The Century War: First Song of Silence

Morning wrapped around me unnoticed — like fine silk.

It came with soft light, cool air, and that rare, almost impossible stillness that makes waking feel unwelcome.

I hadn't opened my eyes yet — as if afraid to scare off the fragile balance.

Muscles slackened, breath even, and my body... for the first time in so long — warm. Safe.

It wasn't sleep against a cold wall.

Not a doze on carpet.

It was something else — as if someone had woven a nest in the middle of a stone world. Just for me.

I stirred — and at the edge of consciousness felt something warm. Alive.

My cheek brushed against bare skin — firm, solid.

I opened my eyes. Slowly.

Before me — a broad chest, covered only by an open white shirt.

I'd slept curled into it, like a child who'd found shelter.

And strong arms held me — gently, as if I might fall apart.

Held me above the floor.

He was sitting on the floor.

Blake. The Supreme Magus.

Straight back. Stubborn profile.

His face carried traces of a sleepless night.

Chin lowered. Breathing calm.

His arms — still holding me. Not letting go.

And I lay on his chest like I'd always been there.

I tried to slip away. To understand where I was. Why he...

But his arms only tightened, pulled me closer.

My face pressed once more to his warm chest.

He breathed like nothing was wrong.

— Sleep well? — His voice was lazy, hoarse, like he hadn't quite woken. His head rested against the wall, eyes still closed.

I said nothing. There were no words.

What was left of yesterday's anger still drifted in me — like smoke after fire.

But the softness of that sleep, its impossible warmth, dissolved it.

Embarrassment rose from my chest, tangling thought.

I didn't understand how this had happened — or why my body hadn't resisted.

I moved again, slipping from his arms.

He didn't stop me — only slowed the motion, and I lowered onto the carpet.

Cool. Slightly rough. Almost familiar.

The ground beneath me. Shelter.

— What are you doing here? — I asked, head still lowered.

He ran a hand through his hair. Shook it loose. A dry, almost irritated gesture.

— Helping you sleep.

He looked at me like he was searching for something in my face. Something he didn't find.

No warmth in that gaze. Only scrutiny.

Frowning. Restrained. As if I'd failed him again.

— You should get dressed. Then we'll talk.

I didn't answer. Just stood. Went to the dresser.

Underwear. Brown robe. Everything in its place. Familiar.

But it all felt suddenly false.

I took the clothes and went into the bath.

In my head — confusion. A light unease brushing up against resentment.

I didn't know what was worse — his calm or his detachment.

— Why didn't you say you couldn't sleep? — His voice came from just outside the door. I flinched.

For a second, I thought he'd entered.

I was already naked.

But he was behind the threshold.

I quickly pulled on the underwear.

A faint breeze touched my waist — warm, almost alive.

It slid along my skin, brushed my hair, traced my neck.

Gentle. Careful.

Almost... tender.

— No one asked — I said. — Everyone just keeps saying: "sleep, sleep." Even you.

The air thickened.

It touched my back like an invisible hand.

I held my breath.

— What's your magic? — he asked quietly.

— Wind — I replied. — Why?

A pause.

— Just wondering... where it's coming from.

If the window's closed.

The air vanished.

As if the question had taken it with it.

I pulled on the robe and turned toward the door.

He stood in the doorway, shoulder to the frame.

Tall — nearly touching the upper beam.

Loose shirt. Slightly mussed hair.

And a gaze — like a question with no answer.

— Were you watching me? — I asked.

He smiled. Mocking. Confident. Unashamed.

— I'm the only one who knows all of you.

Silver light flickered at his fingertip.

Wind brushed my hair again.

Light. Like breath.

— You mean... you've seen me... naked? — I didn't finish.

— Yes — he said, flatly.

No teasing. No ambiguity.

Just fact.

Something inside me shifted.

Not fear. Not shame.

Something else.

Deeper.

— How much have I forgotten? — His tone changed.

A tightness returned. Less light in his face.

That soldier's discipline. Distance.

— So... you and I...? — I hesitated.

— I'm the Supreme Magus of the continent's army.

You were a sorceress.

Powerful.

Almost no one knew about you — and that mattered.

He paused.

A moment of silence.

I didn't get to ask how close we'd been.

He stepped toward me — like even a single step between us was too much.

Leant in near my ear.

His lips barely passed the edge of my skin — like the air itself had vanished.

I sank into the floor.

Or maybe the floor became part of me.

— Before names. Before songs. Before sound —

there was fabric.

Woven from silence

to wrap the light.

Too bright for dawn.

He spoke low. Almost whispered.

His voice slid over me like warm river water in early morning.

I froze.

As if something inside me had been strung tight —

and trembled at every breath.

He straightened.

Looked at me. Calm. Quiet.

I felt myself blushing.

Hot — like a berry under the sun.

Too vivid for morning.

He saw it.

Watched me.

As though catching glimpses of something lost.

— Wrap the light? — I echoed.

The words stirred something deep. Familiar.

But foreign.

Like dreams told to someone else.

He leaned back slightly.

His eyes moved slowly down my face, like through a mirror with no reflection.

Then, tiredly. Almost without tone:

— I see. You've forgotten that too.

Come.

You've got things to do.

He turned.

His steps were heavy. Sure.

— Wait — I whispered.

He didn't turn.

But he stopped.

I needed to ask.

From the beginning. From the first blank breath.

This question had sat in my throat like a splinter.

— You talk to me like... you know I'm her.

Like the one who slept here.

Like I'm not a fake.

He stood at the door, palm resting on the wooden frame.

His voice turned dry — like dust on an old coat:

— You are.

You're not a fake.

You're the real Biann.

You've just forgotten.

I closed my eyes.

As if that might bring back even a trace.

