The Century War: First Song of Silence

Everything blurred into a slow, dull stream of days — steady and nearly mundane. Everything except one thing. My bed.

It stood like a mute sentinel of the past, silently reminding me: this place isn't mine. The moment I lay down — a sharp pain pierced the back of my head, as if something inside rejected me, denying me peace.

I didn't know whether I had the right to speak of it — to complain or even confess. Everything around me felt too settled, too arranged, as though each object in the room knew how things should be... and sensed the falsehood within me.

I was afraid to disrupt that order. Afraid to be careless — as if every gesture that didn't align with the former mistress might spark a storm of whispers behind closed doors.

Until news came from the Council of Generals, I simply tried... to be. I adapted to their world, their rules. Pretended to be a shadow — with no past, no need for a future.

So I slept on the floor. Quietly, modestly, in the corner, leaning against the cold wall. The soft, fluffy carpet became my comfort — almost a palm, holding me through the night.

And strangely: there, among wool and stone, my dreams were cleaner.

Descending the spiral staircase carved of gray stone, I felt the chill spiraling through each curve. The stone breathed cold through the thin soles of my shoes, as if it held the breath of all who had stepped there before me.

The first floor greeted with silence and the restrained echo of footsteps bouncing off massive walls. Several stone doorways led to different parts of the castle. One, with its door slightly ajar, opened into the inner courtyard; another led to the kitchen.

There, among cobblestone walls, braziers burned, casting jagged shadows on the ceiling. The air was warm, filled with herbs and smoke. It smelled of stewed meat, fresh bread — and iron.

In the middle of the hall stood a heavy table with two benches on either side. Massive, as if carved from the same rock as the walls.

Over the last few days, I had gotten used to coming here twice a day. The longer I remained invisible — the easier it became.

Ada ruled this place: a formidable, broad-shouldered woman with copper, perpetually tousled hair that smelled of fried onions.

She growled at anyone who dared to invade her territory — especially soldiers sneaking food like thieves.

Servants like me received less of her wrath. The brown robe made me part of the background. And though my heart thumped too loudly beneath it, no one looked my way.

Sunny once advised me to cover my hair with a scarf, tightly tied like a circlet. She said I'd blend in better that way.

I listened.

There were too many unanswered questions in this world. And while I was hiding — I survived.

Ada was a woman around forty. Her brown robe — the same as the other castle staff — hid nothing of what mattered: her booming voice, lively temperament, and the habit of commanding pots, people, and time alike.

She spoke as if everything around her belonged to her: the pans, spoons, bread, kitchen walls — even the air, tinged with onion and rosemary.

With her presence, any morning filled with sound — laughter, scolding, and wondrous tales of knights, mages, and pies.

And although I had known her only a few days, it felt as if she had always been here. Not as a cook, not as a servant — but as the spirit of this stone kitchen.

Her warmth.

Her scent of fresh bread.

I couldn't imagine the place without her. It was as if she alone held everything in balance. She was what made this space alive.

***

— For... treatment? — I echoed, though I had already heard the answer between the lines, like an echo flickering through my thoughts. I just needed to confirm I understood correctly.

Ada nodded, not looking up from the cauldrons where stew bubbled. Sprays of steam curled around her cheeks like warm fog.

— Yes, — she replied. — Mages who've absorbed too much darkness... they need cleansing. Otherwise, the magic particles that seep into the body during battle slowly grow like weeds... and pull the soul into shadow.

I watched her hands slide deftly from one pot to another, marveling at how casually she spoke of such things. As if it were no more serious than oversalting soup.

— They say things have gotten truly dangerous at the front. Many Keepers have been recalled, — she continued, lifting a lid and inhaling the scent of the brew. — Now only the capital and the largest strongholds have anyone left who can heal. And those who've been at the front more than a year are allowed to return — for rest and treatment...

Her voice faded. The kitchen was silent but for the hissing steam.

Then she chuckled and lowered her voice conspiratorially:

— ...Though if you ask me, most don't come for the Keepers. They come for fleshly pleasures. You should see their faces when they return — like they didn't come to heal pain, but to seek out adventure...

I smiled in spite of myself. Her chatter was like a shelter from the wind — simple, human, comforting. And for a moment, it was easy to forget there were battles, blood, and darkness somewhere beyond.

— Fleshly pleasures? — I repeated, as if unsure I'd heard her right. The words slipped past my ears like raindrops on glass — strange, out of place, and yet undeniably true.

— Yes, — she confirmed without blinking. — When a mage's body is filled with pleasure, love, or even simple bliss, their mana concentrates, frees itself, and purifies. In that moment, soul and flesh merge, feed the crystal within — and it burns away the darkness that's pierced the body.

As she spoke, her hand, as if on cue, swept up with a ladle. Emphasizing her words, Ada deftly shut down half the boiling cauldrons. Warm steam settled on her cheeks, softening her face.

— So there are two ways, — she went on, — the first — through Keepers, like healers. And the second — through love... sex... physical pleasure. Call it what you want, the essence is the same.

