“Such a shame about your protector, isn’t it? He should have known better than to interfere.” Lady Voron’s voice was a low rasp, a sound of stone grinding stone. The blade at Binka’s throat pressed, not enough to draw blood, but a promise. The two sellswords, their faces smeared with remnants of beetroot, approached with slow, predatory steps. Ziven sagged against the earth, one hand clutched to his side, the other reaching out, futilely, towards Binka. His breath was shallow, each exhale a shudder. The sight of the spreading crimson stain on his tunic twisted Binka’s stomach into a tight knot. He was hurt. Badly. Because of her.
Her mind, usually a jumble of anxieties about under-proofed dough and over-baked rye, narrowed to a single, desperate point: *help him*. The thought was a searing brand. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember the prayers her Grandfather Wieslaw had taught her, the ones for mending broken bones in the chickens, for soothing fevered brows. She pictured Ziven, whole and unblemished. She focused on the wound, on the torn flesh, on the heat that should flow, the closure that should knit.
A strange simmer bloomed in her chest, not unlike the rising of a good sourdough starter, but sharper, more insistent. It thrummed, not quite obeying her will, but twisting, seeking. It pulsed down her arm, the one pinned by Otylia’s grip, and then, inexplicably, into the hilt of the sword. Binka felt a peculiar tickle, then a vibration, like a distant bee swarm. Otylia, noticing the sudden shift, frowned, her grip tightening.
“What trick is this, girl?” she growled, her eyes narrowing. The sellswords paused, sensing a shift in the air, their cudgels lowered slightly.
Then, the polished steel of Otylia’s sword began to ripple. Not like water, but like living petals unfurling. A faint, sweet scent, like spring rain on rich earth, filled the air. The blade shimmered, the cold metal softening, losing its rigid form. From the hilt, a bud burst forth, then another, vibrant fuchsia, opening with silent grace. The guard transformed into a cluster of deep crimson blooms, their velvety petals unfurling in a cascade. The entire length of the blade, from pommel to tip, was consumed, dissolving into a torrent of living, breathing tulips – scarlet, gold, violet, and peach – each one perfectly formed, impossibly fragrant.
Otylia’s mouth fell open. Her eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, were wide with a blank astonishment. She stared at the floral explosion in her hand, at the delicate, dew-kissed petals where cold steel had been moments before. A single, perfectly formed tulip, a vivid ochre, detached itself from the hilt and landed softly on her palm. It wasn’t a trick of light, or some arcane illusion. It was real. Utterly, undeniably, ridiculously real. The sellswords exchanged bewildered glances, their expressions morphing from menace to utter confusion. One of them, a hulking man with a pitted nose, actually sniffed the air, a gormless expression on his face.
This was her chance. Her kindness might be a liability, but so was her chaos. With a surge of adrenaline, Binka shoved Otylia, whose mind was still processing the sudden horticultural acquisition. The bounty hunter stumbled back a step, still clutching her bouquet of a weapon. Binka didn't hesitate. She flung herself towards Ziven, gripping his arm with surprising strength. His eyes, clouded with pain, flickered with a desperate comprehension. “Come on!” she gasped, hauling him upright. “We have to go!”
He groaned, leaning heavily on her, his legs threatening to buckle. “Where… where are we going?”
“The timberlands!” she cried, pointing to the dark, tangled edge of the woods that loomed nearby. “Into the trees!” With a guttural cry, she dragged him, half-carrying, half-pulling, towards the shadows, leaving Otylia and her flower-sword in confused disarray behind them. The ancient canopy swallowed them whole, the rustling leaves seeming to sigh in their wake.
***
Two days earlier, in the charred husk of Oakhaven, the stench of ash and burnt timber still hung heavy, mingling with the acrid scent of fear. The bakery, once a haven of fresh rolls and buttery delight, was now a skeletal ruin, its brick oven cracked open like a broken tooth. A hushed crowd of townsfolk, their faces pale and drawn, gathered in the muddy square, their gazes fixed on the makeshift platform of salvaged planks. The air vibrated with a tension thicker than yeast dough. Children clung to their parents’ skirts, their eyes wide and unblinking.
First Inquisitor Krystof stood upon the platform, a figure of imposing grace. His robes, the deep violet of the Sanctified Order, were immaculate, the silver sunburst emblem on his breastplate glinting even in the overcast light. He was a man crafted from conviction, his features sharp and ascetic, his gaze piercing. His voice, when he spoke, was not a shout, but a resonant baritone that carried to the furthest edges of the square, each word imbued with an unshakeable certainty. “People of Oakhaven,” he began, his voice a balm over the fear, “do not despair. The darkness that visited your humble home has fled.”
