The Century War: First Song of Silence

This pain... as if it had taken root in me. It became part of my flesh, my thoughts, my dreams. A taut, agonizing, penetrating pain in the nape of my neck pulled me from oblivion again—leaving only a groan somewhere deep in my chest.

I didn't dare open my eyes. Not because I was asleep. But because I didn't want to—again—face this world.

But voices... They were already here.

They sounded clearly—like droplets echoing on a stone floor.

A man's voice. Restrained. Even. Yet somewhere in it trembled anxiety. Nearby. Maybe at the head of the bed.

"I'll have to file a report... about what happened. About using force. And about... the refusal."

I recognized him immediately. Eiron. His timbre. The breath between words—it resonated inside me.

"I know."

A short response. But within it—cold flame.

Adel. Her voice—the blade. Fragile, yet deadly sharp.

And suddenly—awareness.

I understood them. Every word. Every intonation.

I didn't know how. But I understood.

Inside I tightened—shocked.

But I still lay there. Eyes closed. Quiet. As if the knowledge might vanish if I breathed too loud.

Their voices grew closer. I felt them not with my ears, but with my skin, as if the words slid across me, penetrating beneath.

I didn't open my eyes, but I heard everything.

"She wounded one of the eldest Blessed Wardens. You understand—that's nearly impossible. We still don't know if it was her. She will remain under observation until HE returns."

I heard Eiron exhale. Slowly. Heavily.

Then—Adel. Louder. Colder.

"Blessed Wardens cannot be wounded. They are woven from blessings—from the very magic of healing. They do not know pain. You may curse them—if you wield darkness. Or slay them—if you yourself are darkness. In the worst case—destroy the body. But not wound."

The words "magic" and "darkness" fell into the abyss of my memory like sparks. Echoes of something lost shook me from within. Magic? Dark magic?..

There is darkness in this world. And they... they think that I...

My chest rose in a silent gasp. I still lay there, locked within my own body, like in a cage. And one thought churned in my mind:

They fear me.

But do I fear myself?

Adel's words rang like steel gauntlets stretched across the fragile silence of the room.

"I will write my own report to the HIGHEST... She endangered Solemir. I could not stand aside—and I will not, until we discover who she really is."

Her voice was steady, yet it concealed pain. The soft rustle of her clothing, the squeak of her steps across the floor—and again her voice:

"I will speak with the generals currently at the castle, and we will decide... what will be permitted to her—until the HIGHEST returns."

A soft, slightly restrained voice of Eiron followed, as though trying to temper each sharp word of Adel:

"Nimor and Mister Solemir found no trace of magic or mana crystal in her. So... she bears no relevance. You understand this?"

His defense was like a strong fabric draped over bare skin. I felt the words slowly forming a puzzle—threads leading toward understanding.

Nimor... must be the thin man in the gray robe. His hands like roots—thin yet full of secrets. And Mister Solemir... yes, undoubtedly an elder. They called him "Mister," implying both age and respect. Even Adel—strong, unbending—almost obeyed his words. Almost.

I shuddered, remembering how she lunged at me with the water-blade, her eyes burning with resolve. Almost.

And in that silence, rich with voices and meaning, a wave of unease washed over me. I was among them—as a mystery no one wanted to leave unanswered.

"Captain, it seems you have lingered longer than you should," Adel's voice sliced through the air like a cold blade. I sensed how she shifted the topic. Not addressing me directly—speaking to him. As if Eiron's presence here was no longer appropriate. As if he—alone—was out of place.

But if not him, then who?.. Who, if not him, would even try to protect me?

"I remained only because I was a witness. And because Mister Solemir himself asked me to..." Eiron's voice was calm, almost serene. Without a hint of challenge or reproach. But each word carried restrained firmness. "Because you, General Adel, in my opinion, crossed a line today."

"General..." The word rang inside me. A title. One of the highest military ranks. So she truly stood at the summit. Yet she was here. In this room. Dealing with me.

I did not know what that meant: a crack in her authority—or a threat emanating from me. Perhaps both.

In that moment of silence, I whispered to myself. Quietly, so no one would hear—even the thought itself.

"Dangerous."

Yes... that might be the truth.

Inside everything bubbled. Thoughts—chaotic, hot as water ready to boil. I still did not open my eyes—not daring to. But every breath, every sound tore at me from within like a knife. The air in the room was taut—like a string about to snap. I felt the threat mounting—silent, icy, heavy.

I knew: she wanted him to leave. So that I would remain alone. Without protection. Without hope.

Anger surged within me—like darkness rising from deep—cold and sticky. I tried to hold it back, but it approached my throat, and the pain in my head spiked, as though someone slowly drove needles into my nape. Walls seemed to breathe anxiety.

And before I could think, before I could open my eyes—my lips broke the silence. My voice hoarse, as if torn from the depths of pain, from ashes:

"Maybe he is here only because otherwise you would've killed me... you mad... bitch."

Everything froze. I felt their gazes pierce me—heavy, sharp, restrained. The world outside stilled, but inside everything continued to burn.

