Danya Kashin (DK)

The sun, not yet hot, but only golden, broke through the light mist that crept across the fields. The air smelled of moist earth, smoke, and fresh manure. Danya stood at the edge of the village, leaning heavily on a long sword stuck in a road frame. His red hair, matted with night sweat, escaped from under a quilted balaclava. The armor, once shiny, was covered with gray dust and brown streaks from dew. The horse had fallen three days ago, puncturing his leg at the root, and since then every step had come with a clang and a creak, echoing with a dull pain in his strained shoulders.

The lord's task was completed, and the scroll with the seal was safely tucked into his bosom. But the map, soaked by the previous downpour, blurred into an unreadable spot somewhere after the crossing. He walked at random, keeping to the west, where he believed his valley should lie. Instead of the familiar hills, a strange village lay in front of him in the morning haze.

And there was a lot of life here. It's completely different than in his castle. It's like an anthill disturbed by a stick. Thick, fragrant smoke poured from low, blackened huts with thatched roofs. People were already bustling in the street, which was trampled by many feet. Women in gray ponies carried wooden buckets to the well, their voices, clear and fast, merged into a distant hum. A peasant with a cart loaded with hay shouted at a sluggish horse. A boy was chasing geese by the fence, waving a twig. From somewhere came the rhythmic sound of an axe and the smell of freshly hewn wood. From the other end, from the threshing floor, the tart smell of bread from the bakery wafted on the breeze.

Danya froze, watching. This painting was both alien and infinitely far from his world of duels, coats of arms and vassal oaths. But she was alive, real. His stomach clenched convulsively at the smell of bread, and his tired legs trembled, begging for rest. Where to go next? The forest outside the village was thick and unfamiliar. There was also water, a roof, and possibly food. At least for an hour, at least for a while, to catch your breath and ask the locals for directions.

He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders against the weight of the metal. With a clang, he pulled his sword out of the ground and, overcoming stiffness in his joints, took the first step off the dirt track onto the trampled earth of the village street.