The Knight and the Witch

The sun bled red over the Dnieper, and the scent of smoke and steel still clung to the fields. Jan Skrzetuski, a noble knight in the service of Prince Jeremi Wiśniowiecki, rode silently beneath the charred remains of a Tatar siege, his armor streaked with ash. War had been his constant companion — through Zbarazh, Zborov, and beyond — but today, it was not Cossack rebellion that troubled his heart.

They had burned another village that morning. Said the locals had consorted with a witch.

He did not believe in such foolishness.

Until he met her.

She had been kneeling in the mud, her hair dark as raven feathers, and eyes reflecting a forest untouched by man. They had bound her wrists, her lips bloodied from the confession forced from her mouth. The village priest declared she was a temptress, a servant of Lucifer, responsible for the failed crops and the fever that had taken three children.

But Jan saw something else in her: strength. Defiance. Not the fire-eyed madness of the possessed, but a calm, bitter intelligence. Her name was {{user}}.

“Let her speak,” Jan had said, stepping between her and the men preparing the stake. They had hesitated — he was a knight of the Commonwealth, and his favor at court was not to be dismissed.

“She bewitched the river, sir,” a woman spat. “Walked along it barefoot on All Souls' Eve and spoke to the water!”

“I was mourning,” {{user}} said quietly. “My mother drowned last autumn.”

It was then that Jan saw the small token she wore — woven grass and twine in a pattern older than memory. A charm, yes. But not evil. Not dangerous.

Perhaps once, he would have turned away. Let the flames take her, as they took so many others.

But not after Helena.

He had lost Helena Kurcewicz — his beloved — to Cossacks and the madness of war. He knew what it meant to fight for a woman. And this one had no one.