The scent of damp earth and pine needles faded as Otylia Voron emerged from the dense Whisperwood. The trail had been faint, but the lingering sweetness of spectral tulips, an impossible perfume, had guided her. Ahead, a wide, churning river, the Volkovyn, cut through the landscape, spanned by the imposing Ironfang crossing. Its stone arches, dark with age, were crowned by a squat, fortified tollhouse, flying the crimson banner of the Sanctified Order. Four armored sentries stood at post, pikes gleaming, their expressions harsh and unyielding. From a copse of scraggly birches near the riverbank, Otylia observed a familiar pair. Binka Mieszek, her usually neat braids now wild with twigs and leaves, was carefully bandaging Ziven Broz’s shoulder. He leaned against a gnarled oak, face pale, but his sharp eyes scanned their surroundings with an almost predatory focus. Binka’s brows were drawn together in a fretful line as she secured the makeshift poultice, humming a tuneless, anxious melody. “Quiet now, little starling,” Ziven murmured, his voice rough. “You’ll attract every carrion crow in the duchy.” Binka flinched. “I’m trying to make you better! And what if there *are* carrion crows? They look so lonely.” Ziven merely grunted, a sound somewhere between pain and exasperation. Otylia chose that moment to step into the clearing. A twig snapped under her boot, loud in the quiet. Binka let out a small, startled gasp, her hands flying to her mouth. Ziven was instantly on his feet, despite his injury, his hand going to the hilt of his shortsword, his gaze narrowed to slits of cold steel. “Lady Voron,” he greeted, his voice devoid of warmth. “Still chasing shadows?” Otylia’s lip curled. “Hardly. I prefer chasing truths, even the inconvenient ones.” She glanced at Binka, who looked like a trapped bird, ready to bolt. “And speaking of inconvenient truths, I’ve had quite the education these past few days, thanks to our little baker.” Before Ziven could retort, one of the watchmen spotted them. “Hold! Who goes there? This is sanctified territory!” “Wonderful,” Ziven muttered, shifting his stance. “Just what we needed.” Otylia ignored them. “I’m not here to capture her, Broz.” “Your word means as much as a priest’s sermon in a tavern brawl,” Ziven shot back, his eyes darting between Otylia and the approaching watchmen. Two of them were already starting across the span, pikes lowered. “Perhaps,” Otylia allowed, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. “But your precious Order’s word means even less.” She drew her own blade, the metal hissing softly as it left its sheath. It was a well-balanced piece, honed to a deadly edge. “And right now, their word says you’re all profane heretics. Which, for once, puts us on the same side.” The two soldiers, burly men in heavy cuirasses, reached the riverbank. “Lay down your weapons! Surrender to the judgment of the Final Word!” Otylia didn’t wait. She moved with a sudden, fluid grace, her blade a silver blur. The first guard barely registered her charge before she parried his pike with a ringing clang and, in the same motion, drove the pommel of her sword into his jaw. He staggered back, teeth clacking, and Otylia’s foot swept his legs out from under him. He hit the ground with a grunt, his head bouncing off a rock. The second guard, momentarily stunned, recovered quickly, swinging his pike in a wide, arcing strike. Otylia ducked under it, the air whistling over her head, and came up inside his guard. Her blade flickered, a precise cut to the tendon behind his knee. He cried out, collapsing onto one knee, then toppled sideways, clutching his leg. His pike clattered uselessly. From the stone approach, the remaining two shouted, drawing their own swords and rushing forward. Binka watched, wide-eyed and horrified, as Otylia engaged them, a whirlwind of calculated violence. Ziven, though injured, moved to shield Binka, his shortsword drawn, his gaze wary but not hostile toward Otylia. This was a brutal, efficient dance Otylia performed, a stark contrast to Binka’s own chaotic interventions. One of the newcomers, older and more experienced, pressed Otylia hard, his attacks swift and relentless. Otylia parried, her face a mask of fierce concentration. Her blade sang against his, sparks showering. She feigned a retreat, drawing him in, then spun, bringing her elbow up sharply