She turned to me with a look as if we were discussing pumpkin stew, not magical cleansing methods.

— Big portion or small one today?

I giggled — not at her words, but at her complete ease, as though all that mysticism had blended with pots, spices, and the stove's heat.

— Like any hungry person, — I replied with a faint smile.

And inside me, another grain of truth settled — unexpected, raw.

Now I knew a little more about mages. And the nature of their power.

"Today was one of those days when most of the army returned from the front."

After breakfast, I was nearly back at my room when a sunbeam reflected off water in the distance and flared in my eyes. Just a moment — and something inside me trembled.

The river. That same river. It called to me again — silently but unshakably, like a memory of freedom that had barely brushed my fingers — and vanished.

I slowly stepped into the inner courtyard, treading carefully as if I might scare away the quiet moment.

Empty.

No guards, no warriors, no students with swords. Only open doors. Sunlight. Wind. And the tempting shimmer of water.

"Just five minutes..." — I whispered to myself, as if justifying it. — "No one will notice. Everyone's busy today..."

My gaze remained fixed on the river. It glittered as though it were leading me.

And the gates, through which the fresh, living wind flowed, didn't promise escape — no — but a fleeting sip of free air.

And I went — to where, for a few moments, I might feel like I belonged to myself.

As if under a spell, unaware of my own will, I crossed the threshold — to the grass scattered with pale, still unopened buds. They trembled in the gentle breeze — as did I, in anticipation of something unknown.

The river's gleam pulled stronger. Like an ancestral call. Like an echo of foreign memories that shouldn't be inside me.

I stepped to the very edge and drew in a deep breath. Freshness ran through my lungs, as though the river itself flowed inside — cool, alive.

In that moment I felt: yes. I am here. I exist. This is not a dream. Not an illusion.

I dipped my hand into the water — smooth and cold.

And at that very instant, I heard children's voices. A quarrel. Quiet laughter.

I flinched and turned.

There, near a small building that looked like a tiny castle, three children — a red-haired girl and two dark-haired boys — were animatedly talking about something.

Our eyes met. And, as if on cue, they silently bolted toward the building.

Only the wind stayed beside me, caressing my face. As if saying goodbye.

There was no one around. No footsteps, no voices, not even a rustle — just me, the river, and air clear as morning light.

I stood on the bank, breathing deeply — as though, for the first time in my life, I could breathe freely.

For a moment, everything disappeared: fear, pain, doubt.

Even the name I had been given faded somewhere in the far corners of my mind.

I wasn't thinking of escape.

I wasn't thinking of the walls that held me, or the people who watched.

I simply stood — alive.

As if, for the first time, I admitted to myself:

This isn't a dream.

This — is life.

And I am part of it.

— Were you allowed to come here? — a harsh, low male voice addressed me.

I turned toward the sound — and against the morning light, carved from marble and steel, he stood.

Tall. Almost intimidatingly imposing.

In pale armor, etched with fine engravings and glowing blue crystals — as if raw magic pulsed across his chest and belt.

The lines of his armor weren't just beautiful — they spoke of power, status, and perhaps a blessing.

His skin — slightly sun-kissed.

His gaze — piercing.

Dark brows furrowed in irritated expectation.

His face — sharp, symmetrical, nearly flawless.

Hair — dark, closely cropped, emphasizing his strict features.

He looked at me without blinking — like a guardian watching a trespasser.

— Were you allowed to come here? — he repeated. His voice was deep, heavy — like a footstep in an empty hall.

I felt the warmth of freedom in my chest shift into a chill of caution.

His beauty didn't match the sharpness of his tone — as if perfection itself had learned to be cruel.

Behind him, I glimpsed Adele. She seemed even smaller, even shorter — framed by the massive, near-unreal figure beside her.

Tall as a tower. And just as unyielding.

He was unbearably beautiful. Not the kind of beauty that soothes — but the kind that breaks walls. And will.

— Sorry, what? — I asked again, unable to look away.

He walked toward me. Step by step. With a predator's precision.

As if each movement was already decided — calculated down to the last muscle.

I stood frozen.

And now he was before me.

Too close.

Too tall.

My gaze rose upward — and my nose aligned with his chest, covered in elegant armor patterns.

The crystals glowed — like the breath of magic.

He wordlessly lifted my chin with two fingers. The motion — firm, almost rough, but not cruel.

His skin was warm. Like stone holding the sun.

— Why are you here? — his voice was lower now. Darker.

Like a storm had stirred inside it.

And — without warning — his finger slid along my lower lip.

A light, almost insignificant touch.

But my heart stumbled at that moment.

I didn't know — should I be afraid?

Or breathe?

Time seemed to stop.

Everything around us fell silent — as if even the air had drawn in a breath.

His thumb paused on my lips: warm, commanding, like a mark of something more.

My lips burned — either from the touch or from the heat that seeped from his skin straight into my blood.

I felt like I was becoming a stranger to myself — as if someone else breathed into my lungs.

As if it wasn't me standing there, caught in his gaze.

