#dry devil kcd2

Not knowing where Hans was gnawed at him, a sharp, constant pin-prick in his chest that drew into a knot in his stomach. Brotherhood, perhaps. But Henry suspected brotherhood was not supposed to feel this crushing. He had worried for Godwin, even for Zizka when they were imprisoned together, but nothing like this. Saving Hans mattered above all else.

“The den is quiet for the afternoon,” Zizka remarked as they approached the inn—a modest building tucked away in the countryside, its whitewashed walls spattered with mud and faded wine stains.

“Is that not good? Perhaps there is no trouble for once,” Henry began, but the door flew open and a man tumbled out, jug in hand, hitting the ground with a heavy thump. Zizka’s mace was in hand in an instant, and Henry drew his sword to follow.

“I warned you!” roared a man striding after the fallen drunkard. He delivered a hard kick to the man’s ribs.

“I didn’t cheat!” wheezed the man on the ground, smiling as though the world were in perfect order.

“Pay us our coin, or I’ll cut your head from your shoulders here and now,” growled another, blade levelled at the drunkard’s chest.

The fellow on the ground only chuckled, clutching his jug. “What can I say? The dice fall more kindly once I’ve had a drink. God’s own gift! And you wouldn’t get a groschen for a turnip like me in any case.”

“Ha! You’re right about that.” The sword-man raised his blade to plunge into the drunkard’s gut when Zizka’s voice cut through the air.

“I’d have a use for that turnip, you know.” He stood calm, unbothered, every inch the soldier Henry envied.

“And who the hell are you?” the man spat, turning his blade on Zizka.

“Lower that paper-knife before you hurt yourself, boy,” Zizka rumbled.

“Zizka! At last!” cried the drunkard, rolling onto his stomach.

“Still a drunken sod, Kubyenka?” Zizka shot back.

“You know me, sir.” With startling agility, Kubyenka sprang up and rammed a sword through one of his tormentors. Henry braced for the fight.

The rest proved hardly more than boys playing banditry. Their armour was no better than padded cloth, their swords dull. Henry dispatched his opponent with ease, grateful at least for the practice. The bodies bled freely on the inn’s courtyard stones, and Henry tried kicking sand over the mess, but it only spread.

“Handy with a sword, boy,” Kubyenka grinned, nodding to him. Henry managed a smile.

“Where is your band, Zizka?”

“You’re looking at it. Sigismund’s curs turned coat. This lad stood with me when it counted.” Zizka gestured to the blood-stained patch that now covered his ruined eye.

Kubyenka slapped Henry’s shoulder approvingly. “You must handle yourself well indeed!”

Zizka waved him off. “Enough. Where is the Devil? I need words with him.”

Kubyenka scratched his beard, sighing. “Well… he’s locked up.”

Zizka stiffened. “Locked up? How in Christ’s name—?”

“Some armoured bastards took him after a job in Kuttenberg went sour. Outnumbered us. Me and Adder tried to pull him away, but they were on him like cats. We’d all be in irons if we hadn’t run.”

“God’s wounds,” muttered Zizka.

Henry stepped forward. “Do you know where they hold him?”

“The town jail, I’d wager. But you’ll not drag him out of there—not alive.”

“How long?” Henry pressed.

Kubyenka shrugged. “As long as I’ve been drinking. A week? Maybe a month.”

“Why haven’t they hanged him?” Henry asked.

“Because of the price on his head. He’s the most feared robber-baron in Bohemia, lad. They’ll not waste him on the gallows. No, they’ll send him to Sigismund, make a grand show of it.”

“Then we’ll take him in transit,” Henry said quickly. Zizka nodded.

The ambush was brutal. Henry and Zizka carried most of the fight while the hired archers loosed half-hearted arrows. Still, with Zizka hacking and Henry skewering the last man with a roar, they took the wagon.

The Devil himself was bound within, grimy and bloodied, an arrow lodged in his backside. His body bore the map of old scars; his face was pocked, his lips pressed thin in a scowl. His eyes glimmered dark beneath heavy brows—a robber-baron made flesh.

“Fucking hell, Hynek!” Zizka leaned on the wagon. “Why were you so heavily guarded?”

“Why are you in a floppy bloody hat? And why is there an arrow in my arse?” the Devil bellowed, while Kubyenka slipped away.

Zizka loosened his bonds with a sigh. “Stay in the cart. We’ll take you back.”

“Too right I will. If Kubyenka loosed that shot, I’ll wring his neck—”

“Stop your whining. Save your strength,” Zizka grinned, clapping his shoulder.

”*°•.˜”*°•. ˜”*°•. ˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜

That night, the inn rang with noise enough for twenty men. The Devil had not drunk in weeks, and Kubyenka was already falling off the benches. Henry was grateful for the respite, however brief it would end up being, the stories and songs distracted him very well from pining over Hans and despairing over whether he was safe. 

“How is he drunk again? He was drunk when we found him!” Henry laughed, watching Kubyenka roll around and giggling.

“Boy, he was born drunk,” the Devil smirked.

Zizka chuckled, beginning a tale, when a sudden sound cut through the laughter. Outside, the wind carried the distinct thrum of hoofbeats—four of them, fast and deliberate, drumming against the dirt road leading to the inn. Henry stiffened, heart hammering, and the laughter in the room seemed to vanish.

Zizka’s hand went to his mace, eyes narrowing. “They’re coming,” he hissed, pulling Henry upright. “Get ready.”

From the shadows of the yard, four figures emerged, their forms partially obscured by the dim glow of the inn’s windows. Weapons gleamed faintly—swords, a crossbow, and something heavier at one man’s side. They moved cautiously, scanning for movement, approaching with slow, deliberate steps, each bootfall silent and threatening.

Henry’s grip on his sword tightened. Even from this distance, he could see their coordination: the lead man gesturing with a tilt of his head, the others falling into a staggered formation that balanced offence and defence. Every movement radiated intent, the tension in their shoulders betraying their readiness to strike.

“They’ve tracked us,” Zizka whispered. “Or maybe the bodies were found. Either way—they know we’re here.”

“But why announce themselves so loudly?” Henry murmured.

“Who gives a damn?” growled the Devil, cocking a crossbow from the shadows. “I could do with a bit of blood on my hands.”

Henry’s heart pounded. The four men continued their approach, shadows flickering against the trees lining the yard. Each slight rasp of armour, the subtle clink of steel, made Henry’s nerves tighten. This was no casual visit—they meant battle, and the inn would be their arena.

Zizka’s voice broke the tension. “Stay sharp. Don’t give them an inch.”

"Fuck that, I'm not going back." The Devil stepped fully into the yard, loosed a bolt, and a horse shrieked.

“Fucking horse!” a woman’s voice rang out, sharp and furious, "Hynek, if that was you, I will wring your neck!" The Devil went pale, dropped his bow, and ran into the dark.

Zizka waved Henry down. “All clear.”

Henry blinked, confused, until he saw the Devil return, leading a horse. Beside him walked a woman.

She was darker of skin than the Devil, chestnut with hair to match, lean and tall in riding boots. Her hair was bound back, revealing a gash from hairline to brow. She should have looked marred, yet she was striking—sharp-boned, dark-eyed, lips pressed firm with restrained fury. Her beauty was steel, not silk.

