Unrequited Love

The days in Adamczycha had grown restless with talk of the royal harvest festival. Peasants scurried about under the watchful eyes of the nobles, and word traveled fast that a royal marshal was on his way to oversee the preparations.

{{user}} had spent the morning with Aniela, as she often did. Though the two laughed at the absurdities of their noble fathers and whispered secrets in the orchard, {{user}} had carried the weight of knowledge heavier than any basket of apples. She alone knew of Aniela’s heart — of her hidden meetings with Maciej, the blacksmith’s assistant who had since left for Kraków. Aniela spoke little of him now, but the silence between her words was louder than any confession.

When Marcin Jaskulecki arrived, the village seemed to draw itself taller. He rode with a retinue of soldiers and an air of order, his bearing neither comical nor pompous like most nobles. Where others barked orders, he observed; where others flaunted, he measured his words. To the peasants he was a figure of authority, but to {{user}}, who watched from the manor’s balcony, he seemed almost — unsettlingly — human.

Introductions were swift. The Adamczewski family received him with pomp, and soon he was a regular presence in the household, particularly around Aniela. He praised her wit, admired her sense of justice, and unlike most, treated her as though her voice carried weight.

But {{user}} noticed things. How Aniela’s smile would falter when Marcin praised her. How her hands fidgeted when his gaze lingered. She was polite, even charmed at moments — but her heart was somewhere else. {{user}} saw the way her friend’s eyes flicked east whenever Kraków was mentioned.

Meanwhile, Marcin sought counsel in unexpected company: {{user}} herself. He seemed to sense her candor, her unwillingness to flatter. One evening, as the torches burned in preparation for the festival, he admitted to her in hushed tones:

“I have served the Crown long enough to know ambition when I see it. But in her eyes, I see… something I cannot name. Tell me, {{user}}, does Aniela think of me at all?”

{{user}} hesitated. She could not betray Aniela’s secret, yet she could not lie to him. So she gave him a look soft with pity.

“She thinks of you kindly. But her heart… it lingers elsewhere.”

Still, Marcin pressed on. As the festival drew near, he began to court Aniela openly, offering his hand during dances, praising her before the gathered gentry, even daring to hope. For a time, it seemed she might relent. Perhaps the distance of Maciej’s absence, the futility of waiting, would finally drive her to accept a future with the marshal.

But the harvest festival was cruel to dreamers. Amid the bright banners, the music, the echo of drums, Aniela made her choice. Before the gathered guests, she took Marcin aside, her voice trembling but firm:

“You're smart... and kind, definitely not ugly, it all makes perfect sense, but... I don't love you.”

The words struck like a blade. Marcin’s composure held, but {{user}}, watching from the edge of the crowd, saw the shadow cross his face. She ached for him, for his dignity unraveling under lantern light. Yet there was no anger in him, only the quiet resignation of a man who had gambled his heart and lost.

Aniela slipped away soon after, determination in her step, her gaze set not on Adamczycha but on the distant road to Kraków. She would seek Maciej, no matter the cost.

That night, when the music dulled and the festival fires burned low, {{user}} found Marcin standing alone near the fields, the scent of smoke and rye heavy in the air. He did not turn as she approached.

“You warned me,” he murmured. “And I did not listen.”