The Whisperwood lived up to its name, a ceaseless rustle of unseen leaves and a low, mournful sigh of wind through ancient boughs. Binka stumbled, knees buckling as Ziven sagged against her ribs like wet grain. He was a lanky man, but utterly inert, his head lolling against her shoulder. His breathing, already shallow, had become ragged, a rasping sound that tore at her. Bile rose behind her teeth. She couldn’t keep going, not like this. He would die here, in this shadowed, unfamiliar place, and it would be her fault.
She spotted a shallow recess in a tangle of thorny *Zhiva* bushes, its entrance partially obscured by a fallen, moss-covered log. Not much, but it offered a momentary illusion of concealment. Digging her heels into rotten pine needles, Binka hauled Ziven over the log, tumbling beside him into the leaf mold. Rotting bark and wet needles cushioned them, the quiet broken only by the scrape of his labored breath.
His face was slick with sweat, pale as parchment. The wound on his side, though partially covered by his torn tunic, seeped dark crimson, staining the fabric. She fumbled with his belt pouch, recalling Ziven’s earlier, terse instructions about a healing salve. Her fingers brushed against a small, leather-bound book, distinct from the crude pouches and flint. Curiosity, despite the urgency, pricked at her. She pulled it free, tucking it into her own pocket for later.
“Ziven?” she whispered, shaking his shoulder gently. He didn’t stir. “Please, wake up. Just a little. Tell me what to do.”
No response. His eyelids were a bruised lavender against his ashen skin. He was burning up, a feverish flush creeping across his cheekbones. The salve, when she found it, was a meager, green-grey paste. She spread it as best she could over the wound, then ripped strips from her own petticoat to bind it tightly. It felt utterly inadequate. She needed fire to boil water, something clean, anything.
Scrambling to her feet, Binka scanned the encroaching gloom. She needed a stream, a spring. Something. The woods pressed in, a wall of indifferent green. Every shadow seemed to twist into a menacing shape, every creak of branch a predator’s approach. Her grandfather’s words echoed, gentle as a forgotten lullaby: *“Kindness, Binka, is never wasted.”* But her kindness, her efforts to help, had only ever brought chaos and ruin. The beetroot stew, the tulips… they were spectacular, but useless here.
She looked down at Ziven, so still and vulnerable. His cynicism and biting wit had vanished into slack, gray stupor. He had risked everything for her, a stranger. A weapon, he’d called her. But he’d still taken that blow.
Her gaze fell to the small, leather book in her pocket. It felt warm from her body. Perhaps it held some clue, some instruction, anything to make sense of this relentless nightmare. Pulling it out, Binka saw the cover was worn smooth, the leather softened by years of handling. No title, just a simple clasp. She unfastened it with a click that sounded too loud in the oppressive quiet.
The handwriting inside was precise, almost calligraphic, but the ink had faded in places. It wasn’t a logbook or a ledger. It was a journal, full of observations, strategies, and then, abruptly, a personal entry, dated years ago:
*“The air still carries the stench of ash from the ‘purification’ of Krasnaya. They marched her to the pyre, not a flicker of resistance in her eyes. Miroslava. My sister. They called her a demon, a blight, for the way she could coax the river reeds into song, for the vibrant colors that bloomed in her footsteps. Krystof himself, in his sanctimonious robes, watched the flames consume her. Said it was for the good of all souls, a ‘cleansing’. Lies. All of it. He stole her. He stole my gentle, wonderful sister. They stole her because they feared what they didn’t understand. This ‘Order’, this ‘Final Word’… they are nothing but butchers dressed in piety.”*
The words swam before Binka’s eyes. Krystof. The same Krystof who had burned her home, the same Krystof who hunted her. Ziven’s sister. *Miroslava*. The river reeds, the vibrant colors. A magically gifted child. The raw grief in the faded script made her throat tighten. His cynicism, his weariness, his relentless pursuit of the Sanctuary – it wasn’t just politics. It was a wound, festering and deep. He wasn't just using her; he was fighting a ghost, trying to avenge a love lost to the flames of the Order.
***
Hours later, a different kind of ash settled over the abandoned bounty hunter camp, the one Binka and Ziven had fled. Lady Otylia Voron, her usually immaculate dark hair slightly askew, surveyed the scene with a frown. The *Svarog* mercenaries, notorious for their ruthless efficiency, were nowhere to be found. Instead, a peculiar aroma, savory and rich, wafted from the remnants of their cook fire.
“What in the blazes…?” Otylia muttered, approaching cautiously. Two of the burliest mercenaries, Gorok and Vlas, usually grim and taciturn, were stirring a massive pot over a low flame, humming a surprisingly cheerful tune. Another, Jarko, was meticulously polishing a wooden ladle with a piece of cloth.
“Ah, Lady Voron! Just in time for a tasting,” Gorok boomed, his scarred face alight with an unfamiliar cheer. “We’ve perfected the recipe! A touch more dill, I think.”
Otylia’s left eyebrow rose to an alarming height. “Recipe? For what, pray tell? A new method of interrogation?”
Vlas gestured proudly to the bubbling pot. “For the beetroot soup, of course! The… the blessed broth, as we’ve come to call it. That little baker girl, she truly has a gift, doesn’t she? Our hearts simply aren’t in bounty hunting anymore. Too much strife, too much anger. The world needs nourishment, not bloodshed.”
Jarko nodded vehemently. “Aye. We’re thinking of converting the old mill outside Velegrad into a soup kitchen. ‘The Hearth of Borzhok’, we’ll call it. Open to all. No coin required, just a hungry belly and a kind spirit.”
Otylia stared. These were the men who had been ready to carve Binka up for coin. Now they spoke of kind spirits and soup kitchens. She snatched a spoon, dipped it into the thick, red stew, and tasted. It was, impossibly, the most savory soup she had ever tasted, sweet with caramelized root and sour cream. Not a trick, not a hallucination. The water from their canteens, transformed. The tulips from her sword, still shimmering with dew, lay scattered by the path, their fragrance sweet and undeniable. Binka’s power wasn't malicious. It wasn’t evil. It was simply… chaotic, wildly benevolent, and utterly unpredictable.
The Order’s narrative, the one First Inquisitor Krystof preached with such terrifying conviction, began to crumble in Otylia’s mind. A profanity? A mockery of the divine? Or something else entirely? Something beautiful, if inconveniently messy.
“A soup kitchen,” Otylia repeated slowly, her mind racing. “Right. Carry on, then.” She spun on her heel, leaving the mercenaries to their culinary bliss. The girl was dangerous, yes. But not in the way Krystof claimed. The trail, though faint, was still there, leading deeper into the Whisperwood. A broken branch here, a scuffed boot-print there. Otylia followed, her purpose, which had once been so clear, now a swirling, uncertain eddy in her thoughts.