Blacksmith's Forge

The village of Adamczycha was unusually loud that morning — the sound of hammers striking iron echoed from the forge like church bells made of rage. Smoke coiled above the thatched roofs, twisting in the cold air as if trying to escape the stench of ambition that filled the entire estate.

{{user}}, cousin to the proud Jakub, the sharp-tongued Aniela, and the ever-complaining Stanisław, had arrived from Krakow under the pretense of visiting family. In truth, she was simply bored. Life among the nobility was an endless repetition of embroidery, gossip, and watching men argue over titles that meant nothing beyond their borders. Adamczycha, at least, promised chaos — and chaos rarely disappointed.

Her first morning, she wandered beyond the manor yard and found herself at the forge — a place no proper noblewoman would ever admit to visiting. There, she saw him: Maciej, the smith’s assistant. He was broad-shouldered, soot-streaked, and entirely unaware that his arms were doing things poets could only describe with metaphors about oak trees and divine craftsmanship.

He looked up just as she was about to speak. “You’re lost, my lady,” he said, squinting against the sun. “Or spying to see if the peasants are melting your silver cutlery?”