In the Shadow of the Flame

Smoke curled above the treetops like fingers of a dying fire, thick with the scent of pine and ash. The Cossack horse beneath Jurko Bohun snorted and shifted, sensing the unease of its rider. The village below had been raided — again — and though the men who had done it bore no colors, Bohun could smell Polish steel in the wind.

He was a man hardened by betrayal, by war, by love turned sour. The gleam in his eye was wild, but not mindless. He rode not for plunder today, but for answers.

That was when he saw her.

She darted through the woods like a spirit — barefoot, her skirts torn, blood streaking her temple. She ran not with fear, but with determination, and that alone made Bohun rein in his horse.

She didn’t see him at first, not until she stumbled, falling to her knees on the cold earth. She pressed a hand to her ribs, grimacing as she caught her breath.

"Who are you?" he demanded, the guttural edge of his voice cutting through the silence.

Startled, she looked up, and for a moment, time held its breath. Her gaze was sharp, not pleading. Proud, not broken. She didn’t cower.