The Century War: First Song of Silence

Shock pierced me like a thin blade — not with pain, but with awakening.

Suddenly, I realized: I could hear him. I understood every word, every intonation.

"I understand what you're saying," I breathed. It wasn't a question — it was a fact.

The old man smiled kindly, as if he'd been expecting just that reaction.

"Yes," he said softly. "I'm glad you can understand me."

I glanced at the others.

They were watching us intently, not interfering, but worry flickered in their eyes.

"Everything around me... is foreign, unfamiliar. I don't remember anything," I murmured. "I don't understand them. Not their words. Not their actions. They speak, but to me it's just noise."

The old man continued to look at me with a gentle, warm smile — as if he knew all the answers but wasn't ready to share them yet.

"Am I your child?" I asked cautiously, afraid of hearing something I wasn't ready to accept.

"Oh no," he said, shaking his head softly. "That was just a figure of speech. I've known you for nearly half a century."

"Half a century...?" My breath caught, like a blow to the chest.

He met my eyes. His gaze was clear, like winter water — without doubt or hesitation.

"Biana," he said gently, almost with tenderness. "Your name is Biana."

I froze. Biana. It was just a word. A shape. A sound.

I repeated it in my mind. Then aloud. Again. Once more.

But nothing stirred inside me.

No flash, no recognition. No pain, no warmth.

It felt as if he'd named someone else. A stranger. A name left behind in another life.

And yet...

"Thank you," I whispered. "At least... one thing I know about myself now."

He nodded. As if he knew this was just the beginning, not the answer.

I glanced around — the knight, the man in the gray robe, the girl with the headscarf, the woman in blue armor — all watched in silence, as though we spoke through a veil they could not penetrate.

"But why... why is it that I can only understand you?" I whispered. "Why are you clear, and the others aren't?"

"Because you and I speak," he said softly, "in the Forgotten Tongue of the Gods."

It was lost nearly three hundred years ago. Few in the world still remember it. I am one of the last.

He turned his head and spoke a short sentence over his shoulder — in a different, harsher tongue.

The girl with the headscarf quietly wheeled him closer to my bedside.

But I was no longer focused on her.

The woman in blue armor tensed.

She raised her hand, and from it burst a sword — fluid, shimmering, as though woven from water itself.

I didn't know whom she was protecting. Or from whom.

But I felt it — the moment was changing. Right now.

The old man raised his hand — slowly, as if his fingers were moving through water. His palm extended toward me, and then... it began to glow. Not like the man in gray. This was different. The light was softer, deeper. Not white — pearlescent, like moonlight in milky water.

He closed his eyes. And something shifted in his face. The smile vanished. The fatigue disappeared. He seemed almost translucent — dissolving into the act itself.

I held my breath. He wasn't listening with ears, but with his hand. He was feeling something.

What he sought was hidden.

The light on his palm faded — as quietly as a candle snuffed out in a temple. His hand trembled... and dropped. I didn't understand what was happening — until I saw his body begin to slump forward.

The old man was falling.

At that same instant, the man in the gray robe, previously almost invisible, sprang forward. His movements — swift and precise — as though he had caught fragile things on the brink of vanishing before. He caught the old man and eased him back into the chair. But it was too late.

The head lolled to one side. Blood streamed in thin lines from his nose and ears — drop by drop. It trailed down his neck, darkening the folds of his robe.

Everything inside me clenched. A scorching dread rose like a tide — quiet, merciless. The world dimmed, as if covered in ash.

The woman in armor froze. Her eyes blazed — not with anger, but fury. A guttural snarl ripped from her throat — low, feral. Pain and rage condensed into sound, slicing the air like a blade.

In that moment, I understood: this wasn't just pain. It was violation. Something sacred had been broken. And they all knew it.

The pain started slicing me from the inside. I writhed, contorted — something invisible tearing me apart. Heat and dryness spread through my body like cracks across glass. My lips cracked, my breath turned to rasping dust — as if my lungs had become ash.

Is this the end? The thought came not as fear — but as silence. I didn't even know who I was... where I was... why?

I hadn't done anything. I had simply... awakened. That's all. And now — they were killing me.

My gaze darted around the room until it landed on the old man. He was still. His face still turned downward.

And suddenly... something rose within me. Not fear. Not anger. Something deeper. Quieter. Stronger.

I felt something warm slide down my cheek... not a tear. Blood.

Thin lines of it ran from both eyes.

And then I knew — both cheeks were wet. With something dark.

I looked at her. The armored woman. The light in her hand. And I thought: So this is it. This is the end...

But — a voice. Sharp. Firm.

The man in the gray robe raised his head from the old man's body and shouted something — curt, commanding.

She froze. The light in her hand vanished. Everything stopped.

The pain didn't leave immediately. It ebbed, like a tide — leaving behind soreness in my muscles, hollowness in my chest, and trembling in my fingers.

The world blurred. I couldn't feel my limbs. Even my tongue. I was falling — into darkness.

And before it all closed around me, I saw... eyes.

Brown. Deep. The knight's eyes.

There was no fear in them. But there was... concern. Real concern. For me?

-Damn... No..... - his voice sounded like a muffled echo

And that — was the last thing I carried with me before the world disappeared.