A ripple of murmuring moved through the crowd. Krystof held up a small object. It was a prayer book, its leather cover scorched, its pages brittle and blackened at the edges. But in the center, a single, gilded page remained, miraculously untouched, displaying the sacred symbol of the Ever-Vigilant Eye. “This,” he declared, his voice rising, “was found amidst the ashes of the Mieszek blasphemer’s hearth. A holy text, defiled by proximity to her profane touch.” He paused, letting the implication sink in. “She, Binka Mieszek, the so-called ‘Vessel of the Unasked,’ has dared to mock the divine. Her ‘miracles’ are not blessings, but grotesque parodies, a disease upon the soul.”
An old woman in the front row began to weep, clutching a worn wooden prayer bead. Krystof’s gaze swept over the crowd, his eyes, the color of twilight, holding them captive. “But even in this desecration, the grace of the Sanctified Order reveals itself. For her fleeing, her act of cowardice, is a sign. The purity of Chervan demands a cleansing. The holy texts foretell a Great Purification, a time when the wayward flock shall be brought back to the true path, when the chaotic mutterings of unsanctioned magic shall be silenced forever.”
He raised his hands, not in accusation, but in an invitation. “This ‘Vessel’ is not a saint, but a festering wound, drawing pestilence. Her every chaotic act, her every twisted ‘gift,’ spreads this sickness. And so, we begin. Today, here, in Oakhaven, the Great Purification commences! We shall hunt this defiler, not with hatred, but with the righteous fire of faith! For the good of all souls, for the glory of the Ever-Vigilant Eye, we shall cleanse Chervan of her taint!”
His words, like sparks on dry tinder, ignited the fear. The murmurs grew, but now they were not of dread, but of a rising fervor. The weeping woman stopped, her face hardening into a grim mask of resolve. A young man at the back shouted, “For the Order! For Purification!” Other voices joined him, hesitant at first, then growing in strength, until the square was filled with a chilling, unified roar. Krystof smiled, a thin, satisfied curve of his lips. The fear had curdled into something far more dangerous: zealous fury. He knew then that Binka Mieszek would find no refuge in Chervan. She would find only the flame.
***
The wilderness was a suffocating embrace of shadow and tangled roots. Every step was a battle against unseen branches and slippery moss. Binka, her lungs burning, continued to drag Ziven, his weight a dead anchor against her frantic pace. He was still bleeding, a slow, insistent seep. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, and the frantic pounding of her own heart. She could still hear the distant shouts from the road, but they were fading, consumed by the rustle of leaves and the sudden, unsettling hoot of an unseen owl.
She stumbled, pulling Ziven down with her onto a mossy mound beside the gnarled roots of an ancient oak. He landed with a soft groan, his head lolling to the side. “Ziven,” she muttered, her voice raw, “are you… are you alright?” It was a foolish question. He was clearly not alright. His skin was pale, almost translucent in the dim light, and his eyes were half-closed, his breathing ragged. Guilt struck her, cold and sharp. All of this, the attack, his injury, it was all because of her, because of her uncontrollable, disastrous magic.
“The sword,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “You… turned it into… flowers.” He even managed a weak, almost-smile, a flash of his usual cynical amusement, before a spasm of pain contorted his features. “Quite… efficient.”
“I was trying to heal you!” she wailed, tears pricking her eyes. “I wanted to make your wound better, but instead I just… I don’t know what I did! I just make everything worse!” She felt a frantic urge to try again, to press her hands to his wound, to force the heat, the healing, but the memory of the tulips, and Grandfather Wieslaw’s hair, stopped her cold. What if she turned his blood into elderberry jam? Or his lungs into a nest of singing thrushes?
Ziven coughed, a wet rattle in his chest. “Don’t… don’t try again, Binka,” he managed, reaching a trembling hand to cover hers. “Just… just get us to safety. If you can do *that*, you’ll be doing enough.” His fingers, cool and damp, squeezed hers weakly, a silent plea. His breathing grew shallower, his gaze distant. Binka watched, horrified, as his eyelids fluttered, threatening to close completely. He needed help. Real help. Not her chaotic, unpredictable brand of it. She had to find a way, a place, to keep him alive, deep within the heart of these forbidding woods. The overgrowth itself seemed to watch them, its shadows deepening, its silence pressing down, as if waiting to claim them. She had fled into the unknown, dragging a dying man with her, and the true dangers of the thicket were only just beginning to stir. Her heart clenched, a cold dread replacing her panic. What if she had led them both straight into a deeper, more terrible trap?