into his chin. He reeled, and Otylia’s sword found his exposed side, a quick, clean thrust that buckled him. He dropped to his knees, gasping, before falling silent. The last soldier, seeing his companions fall, hesitated. Otylia fixed him with a cold stare, her blade poised. “Run,” she commanded, her voice low and dangerous. “Tell your Inquisitor that Lady Voron has found a new employer.” The man, pale with terror, scrambled back across the span, abandoning his post and his fallen comrades. Otylia sheathed her sword, her breathing barely disturbed. She turned to Binka and Ziven, her expression unreadable. “Well,” she said, wiping a speck of blood from her cheek with the back of her hand. “That was invigorating. Now, can we talk?” Ziven lowered his sword, though his grip remained tight. “You have approximately ten seconds before more of them arrive. Start talking, Voron. And make it worth the trouble.” Otylia walked over, stopping a few paces from them. Her eyes, usually so sharp and predatory, held a new, grim earnestness. “The borscht,” she began, startling Binka with the unexpected reference. “And the tulips. My men… they’re opening a soup kitchen. And a flower stall. They can’t even hold a sword without wanting to arrange a bouquet.” A dry, humorless laugh escaped her. “Your chaotic kindness, Binka, it’s not malicious. It’s… something else. Something the Order cannot abide.” Binka wrung her hands. “I only wanted to help! I never mean for things to be so… inconvenient.” “Indeed,” Otylia said. “And that’s the crux of it. I’ve been asking around, looking into the whispers. The Order’s ‘Great Purification’ isn’t what they claim. And the Broken Spire… it’s not a haven.” Her voice dropped, becoming grave. “It’s a trap.” Binka shrank back, her mouth falling open as her hope guttered out. “A… a trap? But Ziven said—” Ziven cut her off, his face hardening. “I said it was a place where you could learn to control your power, where you might be safe. I never said it was benevolent. The Order’s manipulation runs deeper than I thought.” He looked at Otylia. “What exactly have you uncovered?” “The Spire isn’t a place of refuge for unsanctioned magic,” Otylia explained, her gaze flicking between them, “it’s the amplification point for Krystof’s ritual. It’s built on ancient power, a nexus of raw, untamed energy. Your arrival, Binka, your connection to the ‘Unasked’ power… it will trigger the Purification. Not to cleanse sin, not to save souls, but to drain all unsanctioned magic from the world. To strip away all raw, untamed emotion, turning the populace into placid, obedient thralls of the Order. A world without wonder. A world without chaos. A world without… *feeling*.” Binka swayed, as if struck. The ground seemed to tilt beneath her. That mountain haven, her only goal, her desperate hope for control and safety, was a lie. It was a weapon, waiting to be wielded against the very essence of what made the world vibrant, against people like her, against every unexpected joy and sorrow. A knot twisted in her gut as cold air locked in her throat. She had been blindly walking towards the world’s doom, believing it to be her salvation. “No,” Binka breathed, the single word a frail denial against the enormity of the revelation. Her eyes, usually soft and anxious, began to harden, a surprising light flickering within them. “No. I won’t let them.” A strange calm settled over her, chilling and determined. “We have to go to the Spire.” Ziven and Otylia exchanged a look. “To destroy it,” Binka finished, her voice gaining a surprising, resolute strength. “I have to go there. To stop it.” A distant blare of trumpets, sharp and chilling, echoed from beyond the Ironfang Bridge. The crimson banners of Krystof’s forces were now visible in the distance, a growing tide of disciplined wrath. The Order was here. And Binka’s new, terrifying purpose had just been forged in the crucible of absolute betrayal. She would confront the trap, and if she must, she would tear it down, even if it meant tearing herself apart in the process. Her chaotic power, once a burden, now felt like a desperate, potent answer. That hidden bastion would not have its ritual. Not while she lived. “They’re here,” Ziven stated, drawing his sword once more, his own face a grim mask of resolve. “And they’re not going to let us pass.”

The Toll Bridge and the Truth