The carnival was audible long before it was visible.
Sound carried first — pipes and strings weaving without rhythm, laughter rising and falling in uneven bursts, the hollow thud of something heavy striking wood. Foot traffic thickened in fits and starts as we approached — clusters drawn toward noise, then long stretches of trampled grass where no one lingered. Wagon ruts pressed the ground flat, worn by repetition rather than care.
The air was dense with smoke and sugar, heavier than it should have been — excess scent standing in for absent crowds. Beneath it ran the sharper smells of hot oil and singed wick, catching at the back of the throat.
Imoen slowed beside me as the spacing around us shifted unpredictably. At some point — I wasn't entirely sure when — her arm slid through mine.
It was casual. Unthinking. The sort of thing that would have gone unnoticed if I hadn't been acutely aware of it.
I stiffened for half a heartbeat before realizing how obvious that would look, then forced myself to relax. She didn't comment or look up, just walked as though this were the most natural arrangement in the world. My attention fixed deliberately on the tents ahead.
Canvas rose in uneven rows, painted in colors that clashed aggressively. Some booths were lively; others stood quiet, attendants waiting with practiced patience. A man shouted about luck and fate to a knot of listeners who did not look convinced. Somewhere to the left, a small crowd gathered — low-voiced, tense — around a fortune-teller's stand.
A single voice pressed through the others, edged with familiarity and frustration, asking after iron that wasn't coming out of the ground anymore — loads too small to matter, days of work yielding nothing worth hauling up — complaints met with nods rather than arguments. The kind exchanged by people already tired of being surprised.
The fortune teller listened without interruption. When she finally spoke, her voice didn't rise.
"Things don't vanish," she said. "They stop moving."
A few people shifted. Someone laughed, uncertain.
"What does that mean?" the voice demanded.
"It means what's taken isn't always gone," she replied calmly. "Sometimes it's just no longer where you expect it to be."
That earned no satisfaction. The murmurs thinned as people drifted away — disappointed, but unwilling to argue with words that refused to take shape.
Just beyond them, a small knot of onlookers lingered near the edge of a tent. A stone figure stood half-shadowed there — a woman frozen mid-prayer, hands raised, expression caught between fear and resolve. People stared, whispered, moved on — no one lingering long enough to enjoy the sight.
Near the edge of the tents, someone stood apart from the flow.
He wasn't watching the performers or the crowd. His attention rested on the spaces between them — where frustration bled into spectacle, where voices rose and fell without resolution. He stood still in a way that made the movement around him more apparent, posture unguarded but deliberate.
No one paid him much mind.
For a moment, I thought he might be waiting for something. Or someone.
Then the crowd shifted, and he was lost to motion again.
Imoen leaned slightly closer, either to hear or simply because there was nowhere else to go. I couldn't quite tell.
I told myself to focus on the carnival.
On the color.
On the noise that tried too hard to sound cheerful.
Anything but the unfamiliar weight at my side — and the quiet realization that I was more aware of it than I should have been.
A voice cut through the uneven din — not loud enough to dominate, but sharp enough to slip between conversations.
"Marvels and mysteries!"
The man stood near the mouth of a striped tent, one boot braced on a crate. His clothes were bright but utilitarian, patched where wear demanded it rather than where flair suggested. He gestured broadly, practiced enthusiasm filling the spaces where attention lagged.
"Witness wonders that defy reason," he called. "Illusions to delight, feats to confound — all contained, all controlled, and entirely safe."
The emphasis gave me pause. Performers rarely stressed safety unless they expected doubt — or unless reassurance had become part of the product.
Imoen slowed. Not fully — just enough.
I felt the shift immediately. Curiosity testing its footing.
The barker's gaze swept the nearby crowd, then settled on us. He smiled as though that had been the plan all along.
"You there," he said easily. "Travelers, by the look of you. Care to see the talents of the great illusionist himself — The Great Gazib?"
Imoen glanced up at me, amusement already forming.
"That depends," she said. "On whether it's actually worth it."
The man laughed. "One gold per admission," he said, holding up a finger.