I took a step back.

The cold water wrapped around my feet, my ankles, the hem of my robe...

I stepped into the river — lightly, soundlessly, as if it was meant to be that way.

Unable to explain — I just moved away from him.

Though I never looked away.

He watched me. And his face — just moments ago flawless — darkened.

Lightning and shadow carved themselves into his features — the full fury of the sky before a storm.

— Why did you leave your room? — he repeated.

His voice was like a peal of thunder. Not a shout — but it held enough force to shake the riverbank.

He threw something short and curt over his shoulder to Adele — no glance, no gesture. Just the chill of command.

And she, asking no questions, vanished through the open doors — the same doors I had wandered through, as if in a trance, just five minutes earlier.

I could even hear her footsteps fade behind the stone walls.

As if she had never been there.

The man before me still didn't move.

He didn't breathe — he stood like a cliff, carved from light and rage.

His hand lowered, and I saw his index finger flash with a silvery glow.

As though ancient magic had awakened within it.

The light was pure and bright — but not warm.

It unsettled — like a star on the edge of forgetting.

The wind — soft, alive — whispered between us.

Touched my hair, wrapped my waist, slid along my neck.

Like an invisible hand.

I closed my eyes for a moment.

This wind didn't frighten me.

It felt like home.

Almost tender.

It didn't drive me away.

It called.

But the man didn't stir.

Still he stood — tall, cold, magnificent.

His eyes looked into the very core of my soul.

As if waiting... for explanation?

Repentance?

No.

Not obedience.

He watched as though he wanted the truth.

Even if it was bitter.

— Everyone is busy today... because of the soldiers returning, — I said quietly, feeling the words fall from my lips soft, without defiance.

— I just wanted... to breathe fresh air.

To admire the river.

It was the truth.

Simple.

Transparent — like the water at my feet.

I had nothing to hide.

No secret intent.

No thought of escape.

Just this moment.

The wind.

The sun on the waves.

And... him.

The same wind — familiar, alive — tangled in my hair, whispered near my ear, touched my cheeks.

As if to remind me:

I'm alive.

I'm here.

Now.

But in contrast to this gentle freedom, there he stood — a man whose beauty felt flawless.

As if sculpted from the essence of order itself.

Stern. Silent.

The embodiment of discipline, strength... and incomprehension.

He didn't belong to this morning wind.

And yet — he stood here.

In this same air.

Under the same sun.

I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye — behind him, near the gates, two familiar figures appeared.

Adele walked with her usual composure and focus.

And beside her — Sunny. Small. Shy.

As if she had stumbled into something larger than herself.

They were approaching.

— You should be in your room, — his voice was like a sharpened blade.

Dry. Cold. Without a trace of doubt.

I frowned. Something stirred in my chest — not fear, but confusion.

— Is that an order?.. Or a decree?.. — I asked, looking up at him.

— Or am I... a prisoner?

He stepped forward. Without hesitation.

Heavy boots entered the water, raising gentle ripples that touched my bare feet.

Now he was right before me — tall, powerful, as if carved from the essence of authority itself.

I had to lift my head again to meet his eyes.

— You should be in your room. And asleep, — he repeated.

Stern. Almost growling.

I didn't step back.

Not now.

— I'm not a warrior, — I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

— And I'm not... a prisoner.

The words sounded strange, but I didn't know how else to name that feeling.

— Why can't I simply be where I want to be?

He didn't answer right away.

The wind rose again — tossing my hair, brushing the edge of his mantle.

But his eyes stayed fixed.

Dark. Focused.

Almost fierce.

We stood on a thin line.

Between submission and freedom.

Between words — and the things we dared not say.

And then, like a shadow, the thought struck me.

Adele... she listens to him.

She follows him.

She — a general.

But she listens to him.

Which means...

My heart stopped.

It can't be.

He — is the High Mage?

— If you were a prisoner... — he said sharply.

His voice was dry and cutting, like a blade.

— You'd be sleeping in a damp cellar, among mold that devours skin overnight.

He lifted my chin again. Not cruelly — but firmly.

His thumb slid across my lower lip, lingered at the center — and everything inside me froze.

— But you sleep in a soft bed.

He paused.

— And under your feet, a carpet that swallows sound.

He leaned closer.

His light-gray eyes — laced with cold and something deeper — flared white for a second.

— So... you're not a prisoner. And not a warrior, — he said at last.

— But you are in my house. Which means, you'll follow my rules.

I felt a silent protest rise in my chest.

But he had already turned — as if the conversation were over.

— And you're without memory, — he added more softly.

Almost tiredly.

— So... just go back.

And sleep.

He didn't wait for an answer.

Turning sharply to Sunny, he said curtly:

— Make sure the girl is in her quarters.

Then walked away.

With powerful, unwavering steps.

Leaving no doubt about who he was — and whose authority ruled this castle.

I watched him go.

And only then noticed Adele.

Her face was unusually soft. Calm.

Not angry. Not sharp, as before.

And somehow — that frightened me more than anything else.