Her attire confused Henry further. A long riding coat, its skirt split for the saddle, cinched tight with a wide leather belt. Beneath, patterned breeches peeked through, and her boots laced to the calf. The sleeves tapered at the wrists yet puffed at the shoulders—tailored, not borrowed. When the coat shifted, Henry glimpsed the flat line of a dagger hidden at her side. Stranger still was her closeness with the Devil. She looked at him with simmering anger, the stare of one long used to his decisions, yet beneath it a softness flickered—a familiarity no other man would dare draw from him. The Dry Devil snarled at the world, yet let this woman cuff him about the head with something like fondness.

“If you stare any longer, boy, I’ll cut your cock off,” the Devil snarled, seizing Henry’s chin. Henry quickly looked away.

“Hynek,” the woman said, her tone laced with quiet command, “at least the lad didn’t shoot into the dark. Let him be.” She offered Henry a kind smile before smacking the Devil's head with easy intimacy.

Inside the inn, Henry whispered to Zizka, “Who is she?”

Zizka chuckled. “Who do you think the Devil would ever be tender with?”

“His sister?” Henry ventured.

“No, you fool. Think.”

“His… wife?” Henry blurted too loudly.

“Yes, my fucking wife,” Hynek growled from across the room, glaring daggers at him.

Zizka smirked. “And how does the Lady of Kunstadt and Jaispitz fare?”

“How kind of you to use my not-official title,” she replied smoothly. “The lands fare well enough in my husband’s absence—and the coin, less foolishly spent.” She glanced at Hynek with the smugness of one who knew him too well. Henry sat back, still reeling. He had come to rescue a robber-baron for a friend, and instead found a pair whose closeness, sharp wit, and unspoken history left him both confused and awestruck. He would not soon forget the sight of the Dry Devil tempered by this woman, nor the way her presence seemed to soften the fury of a man feared across Bohemia.

“Agh, stop fussing over her, she’s built like an Ox.” The Devil received a clap on the ears for that, but smirked down at her all the same.

“Bastard as my husband is, he’s not wrong; it’ll just sting for a bit. But Kubyenka, you have not yet told me how my darling husband ended up in a cell without my knowledge?" The Lady rose and approached a terrified-looking Kubyenka, who sat on the bench opposite her, nursing yet another humongous jug of wine. 

“T-that was an oversight on my part, and I am so-” Kubyenka was interrupted by the flash of a dagger being held close to his jugular. 

“If he so much as sniffs a jail cell and you are not also there with him, you'd best pray to any God in existence I've been made aware of prior or I will cut you from neck to navel. Do I make myself clear?” She raised an eyebrow at him, and Henry’s eyes widened when Kubyenka nodded. No wonder the Devil had fallen for such a woman; the robber baron stood with a wide grin plastered over his face, pure adoration in his eyes. She removed the dagger from Kubyenka’s throat and smiled at Henry, back to being the lady as she holstered it. “And who is this strapping young man?”

“Henry of Skaltiz, your ladyship,” Henry went to stand, but she waved him to sit down before moving around the table and sitting down next to him. 

”Honestly, the ladyship thing is more of a power trip on my end that Zizka graciously plays into. I’m Anicka, you’ll be told I’m a prisoner of my horrifying beast of a husband, but don’t believe what gossip says, especially in the discussion of Lords and Ladies. Most of the time they’re full of absolute shite.” She reached over and grabbed Zizka’s ale before taking a sip and grimacing, “Jesus, we need to get something better brewed here.” 

“My wife, the sudden critic of ale when she usually drinks any Bohemian piss you put in a mug.” The Devil joined them on the other side of Zizka.

“I’ll have you know that my time in Wencleslaus' court has refined my taste somewhat,” Anicka mentioned Wencleslaus so casually that Henry almost spat out his drink. 

“You’ve been in his court?” Henry coughed. 

“Aye, Prague is quite the circus at the moment, especially with von Bergows' decided stance against him. I mean, allying with Toth? One would do well to stay away from that snake. I heard what happened in Skalitz, Henry. For what it’s worth, and that is not a lot, I am sorry for the tragedies that happened there.” She placed a gloved hand on top of Henry’s with a soft smile that Henry returned. 

“It means more than you can know, thank you.” Henry looked down at the table, refusing to spiral back into thoughts of despair. 

“Come on, lad, chin up. We’ve got to find your Lord.” Zizka reasoned, and Henry nodded. 

“Which Lord is this?” Anicka asked.

“Lord Hans Capon of Pierkstein,” Henry said quietly with a sigh. He didn’t think it would be so utterly unbearable speaking Hans’ name, but the twisting feeling in his gut only worsened.

“Is that Hanush’s ward?” She asked, and Henry nodded, “Well then, I can help you, well, at least with whispers of where he might be. Von Bergow took him, right?” 

“Indeed, he did. What trouble have you got up to this time? Katherine won’t be surprised when she next sees you.” Zizka grinned.

“Oh, shove off, the machinations of court are one of hushed whispers in a constant circle. Apparently, Liechtenstein has been looking very deeply into the disappearance as well. Jobst doesn’t appear to have asked him to, so I have no idea why, but after you’ve gathered a few others, he might be your best bet to find your Sir Hans.” Anicka was nudging the Devil under the table, who appeared to be falling asleep.

“What! Oh, it’s you. Thought it might have been one of these ugly fuckers. Well, I won’t stab you for now at least.” The Devil smirked, tight-lipped and exhausted. 

“Thank you, Lady Anicka. You have no idea how helpful that information will be. I’m not surprised Sir Liechtenstein has his hands over this. Hopefully, the spymaster will remember me enough to tell me what he knows. I suppose if Jobst did know, he might have mentioned it at Suchdol. So this gives us a new direction, thank you.” Henry bowed his head and bid them goodnight. Zizka soon followed, hauling Kubyenka up the stairs in tow as he drunkenly stumbled. 

“I am sorry about- well, you know what about.” The Devil reached over and took his wife's hands in his.

“All is well, at least now I'm here. How could you not send news, my love? I had to find out through my little birds instead of you or one of the pack.” She raised an accusatory eyebrow but gripped onto his hands in fear that he would fly away once more. 

“I was a bit busy in fairness. Don’t get many messengers when you’re surrounded by four stone walls and a shit bucket.” He scratched the stubble on his cheek, “As for the rest of them, I have no fucking idea why they didn’t send word. I always told them you were the only port of call worth contacting.” 

“I’ll have to give them a swift kick up the backside when I see them,” She smirked, and the Devil let out a hearty laugh.

“Oh, darlin, I think they’d like that just a bit too much for it to be a punishment. You’re better off with the silent treatment, if I know Adder, he won’t be able to bear being ignored.” His thumb brushed against the top of her hand, a more beautiful creature he had never seen, especially with that little smile on her face. God, he knew he’d see that smile before he died.

“I think you deserve a reward for being locked up for so long,” She rose to her feet and walked around the table slowly before sitting down on the devil's lap, feeling her stir underneath her. 

“And what does the Lady have planned?” His hands made their way onto her waist, giving a little squeeze. She leaned down next to his ear and whispered-

“I might even let you touch me.”

“You evil witch.” The Devil exclaimed with a slap on her arse that was firm enough to result in a twitch from her and a smile.

“I have missed you, Hynek.” Anicka leaned in, deliberately close, her eyes locking with his. Her lips hovered over his for just a fraction too long, teasing, daring. She knew exactly what she was doing—and she enjoyed every second of it.

