The blare of trumpets grew louder, closer. The crimson banners of Krystof’s advancing forces flapped on the horizon. The Ironfang span, once a path to refuge, now pinched tight into a trap. Ziven gripped the hilt of his blade, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, the wound on his side still a tender ache. Otylia stood beside him, her hand already on the twin hilts of her new, less tulip-prone sabers, a predatory gleam in her eyes. “Unless,” Otylia said, a sharp smile playing on her lips, “we don’t go *over*.” She signaled with a tilt of her head to the churning, grey-green waters of the Fluss River below, which plunged into a narrow gorge beneath the central masonry arch. “The current’s strong, but the gorge walls are steep enough to offer cover for a time. If we can get across the river and into the Mirkwood beyond the eastern bank, we might evade them.” Binka looked from the distant soldiers to the treacherous water. “Swim? With Ziven hurt?” “It’s a better option than facing a legion,” Otylia countered, already scanning the riverbanks. “Better than becoming a bonfire for your Grand Inquisitor.” Ziven grunted in agreement. “She’s right. My arm works. My legs work. We move.” With that, they plunged down the muddy embankment, Binka helping Ziven navigate the slick rocks, Otylia covering their descent. The river was frigid, seizing Binka’s breath as she hit the water. Ziven, with a grimace, held tightly to her shoulder, relying on her strength to navigate the current that threatened to pull them under. Otylia, a powerful swimmer, cut through the water like an otter, always keeping an eye on the bridge above, where the first scouts of the Order were now visible, their cries echoing down the gorge. They made it to the far bank, scrambling up into the thick, shadowed timberland, soaked and shivering, just as the Order’s archers began peppering the river below. For three days, they pushed eastward through the damp timberland, subsisting on foraged berries and the meagre rations Otylia carried. Ziven’s wound, though not festering, was slow to mend, his face often pale beneath the grime. Binka stared at her calloused fingers, still hollowed out by what Otylia had revealed. Her impulse to help, her baker's instinct to feed and soothe, had been turned into kindling for an apocalypse. The thought gnawed at her, a bitter pill she couldn’t quite swallow. On the fourth day, the pine forest thinned, spitting them out onto a well-worn cart track. Ahead, a vibrant cacophony of sound and color erupted from the grey landscape. Pennants snapped in the breeze, fried dough and roasted fat grease coated the wind, and a sour-tuned hurdy-gurdy droned beneath barking vendors. It was the Traveling Revelry of the Gleeful Grins, a fair that trundled through the provinces, blithely deaf to the Order's sermons. “A good place to blend,” Otylia assessed, her eyes narrowing as she took in the throngs of people. “And perhaps gather some news. They won’t be looking for us here.” Ziven, his shoulders slumped with fatigue, gave a curt chin-jerk. “Just don’t… make a fuss, Binka. No borscht, no tulips, no spectacular hair growth. Understand?” Binka ducked her chin contritely. The fairgrounds were packed thick: a barrel-chested juggler tossed flaming clubs, a bearded performer worked red ribbons through her whiskers, and children shrieked on a creaking carousel carved with grinning hippogriffs. They entered the bustling grounds, losing themselves in the crowd. Ziven found a quiet corner at a roasted boar stall, gnawing on a skewer, while Otylia moved with purpose, melting into the throng to listen and observe. Binka, however, was drawn to a game of chance – a strength-testing machine called the ‘Skull-Crusher’. A burly hawker with a waxed mustache stood beside it, shouting at passersby. “Step right up, weaklings! Who dares challenge the Hammer of Ursus? Ring the chime, win a prize! Only the mightiest shall claim the Mountain Beast!” He pointed with a thumb to a towering, shaggy stuffed bear with mismatched wooden eyes. Binka’s gaze fixed on the matted toy. Its wool was thin, its belly lumpy with dried chaff, but she pictured Ziven resting against it to take weight off his bruised ribs. He deserved some scrap of ease. She stepped up to the booth. “How much?” she asked, her voice quiet. “Two coppers for three swings, little dove,” the barker boomed. “Though you won’t chime that brass with flour-dusted wrists.” Binka fumbled in her coin purse, pulling out two coppers. She took the heavy sledge, its iron head thick as a loaf. She swung, hitting the padded lever with a dry thud. The brass weight climbed barely a handspan up the wooden groove. She swung again, gritting her teeth, then a third time. Nothing. The booth-keeper chuckled down at her. “Told ya, sparrow. Some