Ziven’s iron grip remained, pulling Binka through a maze of narrow, shadowed lanes. The acrid scent of burning timber still clung to the air, a phantom of the inferno consuming her home. Her lungs burned, ragged and shallow, but his pace never slackened. They skirted the edge of Oakhaven, the last few cottages giving way to a muddy cart track that wound into the whispering gloom of the Vaskara woods.
“Slow down,” Binka gasped, her legs aching with the unaccustomed pace. “What about… what about Grandfather’s burial?”
Ziven didn't even turn his head. “The Order will handle it. A pauper’s pyre, most likely. Consider it a mercy, less for them to desecrate.” His words were clipped, devoid of comfort. They cut through Binka like a dull blade.
“Desecrate? He was a good man!” Her voice broke, a raw, wounded sound. She stumbled, nearly falling, but Ziven’s hand clamped down on her arm, holding her upright. He finally stopped beneath the gnarled branches of an ancient oak, its leaves scraping like dry husks.
He released her, turning to face her fully. His eyes, the color of storm-churned river stone, swept over her tear-streaked face. “Your Grandfather was a good man, yes. And you, little baker, are a disaster waiting to happen. Which makes you, by extension, a very useful disaster.”
Binka recoiled, stung. “Useful? What are you talking about?”
“The Order of the Final Word,” he began, his voice dropping to a low, intense murmur, “has been growing too powerful. Their dogma chokes the duchies, their Inquisitors burn any hint of independent thought. They preach a ‘Great Purification’ that promises to strip away all ‘profane emotion’ and ‘unsanctioned magic’ from Chervan. A grand lie, of course. It’s a power grab, a ritual to turn us all into placid, obedient thralls.”
Binka swallowed. The prophecy she'd overheard, whispered by nervous townsfolk, suddenly took on a new, chilling meaning.
“You,” Ziven continued, gesturing vaguely at her, “are a walking, breathing, chaotic affront to everything they stand for. A saintess with powers so unpredictable, so contrary to their grim faith, that you are the perfect wrench to throw into their sanctified gears.”
“You want to use me as a… a wrench?” Binka’s voice was small, incredulous.
“Precisely. Every ‘miracle’ you perform, every act of ‘unasked’ grace, makes their control crack. It sows doubt. It forces the people to question their Inquisitors. We will expose their lies, weaken their influence, and carve out a space for the duchies to breathe again.” He paused, a humorless twist to his lips. “And you, Binka Mieszek, will be my instrument.”
“But… but I don’t want to hurt anyone,” she protested, her hands twisting in the simple homespun of her apron. “My powers… they just happen. I don’t know how to control them.”
“Then you will learn,” Ziven stated, his tone brooking no argument. “Or, more accurately, you will learn *not* to use them. New rule, starting now: No more unsolicited miracles. Keep your blessings to yourself, baker. No more accidental hair growth, no more glowing bread, no more turning muddy puddles into healing tinctures unless I explicitly tell you to.”
Binka stared at him, her mind reeling. He spoke of her abilities as if they were a child’s clumsy toys, to be wielded or tucked away at his command. Yet, even as she bristled, a part of her acknowledged the cold, hard logic of his words. Her kindness, her instinctive desire to help, had always led to chaos. Hadn't it just led to her home burning?
They walked for hours, the cart track fading into a game trail, then into no path at all. The Vaskara woods pressed in, ancient and dense, their journey punctuated only by the rustle of unseen creatures and Ziven’s occasional, terse instructions. He moved with a predator’s silent grace, his gaze constantly sweeping their surroundings. Binka, still reeling from the loss of her home and the revelation of her unwitting role, trudged along, her thoughts a tangled knot of grief, fear, and a burgeoning, unfamiliar resolve.
They stopped for a meager midday meal—hard bread and dried fruit from Ziven’s pack—by a trickling stream. The quiet was heavy, broken only by the chirping of wood-crickets and the gurgle of water over stones. Binka watched Ziven, who ate with an economical efficiency, his eyes still scanning the treeline. He was a mystery, a cynical, weary man who had saved her, only to claim her as his weapon. He hadn't offered a word of comfort, not a single soft platitude for her loss, but he also hadn't abandoned her. The air between them, despite the chill of his words, held a strange, brittle tension, something almost like the calm before a storm.
The storm, when it came, was heralded by a sudden snapping twig, not from the direction of the stream, but from behind a thicket of thorn-bushes. Ziven was on his feet in an instant, his hand already on the hilt of a slim blade tucked beneath his worn tunic. Before he could draw it, three figures burst from the undergrowth. They were rough men, armed with crude swords and heavier axes, their faces shadowed beneath tattered hoods. One carried a coiled rope.
