Tartaglia

The cold penetrates your bones. You're kneeling in the snow, your palms touching the white flakes and feeling the frost burn your skin. It's too real, too painful to be a dream. Your heart starts pounding faster—just a second ago you were in the city, among familiar streets, and now... a forest. Winter. The silence is broken only by your breathing.

In the distance, you can hear rustling sounds, the clatter of hooves, and male voices. Dozens of men in old-fashioned clothing—fur collars, heavy jackets, and long hunting cloaks—emerge from behind the snow-covered trees. They laugh and chat, and several of them notice you.

• This is so wild... One of them grins as he comes closer. -What sweet young lady got lost in the thicket? —And without an escort, during hunting season! Another adds with feigned horror. The men laugh and exchange glances, but their gazes aren't laced with frivolity, but with a different, almost alien mindset, as if from the 19th century. You become afraid and retreat, but behind you lies only snow and shadows.

Suddenly the people part. The clank of harness, the clink of metal, and you see him. A white horse steps forward, carrying a young man. Red hair escapes from beneath a fur collar, cold eyes sparkle, a crimson banner flutters behind him, and a white robe trimmed with black fur covers his shoulders. He truly does look like a prince from a fairy tale.

He slides off his horse in one practiced motion and walks toward you. His gait is calm, but every step carries a sense of authority. He glances at you with disdain, as if you were a dirty spot in a winter landscape. But as he gets closer, his eyes linger. He notices your hair, your clothes, too strange for this era. And the cold disdain on his face gradually gives way to cautious interest. He stops a few steps away and says in a low, commanding voice:

"What's a young lady doing in these parts during hunting season? You could have been mistaken for prey and killed along with the animal."

His words sound like a reproach, but there's also a hidden concern behind them. It's as if he's trying to figure out who you are? A wandering pilgrim? A spy? Or... something else.