The Devil’s jaw tightened. That confident little smirk of hers, that brush of lips that threatened more than it promised—it was a challenge, and the Devil didn’t suffer challenges lightly.

“You always have to test me, don’t you?” he murmured, voice low, with a growl that made her pulse spike. His hand lifted, sliding behind her head, drawing her gently yet firmly toward him. Not fast, not violent—yet charged with an authority she both knew and loved.

The kiss begins slowly, measured, almost a conversation. He lingered on her lips, tasting, exploring, waiting for her next move. Anicka’s fingers slid behind his neck, her grip confident, assertive—she wasn’t surrendering, she was meeting him, matching his force with hers.

They moved together, a rhythm born of years of knowing each other. Each press of lips, each tilt of a head, built anticipation. He brushed her jaw, tracing down her neck, and she leaned into it, her body arching, responding without hesitation. She loved that he was the Devil, and she loved even more that he belonged to her—and that she belonged to him.

Finally, he deepened the kiss, and it became hungry, urgent, yet still measured and neither rushed. They had all the time in the world—the slow burn of familiarity and desire stretching every second into an eternity.

When they finally parted, breathless, foreheads pressed together, Anicka’s confident grin returned. “You think you can intimidate me?” she teased.

The Devil’s lips curved, dark and possessive, his eyes blazing. “I don’t think, my wife. I know.”

He didn’t give a toss about having a child. He was in charge of the estate now, Hynek I of Kunstat, and by God he would take advantage of that power in any way he could. His father had died earlier that year, and with the title came responsibility, and with responsibility came boredom, and with boredom came indulgence in every vice he could find.

Anicka was in Blansko. She had said so in the first and last letter she’d sent him. He couldn’t write back. He couldn’t bear acknowledging that she was there, alive, while he was here—married to a pale ghost he didn’t love, running Kunstat like a bored tyrant. She could be tending another man’s child by now, teaching him to call her “mother,” ruling a little household without him. But no—he doubted that. She wasn’t stupid. She was spirited. She was stubborn. She wouldn’t roll over for some man she barely knew. And maybe she had found someone who was worthy of her. That thought made his hands clench into fists until his knuckles ached.

Then there was politics. Jobst and Prokop. Fucking ridiculous, even by noble standards. A relatively even split of the land wasn’t enough—they went to war over it. Naturally, Hynek had to ally with Prokop. His father had arranged it, and Prokop had kept his word of promised protection. Jobst had begun raiding Prokop-allied settlements. Kunstat would be next if he didn’t ride south.

Meetings with the council in Brno loomed. Life would be easier if they just fought instead of talking, Hynek thought, but no such luck. And if their ride took them through Blansko, that was alright too… Hynek could pretend he didn't yearn to see Anicka, but it would be in vain. Even his cousin, Petr had noticed his descent into madness when one of his advisors suggested a different route that wouldn't take them through the town. It was at least a four hour ride, good enough to rest and refuel before the longer ride down to Brno.

The road to Blansko was narrow, bordered by oaks and beeches. The air was still crisp with morning chill, and the rhythmic clop of hooves against dirt echoed through the quiet forest. Hynek rode in the center, Petr on his right, Jan on his left.

“Should I be expecting to find some noble bastard in this town, cousin?” Petr said, grinning.

Hynek didn’t bother looking at him. He gripped his reins tighter, the leather creaking. “You’d be disappointed. My cock seems unable to produce heirs when it has not entered this certain person’s cunt.”

“You’re a dirty-mouthed fucker, Devil,” Petr said.

How on earth did that nickname stick? He'd take fucker as a nickname over Dry Devil.

“Speak for yourself. I’ve heard you blaspheme like a heretic when you’re balls-deep at one of the bathhouses.”

Jan barked a laugh. Petr rolled his eyes. Hynek allowed a small, vicious grin, but it didn’t reach his scars.

The road opened to fields and farmland as Blansko drew near. The town lay half-hidden beneath the morning haze, the Svitava River flowing lazily to the south, lined by cattle and the occasional cart loaded with grain. The manor house loomed in the center, half-timbered and solid, with small outbuildings and an orchard surrounding it. Surprisingly, for the chaos of war in nearby lands, Blansko was mostly untouched.

Jan dismounted, low-voiced. “I’ll handle Erhart. You go do what you need.”

Hynek nodded, grateful. “Drink’s on me later,” he muttered.

He made for the inn. Inside, the warm stink of smoke, ale, and unwashed bodies made him feel right at home. “I’m looking for Anicka, a woman with dark hair?” he asked.

The innkeeper nodded. “North end of town. Farms that way.”

Hynek dropped a groschen on the counter and left, stepping back into the crisp morning air. Fields stretched ahead, tilled and fertile, dotted with peasants bending over their work.

Every movement in the fields, every shadow made him pause. Could it be her? Had she been waiting for him—or indifferent to his existence?

Hynek’s chest tightened. Two years of imagining this moment, of constructing it in endless daydreams, all boiled down to this one stretch of dirt road, these tilled fields, these tiny glimpses of life that might be hers. His fists clenched and unclenched. He wanted to run forward, seize her, curse the years she’d been gone, curse himself for letting her leave.

But he didn’t. Not yet. He waited in the shadow of the nearest birch tree, eyes sharp, every muscle coiled. Watching. Waiting.

Dark hair caught the morning sun, bundled up into a stained white coif, strands escaped to brush against her sweaty brow. She was bent over the rows of vegetables, sleeves rolled to her elbows, forearms taut and even more tanned from work.

Her dark green dress was stained with mud at the bottom hem, which swished against the ground, a white shift poking through the bottom of her skirts. Stained just as he remembered. Hynek felt as if he was 14 again, running from his father into the forest and hunting with her. A youthful unawareness of how separate their lives would be in just a few short years. She looked every bit the spirited, impossible girl he remembered—practical, stubborn, unyielding. And yet… still completely her.

Hynek tried to calm himself, breathing in and out. She had no idea he was there, no idea how much he had missed her, how much he had ruined himself waiting. And the thought made him want to curse God, the devil, and the entire bloody world for letting her be here, alive, and just out of reach.

When he finally approached the gate, one hand resting on the wood for a moment before he swallowed his pride and opened it. She immediately turned at the noise, seemingly startled. Hynek couldn't clearly see her face with the sun mostly in his eyes, but she was walking towards him, had dropped the basket she was carrying and began running.

“Hynek!” She exclaimed as she barrelled into him. Hugging him ridiculously close, with both arms fixed at his side. They were both twenty-one, too grown to act as children would. But it was too tempting. He wrestled his arms out from her embrace and held her close to his chest.

“I've missed you,” He could smell the pine on her. The scent had always calmed him, especially after she had left.

“You didn't write. I thought… I thought you had decided just to leave me here. When you didn't send a letter, I- well, it's alright now anyway.” She withdrew, brushing down the front of her dress and staring up at him with a smile.

Hynek’s eyes had adjusted to the sun, and he looked over her face, expecting to see more freckles since being out in the sun or a bump on her stomach where some other man's child grew. But she looked exhausted, and the warmth of the reunion drained from his face when he saw it. Under her eye, an ugly purple blooming down towards her cheek, stained yellow at the edges: he reached forward and touched her cheek extremely lightly, causing Anicka to flinch. The rage that festered inside of him was unrelenting as he returned his hands to his side, and they clenched into fists.

