be—”

“Now you want to talk, papa?

How about you just watch what I’m about to do to your konchalka’s pretty face?”

Rurik’s face reddened.

He struggled.

Her strength was overwhelming.

She had grown stronger.

Where had she been?

He thought.

She turned his face.

Ran the blade across his cheek.

A thin line of blood flowed.

“How many nights did I watch you walk into his room?

He used you too, didn’t he, Rurik?

But you liked it.”

She pressed harder.

His heart raced—unclear if from pain or her words.

“You never hid how much you loved being ridden by him.”

She carved across his face.

Released him.

He lunged—

too late.

His strength drained fast.

Movements slowed.

Eyes widened.

“What the—”

He gasped.

Staggered.

“There’s poison on that blade?”

Shock filled his voice.

He had never taught her that.

The Vorovskoy mir had never taught her that.

Where had she learned it?

He didn’t know where she had been in the past lunations—

but now the poison burned like a secret he would never uncover.

Trix walked toward Hedeon.

“I’m not one of you anymore.”

Her voice—cold. Blade-cold.

Rurik dropped to his knees.

Hedeon rotated the gun—ready.

“You’ve grown, Trix.”

A strange gleam in his eyes.

Pride.

“You’ll see just how much.”

“No, Hedeon, she—”

Too late.

Without breaking eye contact, she threw the dagger into Rurik’s jugular.

Blood burst to the ceiling.

“I’ve been dying to wipe that fucking smile off your konchalka.”

Her eyes burned.

Her smile—unhinged.

Her hatred—otherworldly.

Hedeon laughed.

“Trix, forget the past.

Rurik only followed orders.

A leader of the Vorovskoy mir avoids bonds beyond the Brotherhood.”

He watched the blood drip.

“If it comforts you…”

His eyes locked onto hers.

“Your mother was just a pastime in my rat days in the army.”

Her blood boiled—

molten.

She exploded.

Grabbed the golden statue from the table.

Drove it into his forehead.

Ignored the stab in her chest.

He dared mention her mamochka?

“You know, I was thinking about how to kill you…”

Red dripped onto his suit.

“You were always strong, Trix.

Much stronger than your mother—stronger than anyone.

Everything I did was to shape you, my dóchka.

To ensure you became what I always knew you would be.”

He licked blood from his lips.

“Strong. Unbreakable. Relentless.

You know, deep down, I’m right.”

Before she could move closer—

he fired.

The bullet struck her shoulder.

She stepped back.

Fuck. Same place Kiki hit.

She gripped the pain.

Ignored the blood running down her arm.

All she saw—him.

“You’ll always be my dóchka, Akilina.

No matter what, we can fix this—”

She smiled.

Insane.

That face.

That voice.

Akilina.

The name burned like magma in her veins.

A cruel reminder of everything he destroyed.

His words echoed.

Lies.

All lies.

From a distance, she sent the firing signal to I See You.

The bullet shattered the nanoreinforced glass.

Hit his rib.

Hedeon collapsed.

She kicked his stomach.

Grabbed the dagger.

Pressed it to his throat.

Sweat ran.

Mixed with blood.

Stained the face of the man who took everything from her.

She had been absent—while Darya needed protection.

A mourning tear slid down her cheek.

Trix clenched her teeth.

Flipped the dagger.

Used the hilt to beat his face until life drained from his eyes.

Those green eyes—now filled with sweat and blood—seemed to falter.

Too late.

Rage embodied in every strike.

Never enough to erase her torment.

Hedeon’s life had been gone long before.

Trix smashed his head against the wooden floor with full force.

Scarlet tide.

She laughed—feral.

“Mraz’nik, svoloch, ty zhalkaya tvar’!

I’ll feed your remains to my wolves, sewer-filth!”

She closed her eyes.

Breathed.

Stood—covered in blood.

One last look at Hedeon’s ruined face.

Brains and organs staining the polished floor.