folks are built for kneading dough, not ringing bells.” Binka stared at the patch-eyed beast. Ziven’s drawn, sweat-sheened face stayed burned behind her eyelids. She clamped her fists around the ash handle, not murmuring a single syllable of liturgy, but picturing the dense stuffed wool pressed into his bandaged side, stubborn and simple. It had to work. She hoisted the sledge for a fourth, unpaid strike. As the iron struck the plate, a faint amber spark crackled along the runner. The weight shot skyward, cracking into the overhead gong with an ear-splitting *CLANG*! The hawker's pipe dropped into the dirt. “Rigged!” the man bellowed. “You touched the spring! Fraud!” Binka, surprised herself, just looked at the now-ringing bell. “But… I didn’t.” Then the lever seized the rest of the fair. A boy no taller than her belt picked up the dropped mallet and tapped the pad: the counterweight zipped straight up. *CLANG*! A clerk in velvet slippers nudged it with his toe. *CLANG*! An elderly seamstress brushed her basket against the timber. *CLANG*! Every bump tripped the mechanism as though gravity had reversed along the shaft. The hawker clutched his bald scalp, his wax-curled tips quivering. “My stock! The stitched beasts! They’re stripping the stall bare! Ruined!” Ziven, drawn by the frantic clamor and the shouting, elbowed through the knot of spectators. Otylia, too, arrived, a hint of exasperation on her face. “Binka,” Ziven said, his voice low, a mixture of annoyance and… something else. “What have you done?” “I meant to get the toy for you,” Binka muttered, gesturing toward Ziven. She snatched the matted creature off its display peg and shoved it directly against his chest. He stared at it, then at her, then back at the bear, his cynical facade cracking just a fraction. Later, huddled in a quiet corner behind a fortune-teller’s tent, Ziven held the Grand Ursine, its lumpy head resting on his lap. The chaos of the Skull-Crusher game had dissipated, the hawker now slumped on an overturned bucket, weeping into his aprons. Otylia was off again, scouting for information. “You intended me to have this,” Ziven remarked, prodding the rough seam on the ear. “That was your thought?” Binka folded her hands in her skirt. “Yes. Only that you should have it.” “It isn’t liturgy, Binka,” Ziven said, lowering his voice until it barely carried over the canvas wall. He held her gaze. “You aren't begging an altar. The surge comes from *you*. From the exact shape of your will.” “I only try to be useful,” she protested softly. “To patch cuts, to mend boots.” “And look what follows,” he said, nodding toward the sobbing booth-keeper down the alley. “Mayhem. If you want a grip on it, you must be selfish. Fixate on a private, solitary greed. Not for an injured stranger. Not for peace. What *you* crave. Try right now. Something petty.” Binka frowned, trying to grasp the concept of wanting something just for herself. Her entire life had been about serving others, about the bakery, about prayer. A selfish greed felt unnatural, like theft. She shut her eyes, screening out the smells of pitch and tallow. What belonged purely to her? She pictured a yellow plum from the orchard behind her father's ovens, dusted with white bloom, cool against the teeth. She held out her empty palm and opened her lids. Only dry skin and flour in her fingernails. Her stomach sank. “Harder than muttering a chant, isn't it?” Ziven said. “Singular focus. A hunger that shuts out every beggar in the province.” Just then, Otylia reappeared, her face grim. She held up a crumpled piece of paper. It was a printed warrant. On the woodblock print, a grotesque rendering of Binka stared out with bared teeth, her braids drawn as twisting vipers. The caption screamed: ‘THE VESSEL OF THE UNASKED! PROFANE WITCH! BRINGER OF SCOURGES! ONE THOUSAND SOLS FOR HER CAPTURE!’ “Pasted on every post,” Otylia said, checking over her shoulder. “The Inquisitors' men ran them up an hour back. They're searching for a girl from the ovens carrying…” She cut off, staring down at the massive stuffed beast spilling out of Ziven's arms. A sudden shout pierced the carnival’s merriment. “There! The baker’s girl! And the spy with the bear!” Binka whipped her head around. A group of heavily armored Order patrols, their black and crimson tabards stark against the colorful stalls, were pointing directly at them. Showgoers shrank back against the tents, skirts and carts tangling as patrons recognized the iron crosses pinned to the soldiers' chests. The crank of the hurdy-gurdy ground to an abrupt screech. Only the crunch of iron boots over packed shavings filled the corridor between the stalls. The open grounds had shut like a portcullis, betrayed by three feet of wool and a pair of button eyes.

The Carnival of Fleeting Joys