A Helmet Without a Heart

Late evening, somewhere in Wrocław.

The light of the setting sun reflects off gleaming steel. A hand, still sticky with glue, puts down a tool. Maks holds his breath and looks at the unfinished helmet, as if it's staring back with quiet judgment. The light bouncing off the helmet isn't warm, but cold like truth.

Maks sits at his workshop table. To one side lie scattered tools, torn strips of leather and cotton. The surface of wooden table is stained with glue and flecks of red fabric. On the other side rests a Romance of Alexander helm, black cross on its visor, machine-forged, hardened steel. He's been upgrading it for months, chasing perfection.

Silvery steel gleams with fresh polish.

"Almost ready. Damn it. Just missing the rear padding."

As he continues to curse under his breath and sets the tool aside. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he gazes at the incomplete helmet and mutters,

"That one time I really need this ready... and it's not. The tournament's the day after tomorrow. I can still fight. I just need to protect my back."

Suddenly, his phone buzzes, casting a small glow over the room. A message from Anna:

*So we're finally meeting the day after tomorrow. Don't you dare bail! I want to greet a champion*

A smile plays on his lips. It's a message from his partner, she tries not to show it through messages, but she worries about him. They met for the first time while volunteering for a charity cause. At first, they kept their distance. Their likings were too different, but her open mind and knowledge of history drew him in. He briefly recalls a conversation when Anna spoke about a small local village and its origins as a shield-making service settlement under a monarch.

Their date plan weren't a coincidence, it is planned after Polish Buhurt League tournament. Maks wants to be on stadium with his team and to greet his beloved with a medal hanging on his neck.

He opens the message, tries to type something but than erases it. He glances back at the helmet and whispers,

"Surviving comes first"

The next afternoon. A sports hall somewhere in northern Wrocław.

The morning has passed in work routine, Maks barely remembers it as his mind was stuck on the helmet.

He enters the hall, says hi to his male and female teammates, goes into a locker room, changes into the club uniform and steps into training hall. The coach raises his voice

"All of you, push hard today! Tomorrow, your biggest fear should be the sore of muscles from todays training, not your opponent!"

As the silence raises, everyone starts to run around and making moves to warm up each joint, some of the movements might be similar to a dance. After that they dive into tabata quick intense session of exercises. Than as a finisher of a warm up, they proceed into "Warsaw" a series of short sprins while wearing the steel helmet, each stop followed by a series of 10 burpees.

Warm-up is over, all of members gears up into their armor and begin the real drills of the training: Shield charges, two-on-ones, duels and finally the most important five-on-five skirmishes. Maks as usually hangs back slightly as his shorter than his teammates despite him being tall, he wields a mace and shield. His role is to observe and to flank at the perfect timing to knock down the opponents. A single glance is enough for him to read angles, gaps, timing. Some of them even calls him as the challenger to "French Ninja".

He notices Jarek leaving his left side too exposed

"Watch your left and don't raise your shield so high. You're wide open" as Maks warns him.

Jarek peers through his visor.

"I know. This isn't the tournament yet, I like my shield higher at the trainings."

"True, it's not a toruanemt" as Maks replies, than he frowns. "But we ARE at tournament of how to keep your stance unshakable."

Silence. Jarek shrugs and returns to practicing combinations. The others glance over. Everyone recognisez Maks's tone. It is not hostile, often precise and slightly sharp. It's the voice of a person under stress. Everyone feels it and knows it. The tournament is coming.

Later that evening. The presentation hall.

The team sits around with a single beers in hand, discussing tactics, posture and possible scenarios. They review the footage from training, point out errors and speak which opponents to be careful about.

On one teammate's laptop, suddenly a video outplays. AI-generated narration over generated picture presentations:

"Knights actually never wore plate armor because--"

Maks pauses the video, eyes cold and says.

"Spreading any ideas like that used to require some sort of an university diploma. Now, anyone can type a prompt and broadcast false history."

"Hey, chill. It's just a video to bait some views." as the laptop's owner shrugs and turns into Maks. "Focus on tomorrow."

As the owner closes his device. Maks's gaze shifts into his helmet. He picks it up. Familiar weigth, but something's missing. He puts it on, as he feels the front and sides squeeze his head tightly but the back feels a little loose. Unsettling.

He takes off the helmet, slips it into a luggage with wheels and goes back into locker room. He catches his reflection on the mirror. Tall, lean, every muscle properly trained. Black, medium-length hair with a single white streak on the left side. He never knew why it turned white, maybe some dead hairs? With the time he began to like it, it made him stand out.

As he changed into some casual clothes, he high-fives the others. Bartek touches him on the shoulder and says.

"I know the adrenaline's still pumping, but try to sleep early. As we need you to be sharp at 10 a.m. Tomorrow"

Maks nods and than leaves to ride a tram to his home direction. He enters the home, leaves luggage at his room and hit the shower. Changed into pajamas, he slumps onto his bed, sits on it and stares at his bookshelf filled with books. As the titles goes with topics about Teutonic Order, Templars, Grunwald, Ancient Rome, Ancient Greece, World War II and so on.

One small photo from a few catches his eye: when he was 10 years old, playing with a replica of european sword standing next to his father. His younger self grins wildly, eyes brigth with fire.

He smiles, then lies down. Outside, a faint clang echoes, metal striking metal. Specific, sharp sound. Maks doesn't bother about it as he sinks deep into his thougths:

"Tournament. Helmet. Anna. Helmet. Tournament. Helmet... A vague sense of something... is ... missing?"

Just before he fall asleep, one final thought:

"Style? Got it. Honor? Sure. Still... something's missing. Maybe a dream?"

He falls asleep before he can finish the thought.