“Well, well,” snarled the largest, a man with a jagged scar bisecting his jaw. “Look what the forest dragged in. The baker’s girl, and her fancy protector.”
Binka’s stomach lurched. Mercenaries. The Order worked fast.
Before Ziven could speak, a fourth figure emerged, moving with an effortless grace that belied her heavily armored frame. A tall woman in a deep violet cloak stepped into the dappled sunlight, a gleaming blade sheathed at her hip. Her eyes, sharp and cold as winter frost, settled on Binka. A faint, knowing smile played on her lips.
“No need for brute force, lads,” the woman said, her voice smooth, almost silken, but with an edge of steel. “The girl’s coming with me, nice and quiet.”
“Like hell she is,” Ziven spat, drawing his blade with a soft hiss of metal. He positioned himself between Binka and the approaching men.
“Oh, a defender,” the woman purred, her smile widening. “How quaint. I’m afraid you’re not on my manifest, pretty boy. Unless you’d like to be added to the ‘unconscious’ section.”
The three rough men fanned out, surrounding Ziven. Binka shrank back as cold dread seized her ribs. She saw the glint of their weapons, the grim set of their faces. They meant to hurt him. Her throat seized. *No!*
An instinctive urge, born of panic and a desperate desire to diffuse the situation, seized her. Her gaze darted to the ruffians, to their grimy hands, to the canteens slung at their belts. They looked thirsty. They looked angry. Maybe… maybe if she could just make them feel a little better?
A warm thrum spread through Binka’s fingertips, an invisible current reaching out. The men paused, glancing at each other, sensing something. Their canteens, previously ignored, now seemed to glow with a faint, inner warmth. One man, confused, unstoppered his. A plume of fragrant steam, thick with savory herbs and earthy root vegetables, rose into the air.
He sniffed, his brow arching high. “What in the blazes…?”
He tipped the canteen, and a rich, crimson liquid, studded with tender bits of beef and slivers of beet, poured into his cupped hand. Borscht. Hot, steaming, perfectly seasoned borscht. The aroma, hearty and comforting, filled the glade, completely overpowering the scent of pine and damp earth.
The other two men quickly followed suit, their grunts of confusion turning to gasps of astonishment. One even let out a small, reverent moan as he took a sip. “By the Great Mother’s simmering pot… this is *good*!”
Ziven, sword poised, stared at the sudden culinary miracle with utter disbelief, his mouth agape. The leader, however, did not waver. Her eyes narrowed, the knowing smile vanishing, replaced by a glint of predatory focus. She saw the distraction, the moment of utter bewilderment, and seized it.
While her men were momentarily disarmed by the unexpected culinary blessing, the woman lunged, her foil a silver blur. Not at Ziven, but past him, directly at Binka. Ziven roared, scrambling to intercept, but she was too fast. Her free hand snaked out, snatching Binka’s arm, pulling her off balance.
Binka cried out, stumbling into her solid frame. The swordswoman's grip was unyielding. “Got you, little saintess,” she hissed, her voice a low growl of triumph. The tip of her slim foil, held with casual menace, now rested just beneath Binka’s chin.
“Let her go!” Ziven lunged, a desperate, furious thrust of his blade. He moved with impressive speed, but she was a whirlwind of controlled violence. She twisted, using Binka as a momentary shield, and brought her own foil up in a swift, unexpected parry. The clash of steel sang through the woods.
But Ziven had committed. Her steel deflected his, but her hilt slammed hard into his side, catching him off guard. A sharp, sickening crack echoed, followed by a grunt of pain from Ziven. His sword arm dropped, and he stumbled back, clutching his ribs. A dark, rapidly expanding stain blossomed on the side of his tunic. He coughed, a ragged, wet sound, and a trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.
“Ziven!” Binka screamed, twisting in the woman’s grip, frantic. “You hurt him!”
A cruel smile returned, colder and sharper than before. She tightened her hold on Binka, pulling her closer, using her as a shield. Ziven, bleeding and gasping, could only watch, his face contorted in pain and fury. The two sellswords, having finished their impromptu borscht feast, finally snapped back to attention, wiping their mouths on their sleeves.
She gestured with her chin. “The pretty boy’s done. Call me Lady Voron, girl, and know that you are coming with me.” She pressed the blade's point a fraction of an inch harder against Binka’s throat, her eyes glinting with cold satisfaction. “Such a shame about your protector, isn’t it? He should have known better than to interfere.”