My voice was low, husky—as if it emerged not from my throat, but from the pain itself. I raised myself on my elbows. A wave of pain squeezed my nape, traveled down my spine. The world blurred. In my chest still throbbed—not a heart, no—but despair.

I saw their faces. All turned toward me. In their eyes no pity. Only silent fear. And a mute question: what am I?

Two looks—one warm, one cold—drove into me like arrows into a trembling target. I sat, hands shaking, still stunned by my own words. They had erupted from me like a wild beast unfiltered by reason—raw, true, brutal.

I couldn't hold them back... because I could no longer remain silent.

Inside everything boiled—from pain, fear, humiliation. My whole body trembled, as if recalling that moment when I was turned inside out, when the dry pain in my head twisted my mind like a rag.

I did not ask for mercy then. But now, looking back, everything inside screamed: "It was too much."

"Now you understand... don't you?" Adel hissed. Her voice cut the silence.

I flinched—from her cold, from my naked exposure under their gazes.

Then—steps. Soft, confident, non-threatening.

Eiron approached. His voice was a whisper woven from care:

"Are you alright?"

I nodded only, unable to find strength to speak. His face was close—handsome, sharp, yet soft—like a painting of light.

His chestnut hair fell carelessly over his brow—as if the wind had chosen for it direction.

I caught myself wanting—to reach out, smooth a strand, dissolve in that moment.

His gaze—warm and anxious—touched me gentler than any caress.

"She's fine," Adel snapped, as if talking about a sealed wound rather than me. "The Warden patched her up. Everything is normal."

Her voice filled the room, like a cold wind seeping through cracks. Turning partly to me, partly to Eiron:

"Your attendant will bring you appropriate clothing. You may descend to the kitchen—but only with her accompaniment. The rest will be decided by the Council of Generals until the Supreme Mage arrives. And I strongly advise—no unauthorized wanderings. If you try to run again... I cannot guarantee you won't be killed."

I opened my eyes as if struck. Her words stabbed me deeper than the water-blade ever did.

"Am I... a prisoner?" The question escaped before I could restrain it.

"No," the answer was brief—yet her eyes revealed otherwise. In them burned something that could not be called care. She looked at me as if at something broken—or too dangerous.

"In this bed," her gaze slid downward, "slept the most powerful sorceress of the last century. And when she awoke... a girl. An empty vessel. No blessings. No magic."

Her voice turned to stone, devoid of humanity. As if I were already not a woman before her, but a sentence.

Then she stared at Eiron:

"And you—you are an incidental witness who should not have been here. You know a secret kept even from the Royal Council. Therefore you will come with me. Now. To the generals. Where your fate will also be decided."

For a moment the room darkened under her words. When Adel's eyes flared golden, I felt my body sink into the bed again.

"And if a single soul learns what happened here... I will make sure your blades become extensions of your spine. Understood?"

I swallowed. Thoughts flitted like birds in a cage.

I didn't know who I was. Why I existed.

But now... all that remained was one thing: remain silent. Obey. Survive.

Hoping that one day—I would understand.

Eiron stood beside me, and for the first time a look flickered in his eyes that resembled bewilderment. He did not step back—not a step—as if his mere presence here already was an act of protection.

But Adel's voice sliced the air—like a sentence:

"You may prepare your report—but only for the Council of Generals. Or for the Supreme. Decide. But no one, understand, absolutely no one else has the right to know about her. Or this room."

There was no hesitation in her voice—only iron. Only cold.

She approached the heavy door. Her steps exact—as though carving a path through the air.

"Eiron. Follow me."

He obeyed. Not a word.

But his gaze... it did not leave me. Up until their silhouettes disappeared behind the dark doorway.

Only then—only then I allowed myself to breathe.

Silence did not last long.

A soft rustle of fabric. Cautious steps—and a young woman entered. The one from before, with her hair covered by a scarf at the start.

She held in her hands a soft, brown mantle and neat boots. Her movements were quiet, almost timid—as if even her breath feared disturbing the silence of this strange world.

She moved without a sound—not merely quietly, but almost invisibly.

Like a shadow raised in a temple of silence.

As though she had spent her life learning not to disturb light or slumber.

Her footsteps were light as a breath before dawn, her motions swift, almost weightless.

And then... something sliced me inside. I froze.

A shiver of awareness raced down my spine: she had been here all along.

When I slept. When I moaned in pain. When I screamed.

She... the attendant. My attendant.

"What is your name?" I asked softly, almost a whisper, as if afraid to startle this strange, fragile being.

"Sunny," came the answer.

A voice like morning breeze. Gentle, timid, barely audible.

She placed the brown mantle on the edge of the bed, then carefully set down the boots beside it.

I slowly lowered my gaze to myself... and my breath caught.

The sheets were fresh. The bed—clean.

And I... I wore a white shirt with long sleeves. A light, almost translucent fabric.

It... showed through. Revealing every contour of my body.

I had not noticed before. Too much pain. Too much horror.

Moments surfaced—one by one—like Eiron flushed when he quickly draped cloth over me.

How his gaze avoided my body.

I... all this time... was before them... naked?

I recoiled from within.