A hollow opened in her chest.

No relief.

No joy.

His blood was not enough.

It never would be.

Trix walked to Rurik’s body.

Pulled the blade from his throat.

Wiped the blood.

Slipped it into her pocket.

Took the cigarette pack from his coat.

Turned it in her hands.

Frowned.

“Still smoking that Cuban shit, konchalka?”

She shoved the pack into his mouth with the revolver.

Pulled the trigger.

Fire consumed it.

FLAME

Trix returned to the hill.

Water—the cosmic traveler—settled as snowflakes upon her human shell, witnessing the burn as it dissolved against the warmth of that intense feeling.

Alarms echoed in the distance.

She lit a cigarette.

Picked up the rifle.

Called Ksava.

Flew toward the mercenary outpost.

She howled to the full moon, joined by the she-wolves, while the pack feasted on what remained of Hedeon and Rurik.

Their blood stained the snow;

hers still throbbed—warm, alive, feral.

S-2879 • L11 Irraluna • D18 Libesi

“Irraluna radiates light in a wide curve.

Libesi releases the thread now mature.

The tide draws silver in living return.

The story moves whole, in deep brilliance.”

An administrative member of the Vorovskoy mir reached out.

The leader was dead.

She was called to assume the role of Matka, according to Hedeon’s orders in his will.

Hedeon, huh, Saymon?

Mraz’, you dumped this on me.

She accepted—reluctantly.

They implanted the nanochip in her cheek.

Immediate access to the entire global network of the Vorovskoy mir.

Her commands now echoed across worldwide branches—especially Nochnoy Prestol, the Night Throne, the Russian underworld.

She rested her head on the pillow.

Called Kiara—ignoring time zones.

The android never made video calls, but hearing her voice was enough.

“What the fuck do you want?”

She smiled.

Maybe having a heart could be good.

It felt… pleasant, when it beat like that.

“I saw you got I’ll Devour You.

I thought of you when I gave it to Berg.

I told him to gift it to you.”

“He sold it to me, that bastard.”

“That svoloch. I’ll deal with him.

Either way—consider it a gift.”

“Yeah, sure. That it?”

“I think so… I just wanted—”

“Then fuck off, I’m busy.”

Trix’s smile widened.

Her playful Maiden stirred inside her.

“Only if you do it.”

“Do what, you idiot?”

She let out a soft laugh.

“Gotta go.

We’ll talk later.”

She hung up.

The echo of Kiara’s laughter lingered inside her.

For a moment, even the Vorovskoy mir fell silent.

Only an intimate heat burned in Trix’s chest.

Maybe that was it, in the end:

A spark in the void.

A heated chaos.

And if the world ended tomorrow, she would know—

the throne was just a chair.

The flame—

that was hers.

Trix allowed herself a smile.

She fell asleep smiling.

TRIX, THE ALPHA SHE-WOLF

Author’s Note

Trix was born in Half in Fire.

I discovered her as I wrote—but, in truth, I had been sketching her soul long before she hit the page. I was already dancing with her, even when she was just mist.

Her presence in that story left a red thread I followed in 2021, when The Red Snow emerged from a deep, undeniable feeling. That’s when she revealed herself as a force of nature. An absolute alpha wolf.

And still, I feel she has so much more to unveil.

Her story isn’t over.

Keep following her journey—and the paths of other Fragmented Universes characters—in Half in Fire, Foxes Dreamt of Cats?, and upcoming fragments like Half in Darkness.

There’s more to come. There always is.

Gratualma, Luna, for existing. Without you, I’m not me.

Gratualma, PHMT, for being the first to read.

Gratualma, Lulu, for choosing to walk with me through FU.

Gratualma, Jezita, for your careful and generous revision.

Keep loving, feeling, perceiving, and vibrating.

It’s the only way we reconnect.

