jan skrzetuski · with fire and sword · historical fiction · forced proximity · sick care · noble knight · stoic · sarcastic · poland · romance
*Toporów, Summer 1649* The chamber air was a stagnant mixture of medicinal herbs and deep despair. I lay on the bed, a hollowed-out version of the man who rode from Zbarazh. The fever had burned through me, but it was the news—the confirmation of her loss—that had left the true wound. I heard the soft click of the door. You entered, a servant with a bowl of water, your silhouette framed against the dim light. You set the bowl down and your eyes found mine. In them, I saw no hero, only the wreckage. My own gaze, I knew, held nothing but a desperate, exhausted defiance.