“Was it your husband?”

“Hynek, please, I-”

“Was it your husband?” He repeated, and after a moment she nodded, looking down as if all life had been drained out of her. His voice sounded angrier than he wanted it to; the fact that he had been able to even minimally control his rage was a wonder. His body screamed at him to find the bastard who did this to her and cut out his fucking eyes. Hyenk looked further into the field, seeing a farmhouse, he moved past Anicka and strode with overwhelming purpose towards it.

“Please, Hynek, stop. It will only make things worse. I don’t want you to hurt him!” Anicka pulled on his arm as she ran to keep up with him.

“And why the hell not!” Hynek yelled back, turning to face her. His rage made her shrink back into herself, and it made him even angrier. Gone was the stubborn, carefree girl he knew- any spark of her individuality was snuffed out, all laughter buried beneath fear- it left behind a woman irrevocably different because of the pain.

“You turn up here without a word in years and want to kill the man that, despite your anger, is still my husband! This is my home, my life, and you can’t just decide you know better.” She stood holding onto his arm, rooting him to the spot even though he could easily wrestle from her grip.

I do know better. I have to. I failed her once, and I’ll not fail her again.

“He hurt you.” Hynek whispered, low and dangerous.

“You hurt me as well, not in the same way but you are not a better man just because you didn’t beat me. I felt so alone, abandoned by the one person I thought would care. Why didn’t you write to me?” Her gaze was overwhelmingly accusatory, hand slipping from gripping his arm- it felt like an immediate loss of warmth in his body.

“I couldn’t. Acknowledging that you were here and I couldn’t do anything about it was too painful to come to terms with. Loosing you was,” He paused. “Well I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

“Poor. poor lordling. With your beautiful wife and silk sheets. Not having to do a day of work in your life unless you deem it appropriate. Control over your life in more ways than most have.” Her voice laced with ice, she let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, I feel so very sorry for you, Sir.”

Sir? He winced at the word. Mud sucking at his boots as he lowered his voice. “Anicka, please. Let me take you back to the castle, be my wife’s maid or something I can-”

“You can’t click your fingers and fix everything!” she snapped, her eyes flashing up at him. "It won't fix how you left me, it won’t fix this,” She pointed to the bruise under her eye. “I am a part of your life you decided you could throw away.”

She’s right. I let her go. I abandoned her. And now I have to make this right, no matter what it costs me—or anyone else.

Hynek's throat tightened. He wanted to reach for her but stopped himself.“How did I throw you away? I wanted to marry you, keep you with me forever. You chose to leave and still stay loyal to your bastard husband!” His rage was borne of grief, uncontrolled grief he had not been able to express until this very moment.

“You didn’t want to marry me; you wanted to keep me.” Her voice wavered with eyes full of tears she had waited years to express. “You didn’t love me, Hynek. Not as I had loved you.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she took a deep breath before walking past him and picking up the basket she had dropped. Standing back up she straightened her shoulders, refusing to look back at him. He felt as if she had slapped him.

She’s slipping away from me again, even now. But this time, I won’t let her.

“Is that what you meant? All those years ago when you said you couldn't marry me?” He asked, calmer now as he followed after her.

“Yes. You Ox.” Her voice cracked and she took a deep breath before continuing. “I loved you for years, a deep childish love. I fooled myself into believing it was even somewhat reciprocated which made leaving a more attractive option. Seeing your marriage I- I couldn't do it.”

She crouched, lowering the basket to the mud and trying to pull up more crops. But her hands shook so violently that she fumbled with one of the stems and pulled out a half broken carrot. Staring at it for a moment where it dangled.

Hynek knelt down in the damp mud, his hose already ruined, he didn't care much. He could feel the water pooling around his knee as if it meant to root him in place until he finally fixed things. He reached for her hands and steadied them even as she half-heartedly tried to pull them away. Her hands were rough, as he remembered, calloused now with the work of the land rather than fletching.

“I was a stupid boy.” He whispered, eyes roaming over her face, just in case it was the last time. “Too concerned with his own problems to understand. Ever since you left I have thought of little else, but you. Every time I enter those damn forests I see you everywhere, you won't even leave me to hunt in peace.”

He smiled and a laugh bubbled out of her despite herself, raw and wet with tears. She hated that he could still pull it out of her. She tried to muffle it, pressing her lips together in protest. A tear flowing down the cheek that had been marked by her husband's fist.

“We never could have married, Hynek. No matter if we both wanted it.” Anicka gripped his hands as her own shook, overcome with the cocktail of emotions that had come to visit her front door.

“Why the hell not?” He was angrier now, but really it was the desperation leaking through. “I'm Lord now. I can marry who I please.”

“You are already married, as am I.”

“Why will you not let me take you away from that bastard?” He asked, exasperated.

“Because I would have nowhere to go. My husband will have all ownership over my decisions. I cannot get up and leave when I feel like it. Hynek, my husband will be home soon, you need to go.” But she didn't let go of his hands.

“I know you want me to stay.” He got closer to her then. “All you have to do is say it and I'll gut that fucking pig. You'll come back to the estate and not be bothered by a single man unless you want it to be so.” He was trying his hardest not to raise his voice and scare her further.

“I-” she paused, seemingly floored by the suggestion. “Would it even work? They would know it was me. He has no family nearby but they might come and check.”

“I could say he joined the army, and you joined as a healer, he died in some siege.” She tilted her head in consideration, a level of hope behind her eyes.

No one will suspect. I will make sure. I will bear the cost. She must live free of him, free of this fear.

There was a pregnant silence that fell over them, neither sure of what to say. As Anicka shifted the mud squelched beneath her boots, she was staring down at Hynek's hands. Whisky she should have pulled away, she did not.

“You could not hide such a thing,” she whispered at last. “Not forever. People would talk. The priest would demand to know why my husband no longer attends Mass, why his fields are left untended. The reeve would come sniffing, then the steward.” Her breath came quick, shallow. “And if anyone learned you had come here…” She broke off, biting her lip until the taste of iron filled her mouth.

Hynek shook his head sharply. “Let them wonder. I am a Lord, Anicka. My word pays more than gold these days. A dozen peasants could vanish in the night and it would scarcely ripple. One drunken swine of a husband would be no different. I would say he marched to war. I would sign the writ myself.”

Her eyes flew to his, wide with horror, though there was something else beneath it—something shameful, dangerous, something like belief. “You speak of killing a man as though it were a loose board to be mended.”

“He is no man,” Hynek snarled, his voice low but venomous. “He is merely a chain that keeps you in this place, a stain on your life that you would be better without.” His grip tightened slightly and then loosened at her fearful gaze. “No one will dare question it, I will do anything and everything to make that so.”

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before looking past him. At the little waterside town she had been trying to make a life in. She tried to think of happy memories here, a day where she didn't want to run. But it was impossible. Her husband's heavy footing entered the doorway, he'd just come from the tavern. The sting of his hand and the stench of ale. Her mother warned her before she died that wives are ‘bound as tightly as serfs to their husbands’. Had she messed it all up? Maybe she should've run away when her father made her come here, fight against him even more than she had. But he was getting old. There would have been no point making him lose his wife and also his daughter.

Her eyes flicked to him, searching his face, and for a moment he thought she might agree. But then she looked away, shaking her head softly as though entertaining the thought was a deadly sin.