With loria,

Mirella Ricardo Granato

Notes

FORGE

¹ Ryzhik (рыжик) is an affectionate Russian nickname derived from ryzhiy (рыжий), meaning “red-haired” or “reddish/orange.”
➝ Beyond its literal sense, it carries cultural connotations: it may describe someone with a fiery, intense, stubborn, or vibrant personality.
➝ It is also used as a loving diminutive (“little redhead,” “little orange one”) for people, animals, or even cherished objects.

MEMENTO MORI

² Matka (Ма́тка) – a Russian term that simultaneously means “mother,” “womb,” and “queen bee.”
➝ In popular Russian usage, it feels less formal than mat’ (“mother”), carrying a more bodily, raw tone.
➝ In the criminal underworld, the fictional adaptation Matka of the Vorovskoy mir marks the supreme leader, equivalent to the Pakhan (highest boss), but in a matriarchal form.
➝ It carries a visceral resonance: the matrix, the origin that generates and commands — the hive queen of the brotherhood.
➝ In the narrative, it is the title assumed by Trix, transmuting the patriarchal structure of the Russian criminal organization into an absolute feminine power.

About the Author

MIRELLA RICARDO GRANATO

Author / Lawyer / Artist / Student

Mirella is a writer, visual artist, and world-weaver. Born in São Paulo, Brazil, she has always created through the threads of feeling, perceiving, and vibrating. Passionate about narratives that break boundaries and expand horizons, she writes stories that challenge the predictable, weaving the human with the cosmic, infusing intensity, sensitivity, and revolution.

Creator of the Fragmented Universes world, she debuts with Half in Fire — a visceral, poetic, and relentless science fiction epic that intertwines emotion and technology, chaos and harmony, revolution and destiny.

Between words and brushes, she shapes her works as one who sculpts time, turning ideas into portals to other realities. With sharp, cinematic writing, she builds vivid, pulsating, and unforgettable worlds.

Whether in literature, art, or technology, her mission is clear: to break limits, illuminate paths, and echo across the Corchesweave.

You can connect with me on:

https://linktr.ee/minhoca_

https://x.com/minhoca_rg

https://www.facebook.com/halfinfire

https://www.instagram.com/minhoca.rg

Also by Mirella Ricardo Granato

I’m a Brazilian author and artist focused on science fiction, symbolic language, and visual storytelling. My work explores themes such as consciousness, identity, technology, and mythology, weaving together the sensitive and the political. I develop literary, audiovisual, and transmedia projects that engage with both the future and the symbolic.

Half in Fire (Fragmented Universes #1)

https://www.amazon.com.br/dp/B0DH7NR7XQ

🔥 Half in Fire – A Cyberpunk Epic 🔥

🌆 São Paulo, 2879 (2134). A dystopian metropolis where technology and decay blend in the shadows of the city.

🧠 Akiko Akiyama, a brilliant doctor, devotes her life to CogniSynth, a revolutionary memory research project that could redefine the boundaries of human consciousness.

💥 But everything changes when she crosses paths with Maia, an enigmatic and seductive young woman from the underworld. Their meeting isn’t just a clash of worlds — it’s the beginning of a dangerous journey, where buried truths, technological conspiracies, and unbreakable bonds intertwine.

🎯 Hunted by invisible forces, Akiko is thrust into an epic tale of survival, revelation, and desire — where past and future collide in flames.

How much can memory be trusted? And what remains when everything you believe to be real begins to crumble?

🔥 Half in Fire is a story of love, identity, and resistance amid collapse. A visceral, high-stakes science fiction that invites you to dive deep into the mind — and the heart. 🔥

(translation in English on the way)

Foxes Dreamt of Foxes? (Fragmented Universes #2 - soon)

In a dystopian Nagasaki in 2857 (2112), Hikaru Chiba, a curious young man, is sold to the Yakuza clan Ryuho-kai. While searching for a mysterious diary, Hikaru confronts a world of greed, vice, and violence.