Imoen was already reaching for her pouch. Before I could object, she pressed two coins into his palm.
"If it isn't," she said lightly, "I'll complain loudly."
"Fair terms," the barker said, sweeping an arm aside. "Step lively. Gazib doesn't enjoy waiting."
I hesitated — not because I believed the pitch, but because I recognized the shape of the invitation. Refusal framed as regret.
Imoen's arm tightened lightly against mine.
"It's just a show," she said. "And we said we'd keep things above ground."
She wasn't wrong. The ache along my side was present but quiet — a reminder, not a warning.
"Briefly," I said.
The tent swallowed sound the moment we crossed the threshold.
Music dulled. Light softened, colored lanterns painting the interior in hues that refused to settle. The air felt cooler — contained, like breath held behind teeth.
There were fewer of us than I expected — enough to fill the space, not enough to disappear into it.
At the center stood a man in layered robes, posture straight, hands folded neatly before him. His attention was fixed not on the audience, but on the circle of runes etched into the floor.
"Please remain behind the marked line," Gazib said calmly.
"The demonstration will begin shortly."
His voice carried assurance without warmth — confidence born of repetition.
The lanterns dimmed.
A word was spoken — precise, measured.
The runes flared, and something answered.
A low sound rolled through the tent as a shape forced its way into being. The ogre's bulk resolved within the circle, hunched and breathing hard, skin slick with sweat despite the cool air. His movements were immediately checked — not snapped into place, but held mid-motion, joints trembling as he fought pressure that never quite let him settle.
A faint scorch marked one shoulder, half-healed and ugly, as though something had burned there before and been forced to do it again.
A murmur passed through the audience. Excitement. Unease.
"Remain where you are," Gazib said, without turning.
"The binding is exact."
Near the edge of the tent, a man stepped forward — just enough to be noticed.
I recognized him then — the same still figure from outside, unchanged by enclosure or spectacle.
He was dressed simply, robes unadorned, colors muted to the point of blending into the canvas shadows. His head was shaved, his stance balanced and unhurried, hands resting loosely at his sides.
He watched the ogre.
The ogre's eyes rolled white as he shifted his weight, jaw clenching hard enough that I heard teeth grind. A low sound slipped out — not a growl, not a threat — something closer to pain restrained out of habit.
The man did not look away.
"You call this precision," he said quietly.
Gazib turned, irritation flickering before smoothing away.
"I call it order. The creature is contained. No one is at risk."
The monk stepped closer — not crossing the line, not raising his voice.
"There is distress," he said.
"And restraint without consent is harm, regardless of outcome."
Gazib's jaw tightened.
"This is a sanctioned demonstration. The bindings hold. The crowd is safe. You object to discomfort, not injustice."
He gestured toward the circle.
"Interference introduces risk."
No one moved.
The pressure seemed to tighten. The ogre's breathing broke — shallow, panicked — as though the struggle itself had become the point. His gaze shifted — not to the crowd, not to the lights — but to the man who had named the harm.
Something settled there.
Understanding.
The runes flared.
Not brightly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
The ogre lunged.
Not blindly — but with sudden, focused intent, one massive arm tearing free as the runes sputtered and failed to reassert themselves. The crowd surged backward in a single motion.
"Oopah!" Gazib shouted sharply.
"Enough! Settle yourself — you're ruining the routine!"
The command carried authority, not fear. Habit asserting itself even as control slipped.
"No more routine!" Oopah bellowed.
"Oopah not a clown!"
He tore a support pole free.
Wood cracked. Ropes snapped, and the tent answered all at once. Canvas sagged, then slid inward as tension failed, lanterns swinging wildly as light scattered into frantic arcs.
Oopah swung.
The motion pulled more of the tent down with him. Heavy folds of canvas spilled over his shoulders, tangling around the pole, catching on his bulk. The fabric dragged, turned his momentum against him like a net thrown too close.
The monk moved.
He crossed the distance in a breath, sandals barely whispering. One precise strike landed at the hinge of motion, breaking the swing before it could finish.