“I cannot.” she whispered. “If I give the word, it will be my sin. His blood will stain me even if my hands never touch the knife.”

Hynek’s chest heaved, every breath tailed with the anger he had tried to swallow. His gaze was lingering on her, noting it all: the bruise, the tear streaked cheeks, and the quiet wisps of rebellion she tried to hide. She wouldn’t ask. Couldn't. And that was why he must.

“You don't need to say it,” he murmured, low and steady now. “I have heard enough.”

Her brow furrowed. “Hynek—”

I know. I will do it. And she will be free, whatever the cost.

He released her hands and rose from the mud, the chill biting at him.

Two years. Two years of cowardice. Two years of silence while she was dragged into a life I should have fought to stop. I was a boy then, too foolish to act. Too weak. Not anymore.

“I’m not leaving you in his shadow. If you won’t speak it, I’ll speak for both of us.”

She won’t forgive me easily. She has every reason to hate me. But I can’t let that stop me. Not now.

“Don’t you dare.” she snapped, yanking upright so fast the basket toppled, carrots rolling into the dirt. Her chest heaved, eyes blazing. “You think showing up and taking control will fix it all?”

She’s right to be furious. I deserve every word. And yet… letting her go again, doing nothing—I can’t live with that.

“I’ve thought about nothing else for years!” Hynek said, stepping closer, shoulders tense. “Every day I’ve pictured this moment. And now I know what I can do. What I must do!”

“You think you can fix it with your hands or some steel?” she spat, fists trembling. “I’m not some girl who needs saving! And even if I went with you, back to the castle—you think the servants and the ladies wouldn’t talk? I’d be whispered about as the lord’s whore before a week passed! That’s my life you’re offering me? Do you want me ruined?”

“I don’t care what they say.” he said, voice low and steady, battle-worn. “I’ve carried guilt for years. I let your father take you, let that man have you. This is the only way I can make it right. My hand. My choice. Not anyone else’s.”

Her eyes flashed with fury. “You don’t get it. I care! I can’t walk into that castle and face their whispers, their stares! You don’t seem to understand what that will do to me!”

I do understand. I know the whispers, the stares, the way they’ll brand her. And yet, if I don’t act… she’ll never be free. Never truly alive. Maybe he'd kill her.

“I understand more than you think,” he said quietly, his gaze locked on hers. “I’ve seen enough death, enough dishonor, to know when something must be done. You’ll be free, Anicka. You just have to hold on a little longer.”

“Free?” Her voice cracked, half scream, half plea. “You call this freedom? Living in someone else’s house, serving your wife, whispered about as just a scandal in your life? I’ve fought to survive, Hynek. I’ve clawed my way through the world on my own. And you… you think this is freedom?”

“I’ll bear it,” he said, knuckles brushing lightly over her bruised cheek, a strange gentleness juxtaposing the storm in his eyes. “All of it. Every risk, every consequence. Not you. Not anyone else. Me. I’ll carry it so you don’t have to. It is worth every risk.”

Worth it—not because she owes me. Not because I need thanks. Worth it because I failed her once, and I refuse to fail her again. This is my penance, my choice, and the only right thing I can do.

“I don’t want you to!” she cried, shaking her head. “I don’t want your blood for me. I don’t want to owe you. I won’t be ‘saved’ as if I am a powerless, pitiful woman ”

She's right. Of course she's right. Frustratingly intelligent woman. I wish there was another way. There is no other. Only this one. 

“I failed you once. I won’t again,” he said firmly. “I won’t let him touch you. I won’t let him control you. You’ll live, Anicka.”

She laughed, bitter and sharp, stepping back. “And what then? You think I’ll just march into that castle and start smiling at your wife? You think I’ll be anything but a scandal, a story whispered in every corner? Do you think I want to be the lord’s whore?”

Let them talk. Let them whisper. I cannot live with her death or humiliation at his hands. I will bear the scandal, the blood, the consequences. I am ready.

“You’ll have a chance to live,” he said, voice steady. “That’s all I can give you. The rest—your life—is yours.”

“But at what cost?” she shouted. “You risk yourself, you risk everything, and for me? Why risk it all for me?”

“Because it’s you,” he said quietly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “Because I let you go once, and I won’t let myself do it again. I’ve been a fool and a coward long enough. You’ll survive. You’ll have your life. He won’t touch you—not him, not anyone. I carry this because I must, and because you’re worth every risk.”

I’m not acting out of romance or fantasy. I’m acting because I failed you before. I’m acting because I can bear the cost. I’m acting because you deserve to live on his terms, and I’ll do everything to give you that chance.

Her hands fell to her sides, fingers trembling around the empty basket. She stared at him, torn between relief and fury, longing and dread.

Without another word, he turned and strode down the rutted path, mud swallowing his steps.

She stayed like that, in the field, trembling, staring after him. Rage, fear, and defiance twisted together in her chest. For the first time in years, she felt the weight of fate shift—but whether toward freedom or ruin, she couldn’t yet tell.

*°*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”°*

The three of them rode hard along the sun-baked track, the wagons trailing dust clouds behind. Jan nudged his horse closer to Hynek.

“Lord Devil,” he said with a grin, “you’ve been staring at the trees like you’re hunting ghosts instead of Brno. Did one of the spirits from Blansko follow you here?”

Hynek smirked. “If one did, I’d gut the fucker before breakfast and roast it all nice for supper.”

Petr laughed. “Aye, that sounds about right, Devil. Still brooding, or just lost in your own head?”

“Brooding?” Hynek snorted. “No. I’m just imagining whose arse I’ll kick first when we get there. And some of it will be out of sheer boredom—Brno won’t be anything but a room full of pompous tossers droning on about sieges and bloody treaties. I’d rather gouge my own eyes out than sit politely through it all.”

Jan laughed. “Ah, so the detour to Blansko wasn’t enough excitement, eh? You’ll be chained to a table for hours while Prokop and his Lords prattle on like hens squabbling over scraps.”

Hynek grinned. “Better the road than listening to that idiot. I'd rather gut a dozen pigs and piss on the remains than endure him politely.”

Petr leaned in, smirking. “Ah, so it is a detour worth making. Did you find trouble in Blansko, or just a maiden’s temper?”

Hynek barked a dark laugh.“Maidens? Ha! No maiden’s interested in me, cousin. You’d have better luck finding a nun in a brothel than finding one wasting her temper on this ugly bastard.”

Jan snorted. “Quiet, Devil. You’ve gone suspiciously serious for once. What’s gnawing at you—debts, dice, or just your own bloody conscience?”

Hynek shrugged. “Conscience? Never met the bastard. And if I did, I’d have him in the ground before he bored me with sermons.”

Petr let out a bark of laughter. “Saints preserve us—Lord Hynek, killer of conscience. You’ll have the priests choking on their incense with that one.”

Jan leaned over in his saddle, grinning. “Don’t mind him, Petr. Devil here’s only sour because he’s riding to Brno instead of into some wench’s bed. He’s dreading the paperwork, the sermons, the endless gob of Prokop.”

Hynek cracked a grin. “Endless gob’s the only thing Prokop’s good at. Christ, I’d rather tally plague carts rolling past the gate — at least they clear the filth quicker.”

Petr snickered. “Careful—say that too loud and Prokop will lop off your cock, mount it on the wall, and call it a trophy for discipline.”

