The Century War: First Song of Silence

I felt it before I was even fully awake:

a swarm of the thinnest needles — sharp and icy —

was burrowing into my skull,

slowly and precisely,

as if someone were trying to pierce through the flesh of my consciousness.

Pain pulsed.

It rose like a muffled toll —

a silent scream with no release.

I couldn't shake it off.

I couldn't forget.

And then — a jolt.

Everything collapsed.

I flinched,

as if I had returned to my body after a long absence.

Gasped — too fast.

My eyes snapped open — and the light pierced through them.

I was sitting.

My hands gripped the back of my head, trying to hold in thoughts that scattered like birds.

My heart was pounding,

as if trying to catch up with itself.

The world had frozen —

time itself seemed to halt.

I raised my head slowly.

My chest still fought for breath.

My skull echoed — like a void was calling out for something forgotten.

But the world had returned.

Quietly.

Wordlessly.

It simply — was.

I looked around.

Three figures in the room.

By the door stood the girl I had pushed away.

Young, with a headscarf. Still neat, still composed —

but now her gaze had changed.

Not surprised.

More... observing.

Silently watching.

Beside her — him.

The chestnut knight.

The one who had covered me.

Who hadn't grabbed me, though he could have.

Who simply walked — and never let me forget his footsteps.

He looked at me seriously, not cruelly —

but as if searching for an answer in my pain.

He said nothing.

Only his eyes — like trees in the evening light.

Dark.

Warm.

Heavy.

And the third — a man in a gray robe.

Middle-aged.

His face was quiet.

As if he had seen too much — and accepted even more.

All three stood close.

As if I had interrupted a conversation.

As if my groan had cut through their words.

And now — they just watched.

Watched me come back to my body.

Watched me suffer.

Watched me wake.

No one approached.

No one spoke.

And that silence —

made everything even quieter.

He spoke again.

The chestnut one.

The one who appeared in my escape,

stood in my path,

and now spoke to me in words that sounded like wind moving between stones.

I didn't understand a single word.

He spoke calmly, evenly.

No threat — but no freedom either.

He raised his hands again — slightly apart, just like before.

Open palms — a sign:

I'm not your enemy, but you still cannot pass.

He didn't move closer.

But he didn't back away either.

As if tracing a border around me with invisible ink.

My fingers clenched the blanket.

The silence sharpened.

And then they looked at each other — all three.

As if on cue.

Wordlessly.

Already knowing what to do.

They began to speak — in a language I didn't know.

As if ancient dust had come alive in my head.

Their voices melted into a rhythm.

I couldn't grasp a single word.

Each syllable slipped through me —

like water through fingers.

I was not in the conversation.

I was only the object.

The subject.

Their gazes never left me —

and that made it unbearable.

They kept talking —

words touching me,

but brushing past my mind,

as if I were behind glass —

where language becomes silence and guessing.

But I felt it:

they were speaking to me.

Three of them — and each one looked straight into my eyes,

as if waiting for an answer.

Slowly, I lifted my hand.

Pointed to my mouth — then to my ear.

My lips moved — soundless.

Then a pause.

I shrugged.

A helpless grimace.

Almost childlike.

I don't understand you.

Words weren't needed.

They understood.

All of them.

Their reaction was instant.

Eyes widened.

They exchanged glances — almost simultaneously.

As if the truth of my gesture shattered what they assumed.

And in their faces —

fear.

Not obvious. Not panic.

Something deeper.

As if a pillar of certainty had just collapsed.

The man in the gray robe turned quickly to the girl — the one with the scarf.

Said something.

Dry.

Sharp.

She nodded — barely — and left the room without a word.

The door closed behind her softly —

but with weight.

I remained — with two.

Their faces tense.

And a silence louder than words.

They — across from me.

I — on the edge of something that still had no name.

No one moved.

No one spoke.

And in that silence —

I understood the most important thing.

I was not going to die.

Not a feeling.

A knowing.

Clear — like a palmprint on glass.

Not in their eyes.

Not in their breath.

Not in the way they looked at me —

was there any desire to destroy.

My body began to calm.

Breathing slowed.

The pulse no longer thundered in my ears.

Blood returned to my fingers.

Muscles loosened — as if I had been tied in knots.

But inside — something twisted.

My soul — a string drawn tight between fear and realization.

This world was strange.

Their faces.

Their language.

Everything unfamiliar.

Even I — barely knew myself.

What's happening?

Where am I?

Who am I?

Why does everything around me feel so... significant?

I looked at the chestnut knight.

He looked at me.

And between us —

there was no silence.

There was something heavier.

Misunderstanding.

Yet... he didn't look away.

And neither did I.

For the first time — I saw him.

