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Chapter 4 - Return of the Carnival

The streets of Braxmond swallowed us the moment we stepped beyond the factory gates. Two guards flanked me—broad-shouldered men whose leather boots struck cobblestones with military precision. Their presence carved a bubble of space around us as citizens instinctively stepped aside.

"Keep close, young lord," muttered the guard, his scarred hand resting on his sword hilt. "Streets are restless today."

Restless felt like an understatement. The very air seemed to vibrate with tension, thick as the smoke that perpetually hung over our city. Workers streamed past in clusters, their voices low but urgent. I caught fragments of conversation that made my spine stiffen.

"—heard another factory seized up last night—"

"—blood in the machines, they say—"

"—Mortal Instruments are calling for action—"

The last phrase hit me like a physical blow. I'd heard Father speak of the Mortal Instruments Order with barely concealed contempt, dismissing them as "rabble-rousers and malcontents." But here, on these streets, their name carried weight that made people's voices drop to whispers.

A group of soot-stained workers gathered near a street corner, and one gestured emphatically while speaking. His words drifted across the narrow street: "The Order's right—these lords live fat while we break our backs feeding their machines. Time's coming when brass won't be worth more than blood."

My second guard, a younger man, shifted closer. "Seditious talk," he growled, loud enough for the workers to hear. "Move along, or we'll see how brave your tongues are in the stocks."

The workers dispersed, but not before shooting dark looks in our direction. One spat deliberately into the gutter as he passed. The gesture felt like a slap.

We continued deeper into the market district, where vendors hawked their wares from wooden stalls. Life pulsed commers and what little food the city produced. A baker's wife laughed as she served fresh bread to a line of customers. Children darted between stalls, their faces bright despite the soot that seemed to coat everything in Braxmond. I found myself fascinated by a young mother bargaining with a cloth merchant. She held a toddler on her hip while examining a bolt of simple blue fabric, her fingers testing its quality. The child babbled happily, reaching for the merchant's brass buttons, and both adults smiled at the innocent gesture.

Such simple joy. When had I last experienced anything so genuine? In the Exhibition Hall, every smile felt calculated, every laugh performed for advantage. Here, a mother's love for her child needed no audience, no purpose beyond itself.

"Something wrong, my lord?" one of the guard's voices jolted me back to awareness.

"Nothing." But that wasn't true. Everything felt wrong—my gilded isolation, my ignorance of my own city's pain, the way these guards' treated citizens like potential threats instead of people.

We passed a group of young men huddled around a broadsheet posted on a tavern wall. I couldn't read the text from this distance, but I caught sight of a crude drawing—a skull and bones enclosed within a broken gear. The same symbol I'd glimpsed on pamphlets scattered near the factory.

The Mortal Instruments Order's mark.

One of the young men looked up as we passed, his eyes meeting mine with undisguised hostility. He couldn't have been much older than myself, but his gaze held a hardness that spoke of struggles I'd never faced. For a moment, we simply stared at each other across the gulf that separated lord from commoner.

Then the guard with a scarred hand stepped forward, hand on his weapon. "Problem, citizen?"

The young man's jaw tightened, his eyes hardening like steel as he swallowed down whatever words were poised on his tongue. He turned away, deciding against saying more. The gesture was damning, more eloquent than any insult hurled in anger. His companions dissolved back into the alley near the bulletin, becoming shadows among the many. I remained rooted, my chest a hollow echo of all the things left unsaid. They looked at me as if I were a specter, some harbinger of their continued torment—a symbol of the oppressor who lives in idle luxury while they toiled and broke themselves against the wheels of nobility's ambition. I knew that Braxmond was the only of the three cities to adopt a feudalist system and even once had a king.

"We should press on," the guard finally concluded.

I nod with agreement but glanced at what the men were read and had to step forward to an announcement from parliament. Big block letters read:

MADAM ASENA MAGNIFICENT CARNIVAL WILL BE RETURNING TO BRAXMOND!

"What is a carnival?" I asked one of the guards as we made our way to Brass Square, the central point of the city and where the aristocratic families, hereditary nobles, and industrial magnates' estates started to come into view. "Is it something from a different city?"

"A distraction, my lord," the guard noted, his expression a mix of disdain and disinterest. "Gypsies come with tales, spinning illusions of golden futures for those tethered to poverty."

I stepped closer, curiosity flaring despite myself. Visions roiled in my mind—flickers of shadowed memories, echoes of power I could touch but not wield.

"What do they say?" My voice carried an edge, tempered with both skepticism and yearning.

"Promises of prosperity, of destinies rewritten," he continued, waving his hand as though dismissing the very idea. "Nothing more than fancy tales."

The clanging of metal and excited chatter surrounded me as we approached Brass Square, the bustling heart of Braxmond. Towering brass and steam structures loomed overhead, their pipes gently humming rhythmically while colorful banners fluttered between them like trapped birds. The scent of fried pastries and roasted nuts beckoned from nearby stalls, cutting through the ever-present smell of soot and oil.

A crowd had gathered near the central platform; their faces turned upward with anticipation. Children clutched their parents' hands, eyes wide with wonder, while vendors pushed through the masses hawking sweet breads and ribbons. My heart raced—not from the festival atmosphere, but from something deeper, a pull I couldn't name.

"Make way! Make way for the Lord's son!" my escorts voices boomed, but I barely heard them. My attention fixed on the platform where Lord Cedric Haldric stood in his brass-trimmed coat, arms raised for attention. Father hated the tin man who seemed to have his hand in every noble house pocket and schemed his way in charge of public affairs.

"Citizens of Braxmond!" His voice carried across the square. "After seven long years, they return to our city—Madam Asena Magnificent Carnival!"

Cheers erupted, but beneath the celebration, I caught whispered words that made my pulse quicken: "Gypsies," "fortune-tellers," "Madam Asena's cult."

Lord Cedric continued his announcement, detailing performances and competitions, but those fragments echoed in my mind. Madam Asena. The name stirred something ancient in my memory—dreams of swirling fabrics, silver bells, and eyes that seemed to see through time itself. Around me, the crowd's reaction split like oil on water. Working families pressed closer, their children bouncing with excitement. But I noticed how the better-dressed citizens—merchants in fine coats, minor nobles with their own guards—stepped back with expressions of distaste.

"Filthy wanderers," muttered a woman in silk gloves. "They'll bring nothing but trouble and thievery."

Her companion nodded gravely. "Mark my words, strange things always follow their kind. Disease, madness, worse."

But their fear only intensified my fascination. These Gypsies represented everything my world lacked—freedom, mystery, magic dancing just beyond the edge of reason. While these people saw danger, I saw possibility.

The last words of the announcement I caught were: "within a fortnight, they will be here! Prepare yourselves for wonders beyond imagination! In addition to the carnival, Tundrathan has tripled their shipment of coal and food in preparation to buy the new airships!

As the crowd began to disperse, chattering excitedly, I found myself rooted to the spot. Steam swirled around me from nearby pipes, thick with the promise of adventure, and somewhere in that haze, I could almost see them—figures in flowing robes, hands weaving impossible patterns in the air.

The guards fidgeted, restlessly leaving the square. "We need to take you to parliament my lord. Your father expects—"

"Just a moment longer." The words came out sharper than intended, surprising us both.

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