“Or worse, you’ll be kicking your own bollocks round the hall when he loses his temper- Prokop’s temper is much shorter than his cock.” Jan looked over at Hynek, wiggling his eyebrows- Hynek just rolled his eyes. 

“Let him try,” Hynek shot back, smirking. “He swings slower than a gelded ox.”

The cousins roared with laughter. Jan wiped his eyes. “By God, Devil, you’ve got more bile in you than a drunk. You sound like you’re planning a fight. Should we be sharpening blades, then?”

Hynek’s grin bent darker. “Worth sharpening, aye. Some things are worth more than all the gold in Brno. And I’ve got some bloody plans”

Jan chuckled, shaking his head. “All brooding and grim, Devil. Next you’ll be telling us you’ve found faith—or worse, a mistress.”

Petr grinned. “If he’s lost her, she’s probably better off. Safer kissing a bear than warming your bed, cousin.”

Hynek barked a laugh, crude and cutting. “If I’ve found anything, it’s trouble. And if any bastard tries to stand in my way, I’ll gut him like a pig, roast his cock for supper, and feed his liver to the dogs. They can curse me from Hell’s arsehole after—I won’t lose sleep.”

The cousins laughed with him, trading nudges and grins, oblivious to the storm barely contained behind his eyes. Under the mask of humour, something hotter, darker, and far more dangerous simmered, waiting for the right moment to boil over.

*°*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”°*

The city of Brno rose ahead, red-tiled roofs glowing in the late afternoon sun. The stone hall smelled of damp timber and sweating men, mixed with the faint tang of burnt tallow. Hynek slid onto the bench beside Jan and Petr, ignoring the stiff cushions and polite bows of the scribes. To the court, he was Lord Hynek of Kunstat. To Jan and Petr, he remained the Devil.

“Ah, Lord Devil,” Jan whispered. “Try not to murder anyone before the meeting begins, eh? Prokop looks sensitive.”

Hynek smirked. “Sensitive? That prick? I’d sooner shove a dagger where the sun don’t shine than let him think he matters. Sensitivity doesn’t get wars won.”

Petr snickered. “You do look… dangerous, Devil. A glare like that could gut a dozen men before they even speak.”

Hynek leaned back, arms crossed, smirking. “Better a dozen men than sitting through Prokop’s bloody lectures. If he opens his mouth one more time about levies, I’ll carve the table into something more useful—like firewood.”

Prokop cleared his throat, thick and pompous. “Lord Hynek of Kunstat, are you prepared to supply a retinue?”

Hynek inclined his head, voice polite but firm. “Aye, sir. Archers or men on foot, whichever you require. I shall provide the numbers you request in due course.”

Prokop pressed further. “I must have specifics. How many men can I count on for the northern fortifications?”

Hynek kept his expression carefully neutral. “Sufficient, sir. I will ensure they are ready when called.”

Behind his calm mask, Hynek’s jaw tightened. Sufficient. Christ, you’d count them like pigs in a pen if I gave you a figure. I’ve seen men fall in fire and mud while you fools debate strength.

Jan nudged him under the table. “Careful, Devil. Keep that look on your face and they’ll think you’re planning to slit someone’s throat.”

Hynek snorted quietly. “Plotting? Only in my head, for now.”

Petr leaned closer. “You weren’t even listening, were you? He wants numbers.”

Hynek grinned darkly, voice low so only the cousins could hear. “Aye, I heard. My men fight, my men survive—how many I send is my business. That’s the only count that matters.”

Jan chuckled. “Since when did you get sentimental, Devil?”

Hynek’s grin sharpened. “Not sentimental. Just alive. And I plan to keep them that way.”

Hours dragged by. Prokop droned. Men argued over boundaries, levies, and minor disputes as if the world depended on them. Hynek endured it with a smile that looked polite enough for the nobles but sharp enough to frighten anyone who knew him.

The meeting finally adjourned, and Hynek stood, cracking his neck with a snap that made the scribes flinch. Dust rose from his boots as he strode toward the door.

Jan and Petr followed, laughing quietly. “Well, Devil, survived another one. Brno can’t kill you yet.”

A sudden heat rose within Hynek, and he did not know why. The last time such fury had seized him, he had been six: his brother Henry had taken one of his many toys, and Hynek had lost all measure. He leapt upon his brother like a young beast, red-faced and roaring, scratching at Henry’s hair and face. Though older, Henry was scarcely taller, and Hynek’s small hands found purchase. Only after a servant wrested him away was he confined to his chamber, awaiting his father’s judgment. Hynek had stood stiffly, heart hammering, unwilling to bear his father’s displeasure again. The Lord had struck him across the cheek, a ringed finger leaving a small cut that would scar.

Hynek did not wish to harm the girl. No, he felt no ill will toward her. Yet the sight of her doing as she pleased, beyond the bounds of what was proper, gnawed at him. At ten, he did not know the name of envy, though it grew within him with fierceness.

“What do you do here?” he asked, leaning on one foot, hand resting upon the hilt of his dagger. She sat upon a tree stump in a forest glade, sharpening sticks, a pile of feathers waiting to be fletched into arrows.

“Preparing arrows, my lord,” she answered, not rising to greet him, which annoyed the young lord further.

“Look at me, girl,” Hynek said, his voice still thin, sharp as a child’s was when having a tantrum.

She lifted her gaze with a scowl that made him hesitate. Dark eyes, deep as pits, met his own, and he felt a shiver of something unknown. She worked with her hunting knife deftly, and he felt the stirring of an unfamiliar pang: jealousy.

“Can—” he paused to steady himself, “can you teach me?”

“How to fletch, Sir?” Her eyebrow rose in genuine perplexity. She brushed mud from her hands on her apron.

“Yes. I would learn, so that I might surpass you,” he said, smirking, and seated himself beside her upon the stump.

“Would you have the feathers prepped, the nocks, or the thread?” she asked, amusement threading her voice as she watched the little lord struggle to choose among tasks he did not understand.

“Uh… the feathers,” he replied, though he did not mean it as a question.

“Right, Sir. You must split the middle shaft—scribes use it for writing, or such-like. Dust and mud must be cleared off, and here you place them in the basket, ready for attachment.” She demonstrated swiftly, and Hynek nodded, keen to master her skill.

“Well, I knew that already. Begin then on the… other things,” he said, drawing his dagger and attempting the feathers. She tapped wood to the arrow ends, carving away the excess to leave a small divot. They laboured thus for a time, the gentle thumping of the nocks mingling with Hynek’s frustrated mutters as he slipped, tearing feathers with his dagger.

“Use this, Sir,” she said, offering her hunting dagger. Its handle was bound in maroon leather, worn and fraying with age. Hynek wrinkled his nose.

“You would have me use this… thing?"

“The grip, Sir. Your lordly dagger, though fine, is too slippery.” She smirked, and it drove him near distraction.

“Are you mocking me?”

“Only your stubbornness, Sir.” Her smile was warm, free of malice, though she remained hard to read.

“Call me Hynek,” he said, extending his hand. If friendship was to be won, it should not be based on ‘Sir.’

“I am Anicka,” she said, gripping his hand firmly, fear absent from her gaze. Hynek marvelled at the boldness of this peasant girl, and admiration replaced the hot envy he had felt. The anger faded; in its stead, a warmth bloomed. He had found a friend.

*°*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”°*

1374

“Maybe you’ll actually be able to understand church services now.” Hynek teased, and Anicka pushed him off the tree stump they both sat upon; he just laughed even harder. 