Truly.

Not in panic.

Not in fear.

But as someone with nowhere else to go,

except forward — through a gaze.

He stood motionless.

Like a cliff.

But in his stillness — something more than armor and body.

He filled the air.

Made the space smaller

just by being there.

His chestnut hair — a mess of light and shadow.

Roughly perfect.

Like wind had spent years running through it

and had long since stopped caring.

His face — young.

But the eyes...

No.

Not young.

Too quiet.

Too heavy.

Like someone who had once seen the end —

and survived it.

His armor didn't shine —

it breathed.

Every line and rune — a forgotten script.

A language no longer spoken.

But it was the swords that pierced me.

Only now — sitting still,

calm —

I saw what panic had missed:

He carried three swords.

Three.

Not slung loosely.

Not ornamental.

They stood in perfect line — like a spine.

Like an axis.

Like the beginning of his body.

Massive.

Straight.

Unyielding — like will forged into steel.

Heavy scabbards.

Ornate guards — carved with something unreadable.

Runes no mouth could shape.

Gems on the hilts.

Diamonds?

I didn't know.

But they shimmered — like red mist trapped in crystal.

Why would anyone carry three?

One would be too heavy.

But he bore them

as if he had grown up with their weight.

As if they were breath — not burden.

And that...

was terrifying.

Terrifying — because it couldn't be understood.

My gaze slid from the knight to the other one — the one standing in shadow, cloaked in gray, almost invisible, as if his role was to blend into the background.

He was just as tall, but leaner, almost fragile —

as if his life had stretched into shadow and shed all excess.

His cheeks were hollow.

His features — long, sharp, drawn tight like those of someone who knows too much and says too little.

He looked hungry —

but not in the body.

In something deeper.

His hands — thin, pale, nearly skeletal.

But his movements were precise, like a hunting bird.

Every turn of his wrist, every tilt of his head — deliberate.

Unexpected for such frailty.

He spoke quietly.

I couldn't hear the words — but I felt the timbre:

steady, almost cold.

And I watched as he conversed with the knight.

The one in silver and white armor listened closely.

Now and then — he frowned.

Once or twice — he rubbed his chin, not out of habit,

but as if trying to weigh something invisible.

Once — he shifted his weight from one foot to the other,

as though the words were heavier than his armor.

And all of it —

was about me.

I could feel it.

Then — a sound.

Quiet, but heavy.

A door.

The big, wooden one.

The one the scarfed girl had gone through earlier.

Not fast.

Not loud.

But it carried the kind of tension that makes your heartbeat stop.

I didn't see who entered.

Only the door — swinging open.

And everything inside me...

went still.

Waiting.

She stepped in —

and the silence in the room changed.

Not tight.

Not loud.

Just — watchful.

Even the air seemed to pull back.

To hold its breath.

I lifted my eyes —

and met hers.

Tall.

Frighteningly tall.

A full head taller than the knight —

who, to me, had been the embodiment of strength.

But next to her...

he looked merely human.

She was something else.

Whole.

Forged not from metal —

but from will.

Her eyes.

Gods, her eyes.

Wide — like a door flung open.

The color of gold — but not warm.

Cold.

Like a crown on a stranger's head.

They didn't look.

They pierced.

Golden flame —

with no rage,

but something worse —

deliberate resolve.

Her hair —

thick, black, touched with red light.

Swept up into a powerful knot,

from which a heavy braid fell —

like a rope slung over her shoulder.

Her armor —

not just armor.

A second skin.

Fitted, molding perfectly to her every curve,

not hiding her form —

but declaring:

this body is not for comfort.

It is for war.

And everything shone.

The pattern on her chest —

inlaid with blue diamonds.

Cold.

Grown from the steel itself.

Not ornaments.

Warnings.

In every movement,

in every line of her stance,

was one truth:

She was merciless.

You couldn't call her cruel.

She was too calm for cruelty.

She was like the storm

that hasn't yet broken —

but you know it's coming.

And I understood.

If you are to be afraid —

be afraid now.

I couldn't look away.

Her face — carved from marble.

Precise.

Cold.

Frighteningly flawless.

High cheekbones —

drawn taut, like a sentinel's.

A straight, narrow nose.

Lips full, but restrained —

made not for smiles,

but for commands.

But more than anything — her eyes.

Golden.

Not amber.

Not honey.

Gold.

Alive.

Solid.

As if metal had become a gaze.

They didn't watch — they judged.

They entered.

Her brows — arched,

always ready for disdain.

Her forehead — smooth.

But I felt it:

she could frown so sharply

that even silence would retreat.

I didn't know who she was.

But instinct — the kind that wakes before memory —

was already whispering:

Fear her.

