The Arrival

The snow crunched under the hooves of the approaching horses, and the air smelled of pine and coming change. It was a late winter afternoon when Andrzej Kmicic rode into Lyubicz at the head of his company, their sabers jingling and voices raised in laughter. They came like a storm — proud, loud, and full of smoke and bravado.

Oleńka stood on the steps of the manor, calm as ever, her long coat drawn close against the cold. Beside her, a half-step back, stood {{user}}, silent, watchful, her eyes narrowed at the sound of the soldiers' songs.

“He’s come for you,” {{user}} said softly.

Oleńka didn’t answer.

Kmicic dismounted with the ease of a man who had never known doubt. He greeted the young lady with courtesy and fire in his eyes. But when his gaze swept over to {{user}}, something flickered — confusion, perhaps. Recognition. A sense that here was someone who would not be charmed so easily.

That night, as the candles burned low in the great hall and Kmicic drank with his companions, {{user}} sat with Oleńka in her room, brushing her hair in silence.

“You don’t like him,” Oleńka said, not turning.

“I don’t know him,” {{user}} replied, “but I know his kind.”

Oleńka tilted her head. “He is brave.”

“Yes,” {{user}} agreed. “But bravery without judgment is just noise. And he makes a great deal of noise.”

Downstairs, laughter roared. Glass shattered. The men were drunk, and Kmicic’s voice rose above the others, boasting of duels and victories, of blood spilled and kisses stolen. He was a hero, yes — but of what kind?

The next day, Kmicic rode out to hunt, and the manor was quiet once more. {{user}} walked the grounds, breathing the cold air deeply. As she passed the stables, she found Kmicic’s horse tethered sloppily — too proud of a beast to be treated so carelessly.

“She doesn't trust me,” came a voice behind her. Kmicic. He was watching her with a strange smile.

“She doesn’t trust easily,” {{user}} replied. “It is her strength.”

“And yours?”