“You noble bastard, not everyone speaks bloody Latin, you Ox. It’s the one good thing that’s come from the King recently.” Hynek knew not everyone spoke Latin, and in turn could not hear sermons, but God, he would pay for that. The preaching would go on and on and on, with peasants none the wiser how dull it all was. He could not understand why Anicka, of all people, gave a shit if they were given in Czech or not. 

“I didn’t realise you were so Godly? Suddenly, you care about the church and its words?” He sat on the grass, gazing up at her, the sun framing her hair like a halo. 

“I am not. But it’s not fair to everyone else who cannot understand the word of God. They can’t read, so it must be this way.” She smoothed down her dress before standing with her bow and quiver. “Come along, Ox. I’ve at least got to hunt for my dinner.”

Hynek followed after her like a lost puppy; he didn’t realise it, but he would’ve gone anywhere she told him to. Deep into the brush was where they ended up, Hynek still working on his bow technique whilst Anicka showed him up at every opportunity. She could nock an arrow with barely a sound; the only noise was the arrow flying through the air before it hit its target (it always hit its target). Hynek, on the other hand, was good but not nearly as silent as he needed to be, generally already having an arrow ready at his side. 

“Straighten your back and hold your back arm up stronger. Your draw doesn’t get enough power.” She whispered as they looked forward at a small rabbit. 

“Perfectionist.” He whispered back with a grimace as he tried to draw back further, his arm screaming at him to stop. The fletch rested lightly on his lip, and he breathed in before letting the string go. It was a bow they had made together, a bit of a dodgy bend, but nothing Anicka hadn’t been able to fix, perfectionist. The arrow struck the rabbit, and it fell. Embarrassingly, it had been his first successful hunt in a very long time. 

“Still whining about me being a perfectionist now?” Anicka asked as she stood up and walked towards the kill. It was hardly large enough for a meal, still he still felt pride at his success.

“You love me really.” Hynek teased as she tied up the rabbit's back legs and attached it to her belt.

“Oh yes, a small little bunny will finally make me declare my undying love for you,” Anicka smirked and they walked further into the forest. 

*°*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”°*

1376

It had been a year of disease and ruin. Well—several years, in truth—throughout Bohemia, but the local spread was worse this year. He and Henry had both caught the pox: Henry was the unlucky one. Hynek, stubborn as an ox even in sickness, had outright refused to die. Covered in boils that swelled and burst, it was the most terrible agony he had ever endured. Looking in a mirror was hardly an option anymore. He had never been the fairest of lads, but now—Christ above—he was a disfigured wreck, which perhaps was a blessing in disguise.

Hynek had no desire to marry. He cared nothing for the estate, the title, or the other trappings of lordship. The title was meant for Henry, and he had been content to be the spare. Now, betrothals and lordly councils loomed, he was already sick of it before it had even begun. At least, this way, he might deter some ladies from seeking his hand; they would surely detest the beast. Yes, perhaps this was for the best.

He wished to see Anička before the day ended—ideally without terrifying the local villagers—but that was easier said than done. By sixteen, he should have been married off, bound by some clever pact between warring families to safeguard the blood of their kinsmen—as if that would matter in the slightest. His disillusionment with noble life had grown steadily alongside his friendship with Anicka. She was so absurdly no-nonsense that she had shown him early how ridiculous it all was.

Hynek knew he would have to wed a noble girl one day and give her a child, but he did not need to like it. Likely, he would have been married off had Henry not been the heir—a tidy arrangement made between him and Anna of Deblín. By his luck, he would be saddled with the woman without any choice.

He adjusted his cape about his shoulders and drew up the hood, opening his window wide to the night, making certain no light spilled from his chamber. Slowly, he made his way down to the first parapet, not far from his window. No guards could be heard below, so he continued his descent. Hynek was now a wiry young man, grown far too quickly in youth and thinned to the point of near invisibility. He moved with the quiet agility of a cat, slipping into corners, hiding as though his life depended on it.

Once on solid ground, it was easy enough to make his way to Anicka’s cottage—or rather, her father’s. He would be gone for at least the week, hunting game with Hynek’s lord father. Something about grief being eased with the blood of a stag?

The lordling regarded the cottage where the forest pressed against the edge of the town. It stood in the gap between the two, a modest dwelling that seemed claimed by neither side. Birch trees crowded close about it, their pale trunks shining in the moonlight like quiet sentries. Ivy had taken hold of the walls and roof, as though the forest itself meant to reclaim the place. The stone at the base, timber darkened by years above it, patched here and there yet holding firm. A thin ribbon of smoke rose from the chimney, carrying the sharp scent of burning pine and the heavier note of roasting meat. Anicka was in and better yet, she was having dinner. 

Hynek rapped on the door three times, then stepped back into the shadows, just out of sight. A sudden coldness gripped him. She had never seen him like this—pockmarked, scarred, a shadow of the boy she once knew. Weeks of fever and boils had left him unrecognizable, and the thought of her reaction made his chest tighten. What if she turned away in disgust? What if the friendship they had forged, the easy warmth between them, dissolved the instant she saw his face? He wanted to see her, but the fear of her pity—or worse, revulsion—held him frozen in place, hidden beneath the night and the hush of the trees. For the first time in a long while, Hynek wondered if he could bear the sight of her disappointment. For a moment, he wondered if he should turn back, disappear into the darkness and spare himself the risk. But the thought of never seeing her again, of letting her slip from his life so easily, was unbearable.

The door opened, Anicka was in a simple brown surcoat with her hair secured by a white coif: stained brown in places. A few wisps of dark hair had escaped across her face and Hynek almost chuckled at the scowl that dominated her face. 

“It's nice to-” Hynek began, but she screamed, chucking her hunting dagger in his general direction. The dagger clinked softly against the cobblestones, and he picked it up, stepping into the light with his head down. 

“Hynek?!” She exclaimed, holding onto the door frame like a support. “You scared me. Why are you sneaking around like that? It's been weeks!” 

“What can I say, I enjoy surprising you.” He was still looking down, staring at the bottom hem of her dress.

“What is it? I know it's dirty. I've been meaning to clean my skirts, but you know me, ever avoiding.” Anicka took a step out of the doorway towards him, and Hynek almost shrank away from her. “Hynek?” 

“I-I have to…” He stepped away again, the coldness gripped him once more, his chest growing tighter as he considered her horror, her pity. Hynek realised he had never faced true fear, he’d stared down death and told the world he wasn’t done with the world but this, this was terrifying.

“Hynek, I’ve been so worried.” She lurched forward and hugged him. Hugged him. She was warm and smelled like a mix of pine and cooked meat. She had wrapped her arms around his, keeping them at his sides, which in turn pulled his cloak downwards, unclipping it at the front due to the unusual angle. Anicka’s face was pressed against his chest; her eyes closed, she seemed at peace, and Hynek wished he could see that calm face every day when he woke up. To know that someone was so happy to see him that it calmed them.

“Didn’t think you missed me that much.” He smiled, and it stretched one of his scars uncomfortably. 

“Shut up, you stupid goat.” She sniffed, holding him tighter.

“You’re not crying over me, are you?” He was teasing, and she punched him in the stomach, not enough to wind him, but definitely enough to bruise.

“You’ve missed me, too, you stupid boy. I know you have, I’m wonderful.” Her grip was lessening, and he could see her starting to look up.

