The Clockwork Carnival of Crickhollow

The ironclad carriages clattered onto the cobblestones, their brass horns blaring a discordant melody that echoed through the mist-choked valley. Eliza clutched her father's hand, her heart pounding in rhythm with the rattling wheels. Crickhollow. Even the name sounded like a whispered curse.

Her father, Elias, squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Eliza,” he said, his voice gruff but kind.