A shadow.

— I'm sorry... if I forgot you.

The words came slow.

Heavy.

Like blood from an old wound.

I thought he was disappointed.

Thought I'd let him down.

— If you could forget — then it doesn't matter.

Whether it was magic.

Or something deeper.

It means I wasn't important.

Magic doesn't erase what's real.

Not love.

Not pain.

Not even darkness.

Bitterness bloomed in me.

Slow. Thick.

He — the only one who knew me.

And still...

I forgot him.

— I'm sorry... How long have we known each other?

He turned his head.

And in that movement — not a look. A breath.

Barely visible sorrow.

In the line of his shoulders.

— Since the beginning.

He opened the door and stepped out.

I hesitated.

Then followed — quietly, like a shadow.

I walked after him, pulling on my boots as I moved.

The floor beneath was cold, stone — as if the house itself refused to hold warmth.

He climbed the stairs — two short flights — without a glance back. Precise. Unhurried.

The upper floor unfolded like a book written to match his pace.

The corridor was tall. Not gloomy — restrained.

Shaped to his height, his stride.

Each door — slightly higher than usual.

Each archway — like a frame cut to his silhouette.

This place knew him.

And it belonged to him.

He didn't walk through it —

he fit into it.

Like a gear in a lock.

He stopped before one of the doors.

Heavy wood. Black iron.

Everything — like him. No ornament. But weight.

He opened it effortlessly.

Inside — a room.

At first glance — ordinary.

But in the silence, it had rhythm:

inhale, pause, step.

To the left, by the window — a table. Two chairs.

Plain, like for short conversations.

Near the center — a long upholstered sofa.

Around it — four soft armchairs, sagging from too many bodies.

Between them — a stack of papers on the low table.

I stepped further in.

To the right — his writing desk.

Cluttered with papers, ink, unfinished letters.

Above it — a map.

The Continent.

Colored pins stabbed into its flesh.

I moved closer.

The north was white.

Frosted.

Three towers.

Luminere — the furthest point.

Below it — Elaryon and Solaryon.

They formed a triangle. Like an ancient glyph.

Further down, almost in the center — Vetarion.

A city? A palace? The heart of the Continent?

Below that — Talassar.

And then—

Breath hitched.

A word.

A feeling.

An emptiness.

— This is our continent, — said Blake.

He sank into one of the chairs — like he knew: it was about to begin.

— Border fortresses: Aegidmar, Embegrot, Galvorok, Zeren'thus, Veltion...

They're holding.

For now.

Between us and them — darkness.

Not darkness of color.

Darkness of meaning.

Scorched earth. A mark. A seal.

On the other side — five more keeps.

I traced the border with my finger.

— Eshgolm, — he continued. — Harofan, Nexphira... Syrios.

They sat at the very bottom.

Snow-covered.

But within — not cold.

Within — fear.

I stood in silence.

And inside — a vortex.

A word that knocked the breath from my lungs:

War.

As if reality had finally spoken its true name.

The continent on the map looked like a clumsy rhombus. Uneven. Off-center.

As if someone had pushed the pins in blindly, leaving the lines awkward and ashamed.

At the edges — islands. Tiny. Scattered. Nameless.

Like memories that never became anything real.

— Where are we now? — I asked, eyes still locked on the map.

At that moment, wind touched my hair.

Warm. Uneven.

Like a hand that had long since stopped touching.

— Vetarion, — he said.

His voice came closer than I expected.

I turned.

He stood just behind me.

His shirt unfastened. And beneath — that familiar surface of skin.

The one where, moments ago, I'd rested in silence.

How could I have forgotten him?

The thought spiraled, tight.

— And if... there's something beyond all this? Other lands? Other continents?

I asked, eyes on him — though my gaze slipped.

Down his shoulder.

Along his throat.

To the line where fabric ended.

He didn't answer immediately.

As if searching. Or refusing to lie.

— We never had the time.

The war pulls everything inward.

Time.

People.

Intent.

He looked away from the map.

And rested his eyes on me.

I felt it — something in his body shifted forward. Barely a movement. Almost a gesture.

He didn't touch me.

But in his eyes — no distance.

Only heat.

And something I didn't have a name for.

I stayed quiet.

Inside — something was slowly shifting.

Like air changing direction.

A knock at the door.

Blake moved to open it — without hesitation.

As though he already knew who stood there.

The first to enter was Adele.

Her eyes passed over me. Cold. Almost disdainful.

She looked at Blake differently — with a wordless confusion.

Behind her — Nimor.

Silent. Composed. As always.

I... waited.

Instinctively.

Without reason. Without logic.

Eiron was supposed to come in.

I felt it.

Like dawn feels the sun behind the mountains.

But after Nimor — the door closed.

Softly. Finally.

Everyone took their seats.

Soft chairs. Low light.

The hush of fabric.

Blake gestured for me to sit.

I did.

But hope — didn't.

It stayed by the door.

Waiting for Eiron to walk in.

To open it.

To say my name.

The silence beyond it only sharpened the absence.

— You're waiting for someone? — Blake asked.

His voice calm.

But his gaze — direct. Like a rifle's stock.

— Eiron, — I said.

The name hung in the air.

Like a sound no one knew how to follow.

Blake looked at me longer than necessary.

Then his voice lost its softness.

Turned dry. Restrained.

Military.

— He's a bystander. Nothing more.

He was never meant to know about you.

— But... — I tried to say something.

To explain.

To protect.

But with what?

I didn't know anything.

Not myself.

Not him.

Not Eiron.

— This isn't up for discussion — he cut in.

His words weren't loud.

But they landed like a lock clicking shut in the dark.

Everything warm about him that morning —

was gone.

As if it had never existed.

Only steel remained.