“Of course, when I was at my deathbed, I wished for the one person who calls me a stupid goat,” Hynek hadn’t realised his hood had fallen, and when he looked into her dark eyes, he began to panic. She wasn’t saying anything, maybe that was good: at least she hadn’t screamed. Her hand made its way to his cheek and up to his hairline. He cringed backwards at her touch, and she retracted her hand. 

“What on earth have you done to your hair?” She asked with a giggle. His hair had been cut short to treat any boils on his head; he hadn’t considered it an important detail, but he supposed it was another difference. “Didn’t think I’d miss the ginger helmet hair.” She was smiling and looking directly at him; she wasn’t scared. 

“My Lady, I apologise profusely. In my haste to heal, I had not considered the great tax on your delicate heart.” He clutched his chest dramatically. Anicka only rolled her eyes and tried to hide how she wiped her eyes. 

“Come on, I’ve just finished cooking.” She grabbed his disgusting pox-scarred hand tightly and pulled him inside. 

They sat for a while talking about nothing in particular, nothing about the illness or the fact that Anicka’s father had wanted to marry her off for years now. Two friends sat and ate rabbit stew, staying warm near the fire and laughing. 

*°*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°•.˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”°*

1378

It had finally happened, the bastard had finally done it. His blockhead of a father had negotiated a marriage to Henry’s betrothed like a sick joke. There was no love lost between the brothers, and Hynek hadn’t seen a shred of care from Henry about the match; even so, it felt wrong. He knew it would still be at least a year until the marriage actually happened, as everything was finalised with a dowry and whatnot, an agonising year of appearances at fucking court events and pretending he cared at all. 

“You knew it would happen at some time,” Anicka told him as they sat in the castle courtyard waiting for the arrowheads that had been forged recently. 

“Why her? Henry’s leftovers.” Hynek groaned, but Anicka’s face was stony.

“Don’t call her leftovers, Hynek. That’s not fair, she will have ten times less control over the whole thing than you will.” She turned to look at the forge and away from him. 

“Ugh, don’t be angry. I don’t think I could take more bad news today.” He ran a hand down his face, still scarred but he cared a whole lot less. 

“Come on, we have work to do.” She thanked the blacksmith, handing him a bag of groschen before walking towards the forest. 

She was different. More removed from their usual conversations and it made Hynek ridiculously uncomfortable. What had changed? They were older but that hadn't seemed to matter at any other point. Her back to him as she continued walking deeper into the forest clutching a basket of arrowheads and carved wood. It was akin to a ritual for them, fletching was their time together away from it all. 

“Anicka?” Hynek stopped walking. Sick of the silence. 

“Yes,” she answered all too sharply and it felt like she'd winded him.

“What's wrong?” 

“Nothing I can't handle.” She was grimacing and trying to hide it behind a well trained smile. 

“You're lying, Anicka. You're not so sneaky as to hide your feelings from me.” He crossed his arms and she finally turned, eyes welling up. 

“I am to be sent away. Father has found me a husband and grown tired of my opposition so I am just to be sent away.” Her hands were trembling now and Hynek took the last few steps needed to be close with her. 

“I will forbid it. I won't let him give you away to some beast of a man.” His voice was low but serious. 

“You won't have time for me when you are wed anyhow. Maybe it is better this way.” She resolved and went to turn but Hynek suddenly reached out and gripped her wrist. 

“It is not better. If anything it's ridiculously worse, you must see that?” His grip wasn't tight but it didn't lessen. 

“What is the solution then? We are both unmarried, we can't just stay as we are. I need a husband if I'm to do anything in this godforsaken world. Your father will not relent until you are married. It has to happen so it may as well be now.” A tear ran down her cheek and she quickly brushed it away. Hynek didn't know what to do, life without her seemed unbearable. Whilst life with his new wife sounded all together awful. 

“Marry me.” He said before really thinking about it. Anicka furrowed her brow and laughed. A hollow humourless laugh. 

“Don't make fun of me. You know it can't happen yet you dangle it in front of my face like I'm a dog.” She tried to pull from his grip but Hynek wouldn't let go. 

“I would sooner marry you than the beast my father probably has me marrying.” He smiled, it was meant to be a comfort but it only seemed to upset her more. 

“I will not be a second choice to fix your problems, Hynek. You don't know what you are saying or how hurtful it is.” 

“Why is it hurtful? We are close friends are we not? Is that not better than a loveless marriage with no care or history?” His brow now furrowed, why was she so adverse to his touch, his company. 

“You still love me as a sister, do you not?” 

“I- yes I suppose.” 

“Then I cannot marry you, it would be on false pretences. And anyway you are promised to another!” She was looking down, unable or unwilling to meet his gaze. 

“What false pretences? I don't want to marry that woman! I would sooner marry someone I see as my sister.” 

“I do not love you like a brother, Hynek.” She paused and looked up at him with tearful eyes. “You must know that.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“There is no use explaining myself. Let us carry on with the day and talk of this no more.” She regrettably slipped out of his grip and began to walk further into the brush. 

“I will not move until you explain yourself.” 

“Then you will be waiting a long time, My Lord.” Her voice was full of malice that hit Hynek like a slap. My Lord? She hadn't called him that except in jest for years. 

“Anicka, please I-” 

“Stop. I beg of you. It's too painful.” She didn't turn but did stop, leaning on a tree for support as he assumed she kept crying. 

Hynek walked towards her, the dry leaves punctuating every step with purpose. He expected her to flee, like the startled hare she seemed to be reflecting. Her slight figure was rooted, the stillness of the trees mirrored in her composure.

Reaching out, he laid a hand on her shoulder, firm but not unkind. She did not flinch. Instead, she set her hand atop his, her nails rimmed with soil, the faint scent of pine clinging to her skin. There was strength in her grip, scared he would fly away from her. The wind threaded through her hair, carrying dark strands across her face like a veil, hiding her eyes. 

“We’re lingering too long in the woods,” Hynek said, his voice pitched in quiet reproach. “Your father might miss you.” 

Her lips curved, not quite a smile, not quite defiance. “I am always missed. By my father when I undoubtedly fail him, by my betrothed when I am not docile enough”

He frowned, tilting his head as though he might scold her for such words, yet his gaze soften instead. To him, she was like the sister he had never had—wild, stubborn, unpolished, but honest. He thought she sought his counsel, his protection.

She hesitated then, her fingers tightening upon his hand. Her breath quickened, her lips parting as though some confession pressed at the edge of speech. “And you?” she asked softly, almost swallowed by the wind. “Would you miss me, if—”

But she stopped herself, biting the rest of the words away. Her hand slipped from his, falling back to her side. She turned her face aside, hair sweeping like a curtain between them.

Hynek, puzzled by her sudden retreat, gave a small laugh. “You ask strange things. Of course I would miss you. You are as much a sister to me as my own blood.”

Her eyes closed at that—only for a heartbeat, a tremor unnoticed by him. When she looked up again, her face was composed, as though the forest itself had finally swallowed her up.

“You should go,” she said quietly. “The leaves carry whispers, and not all ears in the wood are kind.”

He nodded, turning back the way he had come. Yet as he walked away, he felt the faintest unease, like a word half-heard but not understood. The wind stirred behind him, carrying her soft cries with it. In years to come, he would remember this moment—the weight of her hand, the broken thread of her question—and wonder how he had not known.