From shame. From fear.

From the sense that my boundaries had been stripped away along with my memories.

Sunny silently motioned toward a smaller door:

"In there is a bath. Would you like to take one? I will prepare it for you..." she whispered.

Her voice was as soft as her steps. Barely discernible.

As if she feared disturbing that fragile hush into which I still tried to retreat.

My gaze drifted to the neatly made bed—white, clean, as if nothing had happened.

And then realization struck me—a chill sliding down my spine:

"You washed the blood off me?" I asked, barely breathing.

Sunny nodded and replied:

"Yes..." quietly, almost apologetically.

As though she felt she was the cause of my humiliation.

Thoughts of blood... of what happened last night—whirled in my head like a cold wind in an empty room.

Images resurfaced: the jerk, the crushing against my skull, the blood spilling from me...

And him. The elder. What happened to him? Is he alive?

That shadow of a question pressed on my chest like a warm stone—not letting me breathe fully.

"Solemir... or whoever he is—I cannot remember exactly..." I whispered, gazing past Sunny, as if the answer might emerge in the silence itself.

She bit her lip and briefly glanced away, but she responded with quiet humility:

"Solemir," she corrected— "He is very weak... but alive."

Only then I noticed that her hands still clutched the edges of her clothing—waiting.

Silently, patiently—hoping I would agree to bathe.

My eyes roamed the room: the bed clean, the air heavy with quiet.

Suddenly I understood why Adel had not attacked me earlier.

The elder remained alive...

I had not caused death.

It was strange—but sincere—relief.

I did not want to be a threat.

I did not want to be someone's misery—especially not someone I didn't even know.

My guilt remained—like my very existence had become dangerous.

But at least—not lethal.

Not today.

I shook my head, as if I could shake the shadows of anxiety out of it.

The elder lives. I am alive.

As long as we breathe—there's no point fearing imminent doom.

I drew a deep breath, allowing myself just a moment to latch onto this fragile calm.

My gaze fell on the brown mantle, laid neatly on the bed.

Almost like the one Nimor wore—only the fabric was denser, fresher, unblemished by time.

I ran my fingers over my own clothes—a white shirt that barely concealed the skin beneath—and frowned:

"There's no undergarments?" I asked in surprise—not exactly a complaint, but more observance of an obvious fact.

Sunny flinched, as if remembering something important. Her eyes darted around the room seeking excuse, but finding none, she quickly nodded:

"My apologies! I will bring them right away..."

And disappeared through the door—light as the breeze.

I still felt her presence—not in the room, but in the way she looked, the way she spoke.

In her voice there was no fear, no questions. Only polite compliance, almost care.

As if she knew who I was... even if I did not.

Or perhaps, to her, it didn't matter.

She treated me as someone I already was.

As someone to look after, to guard—like a ward.

The word rose unbidden in my mind:

Attendant.

About ten minutes passed before Sunny quietly returned, stepping softly across the carpet.

In her hands—neatly folded garments.

She carefully placed them at the edge of the bed: a top more like a wide band, snug over the chest, and high-rise briefs that reached nearly to the navel, concealing everything that needed concealment.

I ran my fingers over the fabric—soft, dense, almost weightless.

Yet... foreign.

It felt as though I put on clothes for the first time—but I knew exactly how they should fit, how they should feel on skin.

It was unnatural.

Inside spread a sense of unease—not from the fabric, but from the thought itself.

I knew what fabric was.

I knew the word "wind."

I knew the taste of sugar and freshness.

Even the word "magic" wasn't foreign to me.

But... who am I? Who was I before?

My memory hadn't shattered—it was absent.

As though someone cut my essence out, leaving only the whisper of the world around.

All I knew—without roots.

That terrified me.

It was like a traitor hiding inside me.

Quiet, invisible.

And memory—that traitor's name.

I dressed hurriedly, driven by the desire to leave these walls behind.

My head still thrummed. Pain had become a constant, unbearable hum.

I sighed heavily, looked at Sunny and nodded:

"Let's eat. They said I may go to the kitchen," my voice sounded hollow, echoing foreign words.

Sunny silently approached the large door, opened it, and bowed her head, inviting me with a gesture:

"Please follow me."

I rose unsteadily, feeling my legs buckle—as if my body still doubted it was alive again.

I slipped on the boots Sunny had prepared, stepped forward, trembling fingers tracing the wall for support as I took a few steps.

Passing by a wide window, I paused, mesmerized, staring at the reflection.

Light glided over the glass—and I saw her—myself.

Pale skin like porcelain, as if touched by moonlight for the first time.

Lips slightly swollen, and the gaze—even though it was mine—seemed foreign—guarded, anxious, as if not trusting the world on the other side of the glass.

And that hair... long, almost luminous—silvery-white, like a snowy veil cast by wind.

No detail stirred memory, yet together they seemed strangely familiar...

and terrifying.

As though I gazed not on myself,

but on an echo of someone else.

I hastily looked away, afraid that the reflection would ask a question I could not answer.

Sunny softly tapped on the wood and opened the door.

I drew a deep breath—

and followed her.