The ogre reeled, breath hitching.
A second blow followed — controlled, exact — and the strength left him all at once.
Oopah collapsed into canvas and rope, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths.
Silence fell.
The monk stepped back immediately, checking Oopah's breathing before turning away, placing himself between ogre and illusionist without ceremony.
Boots followed moments later.
Amnian soldiers pushed through the torn canvas in practiced formation, spears forward, eyes already tracking the damage. They did not shout or rush. Their movements suggested familiarity — not just with chaos, but with a town accustomed to keeping things from spilling over.
The lead soldier took in the scene in stages: the collapsed pole, the sagging canvas, the ogre breathing beneath it.
Then he looked at Gazib.
"…This is Gazib's tent," he said flatly.
Gazib straightened. "It is. And this demonstration was sanctioned."
The soldier nodded once. "We know. You run the same routine every season."
His gaze returned to Oopah, then to the monk.
"So tell me," he continued, "what went wrong."
Not what happened.
What went wrong.
"Control failed due to interference," Gazib replied. "The binding—"
"The binding has never failed before," the soldier interrupted, not sharply. "Not with witnesses. Not like this."
He stepped closer to the edge of the ruined circle.
"You're telling me that after months of clean demonstrations, the routine collapses the moment a bystander speaks up."
Gazib's jaw tightened.
"The routine relies on order," he said. "Break the order, and things follow."
The soldier hummed softly.
"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe something changed."
His eyes flicked to Oopah's scorched shoulder. To the way the ogre still twitched beneath the canvas.
"Because this," he added, gesturing to the wreckage, "doesn't look like spectacle gone wrong."
He turned then — not toward Gazib, but toward me.
"You stayed," he said.
"Tell me what you observed."
I took a breath.
"The ogre was struggling before anyone intervened," I said. "Not performing — enduring. Every time the runes reacted, it wasn't containment. It was pressure."
I glanced once toward the monk, then back.
"He didn't challenge the act," I continued. "He challenged the suffering. And he waited until there was no other choice."
"And when there was?" the soldier asked.
"He stopped a blow," I said. "Nothing more."
Gazib laughed softly.
"You make him sound merciful," he said. "As though mercy were the point."
"That creature is an ogre," Gazib continued calmly. "Left to his nature, he would kill indiscriminately. Villages. Travelers."
"I gave him purpose," he said. "Containment. Structure. A use for his strength that did not end in slaughter."
The soldier looked from Gazib to Oopah.
"And the pain?"
"Discomfort," Gazib corrected. "Far less than what he would inflict unrestrained."
I spoke before the decision finished settling.
"If he wakes here," I said, "you're right. Someone could get hurt."
The soldier's gaze shifted to me. He didn't tell me to stop.
"But that's already true," I continued. "What matters is how."
"He didn't lash out at the crowd," I said. "He went for the man controlling him. That wasn't indiscriminate."
Gazib scoffed.
"No," I said, meeting the soldier's eyes. "It makes him specific."
A pause.
"So don't keep him," I said. "Don't parade him. Don't pretend this can go back to what it was."
"Dismiss him properly," I continued. "Release him far from Nashkel. Somewhere he isn't cornered or made a spectacle."
"You still protect the town," I said. "You just don't make execution the only solution because it's the cleanest."
The soldier studied me for several seconds.
"And if he wakes on the road?" he asked.
"Then you answer the same risk you always answer," I said. "The difference is whether you chose it because it was necessary — or because it was easier."
Silence settled.
Not agreement.
Consideration.
Behind us, Oopah breathed — slow, heavy, alive.
Later — when orders were being repeated and canvas lifted — the monk stepped closer.
"You spoke carefully," he said.
"I spoke honestly."
He inclined his head.
"That is rarer."
He looked toward the ogre, still unconscious beneath the fallen tent.
"Stopping a blow does not end injustice," he said quietly.
"It only prevents it from becoming irreversible."
He paused, then straightened — not formally, but with intent.
"My name is Rasaad," he said.
"Of the Sun Soul."