She stood still —

like a statue in blue flame.

Her gaze passed over me —

not as a glance,

but like a blade

measuring the fabric before the cut.

Then —

a single word,

flung toward the man in gray.

I didn't know what it meant.

But the sound was hard —

like a sentence passed.

The man stepped forward.

Unhurried —

but with certainty.

No sudden movements.

But every one of them — exact.

He looked at me as if he saw something

beyond my body.

My muscles tensed.

My heart gave a rogue beat —

ready to run.

Then she — the woman in blue armor —

changed.

For just a second.

Surprise

flashed in her eyes.

And in it...

not anger.

Confusion.

The man shook his head.

Slowly.

Reassuringly.

I let him approach.

Maybe from fear.

Maybe from exhaustion.

Only inches now separated us.

And then I saw it.

His hand —

thin, nearly transparent,

as if it hadn't seen sunlight in years —

began to glow.

Softly.

Like a candle under water.

A silvery, gentle light —

rising not from his fingers,

but from the space between his palm and my skin.

He closed his eyes.

And in that silence,

in that strange calm,

I felt —

he was hearing something I couldn't.

Something about me.

He pulled back.

Gently.

As if he'd touched not flesh,

but a secret

that must not be disturbed too quickly.

The light vanished.

Just as quietly as it had come.

Dissolving into the air.

He opened his eyes.

And in them —

no fear.

No threat.

Only... sorrow.

So deep

that even I,

understanding nothing,

wanted to look away —

like from a confession overheard by accident.

He turned to the woman in armor

and said something

in his harsh, foreign tongue.

His voice was soft —

but it struck like a drum

against the walls of my chest.

What did he say?

What had he found?

The woman... faltered.

For just a moment —

a shadow crossed her face.

Uncertainty?

Doubt?

As if he'd told her something

impossible.

But it lasted only a moment.

She became herself again —

the way she had entered:

tall.

Straight.

Unshakable.

A warrior.

Her hand rose.

Slowly.

And in it—

light was born.

Blue.

Cold.

Glittering.

Like mountain water,

trapped in a spell.

I watched—

as from the air, from nothing,

a sword began to form.

Drop by drop.

Stream by stream.

It was not forged from steel—

but from water.

And yet it was sharp.

Real.

Strong.

Threatening.

And I couldn't take it.

— What the hell is going on?! —

burst from me.

Loud.

Rough.

Like a scream

ripping through the veil of confusion.

I startled even myself.

But along with the fear...

I felt alive.

They froze.

All three of them.

And looked at me—

as if I had said something greater

than just a question.

The woman in armor said something—

curt, sharp.

And at her words,

the girl in the scarf left the room

without a sound.

We were silent.

All four of us.

Silence settled

on our shoulders

like a shroud.

I sat on the bed.

Only the dull, smoldering ache

at the base of my skull

reminded me the pain hadn't vanished.

It had only quieted—

lurking.

But still gripping me

on the edge of anxiety.

My mind swirled with tangled questions.

Who were these people?

What had the tall, raven-faced man done to me?

How had that woman pulled a sword from thin air—

as if woven from will and nothingness?

I had no answers.

And that was more terrifying

than any wall.

Then...

A creak.

Long, slow—

like the sound of a chest

that hadn't been opened in years.

The door opened again.

The same girl stepped into the room—

the one who had left in silence.

Now she was pushing

a strange chair with wheels.

Slowly.

With effort.

It was heavy—

dark wood, rimmed with metal.

And in it

sat an old man.

Not just elderly—

a relic.

A figure carved from legend.

Thin.

Skin almost parchment-thin,

hanging from his neck

and trembling on his arms

as the chair rocked gently.

He wore the same gray robe

as the other man—

but without the hood.

His hair—

white,

gathered neatly into a knot

at the nape of his neck.

That alone

spoke of a man

who had once held power.

But now...

he resembled a withered flower.

Rootless.

Clinging only

to the memory of life.

I looked at him—

and felt something strange.

He gave off no authority.

No threat.

Only the quiet finality

of someone

who has seen everything—

and accepted all of it.

But something in his eyes...

when he slowly lifted them to mine—

sent chills racing down my back.

Not fear.

Foreboding.

I stared at him—

questioning,

tensed inside,

as if I didn't even know

what I was waiting for.

And he... simply smiled.

Gently.

Kindly.

His face lit with that smile—

warm, like winter sunlight

on frozen skin.

It unfurled

in every crease,

every wrinkle.

And suddenly—

it became terrifying.

Because of how calm he was.

He tilted his head slightly and said,

slowly,

tenderly,

as if this wasn't the first time

he had spoken to me:

— You're awake, my child.