Ziven, still leaning heavily on Binka, pushed the stuffed bear into her arms. “Go,” he rasped, his voice rough. “Take the alley behind the strongman’s tent. We’ll draw them off.” “No!” Binka clutched the oversized toy. “We’re together.” “You really are a liability sometimes, Mieszek,” Otylia muttered, but her hand found Binka’s arm, tugging her. “Follow me. He’s right, they’ll follow the biggest target.” She shoved a passing showman, scattering his tray of candied apples. “Get out of the way!” Two Order patrols rounded the corner, their visored helmets reflecting the flickering oil lamps. Ziven, despite his fever-glazed eyes, moved with a surprising burst of speed, kicking over a barrel of pickled krakens, sending brine and tentacles sloshing across the path. The soldiers slipped, buying them precious seconds. Otylia pulled Binka through a narrow gap between the tent walls, the rough canvas scraping their clothes. The stuffed bear, too large, snagged on the fabric, threatening to trip Binka. “Leave the ridiculous thing!” Otylia hissed, tugging harder. “No!” Binka insisted, pulling it free. It was Ziven’s. It was *theirs*. They spilled out into a muddy alley behind the carnival. The joyous cacophony of the fair was muted here, replaced by the shouts of the guards. A torrential downpour had begun, turning the unpaved path into a slick, dark river. Otylia pointed to a rickety fence at the alley’s end. “Over there! Follow the old river path. It leads to the Veleshka Forest.” Ziven caught up, his face pale, breath shallow. He ignored the rain plastering his hair to his forehead, his eyes fixed on Binka. “Stay with her, Otylia. I’ll divert.” “Absolutely not,” Otylia said, grabbing his tunic. “Your boots are dragging in the dirt. And they’re looking for *three* fugitives now, thanks to your little stunt with the krakens. We stick together, or we all fall apart.” They crashed through the undergrowth, the rain a relentless assault, chilling them to the bone. The Veleshka Forest was a thick, ancient growth, its gnarled branches offering scant protection from the deluge. After what felt like hours of slogging through mud and tangled roots, Otylia spotted a dark, squat shape tucked into a cluster of weeping willow trees. “There,” she grunted, pointing with her chin. “An old trapper’s lean-to. We can dry off there.” The cabin amounted to a single room, smelling faintly of damp earth and long-dead fires. Rain hammered against the rotting timber roof, a constant, deafening roar. Otylia stripped off her cloak, wringing out the water. “I’ll scout the perimeter. See if they followed our trail in this mess.” She glanced at Ziven, who had slumped onto a rough-hewn bench, shivering violently. His face was flushed, his lips blue. “Keep him warm, Mieszek. He’s burning up.” Binka nodded, already kneeling beside Ziven. The stuffed bear lay abandoned on the floor, soaked and forlorn. She peeled off his drenched tunic, revealing the crude bandage on his side. It was soaked through with dark, clotted blood. The wound had reopened, angry and inflamed. He hadn’t complained once, not even during the carnival chase. “Ziven?” she whispered, her voice lost in the roof’s drumming. He didn’t respond, his eyes shut, breath rattling in his chest. His skin was unnaturally hot. She remembered the journal, Krystof, his sister. All of it. He was suffering because of her. She gently cleaned the wound with a scrap of her apron, trying to be careful. He stirred, a low groan escaping his lips. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused, then slowly, painstakingly, landed on her face. “Binka,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, weak. He reached a trembling hand toward her cheek, his touch feather-light and searing hot. “Foolish girl.” A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, then vanished. “They… they call you the Vessel. A weapon.” He paused, a tremor rattling his collarbones that had nothing to do with the cold. “I… I brought you along for that. To use you.” His gaze, though clouded with fever, held a raw sincerity that cut straight through her stubbornness. The rain outside seemed to intensify, drumming a frantic rhythm against the cabin walls. “But you’re not,” he continued, his voice softer than moss. “Not a weapon. Not to me.” He struggled to find the words, his brow furrowed in concentration. “You’re just… Binka. My Binka.” His hand slid from her cheek, and his eyes rolled back, his body going limp against the bench. He collapsed onto his side, a ragged cough tearing through him. Cold sweat beaded along Binka's collar. He couldn’t be gone. Not after… not after that. She remembered his words from the carnival, about focusing on a selfish desire. Her chest ached with a sharp, singular want. She didn’t want him to be a weapon, or a tool, or even a hero. She just wanted *him*. To breathe. To live. To stay. She placed both her hands over the angry, festering wound on his side. The familiar tingling started, but this time, it wasn't a riot of unpredictable energy. It was a focused hum, a warmth that flowed from her palms directly into his flesh. She poured every ounce of her will, every beat of her heart, into the selfish desire: *I want him to stay.* The air around them shimmered, not with sparks or blossoms, but with a faint ripple like heat above summer stone. Beneath her hands, the angry redness of the wound began to recede. The torn edges of skin drew together, slowly, meticulously, like thread being pulled by an unseen needle. The dark, clotted blood dissolved, leaving behind clean, fresh skin. The festering infection vanished, banished by a silent, internal heat. It was the most precise, the most controlled, the most *pure* miracle she had ever performed. But with each passing second, a deadening ache settled behind her ribs. Her vision blurred. Her limbs felt heavy, weighted with lead. The warmth in her hands began to dim, flickering like a dying candle. She had given everything. Just as the last vestiges of the wound closed, leaving behind only a faint, new scar on Ziven’s side, Binka’s hands fell away. A gasp escaped her lips, and her world tilted. She tried to hold on, tried to stay upright, but the effort was too great. Her legs buckled, and she fell forward, collapsing onto the rough floor beside the mended form of Ziven. Her eyelids fluttered, then closed, her body going utterly still, drained and unconscious. A moment later, Ziven’s eyes slowly fluttered open.

A Confession in the Rain