PROLOGUE
"The First Song of Silence"
Is whispered in the oldest temple of light.
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CHAPTER I - From Awakening to Darkness
I wake up — as if from a depth where time never existed. A thin, pulling pain pierces my skull, and the back of my head throbs with every pulse. My eyelids are heavy, as though woven from stone, and each movement sends ripples through a frozen lake.
I don't understand: am I alive? Or still asleep — caught between something before and something after? No answer comes. Everything feels unclear.
A thin sliver of light slides across my face, slipping through curtains black as trampled night. The room is silent. White walls breathe cold around me, and two doors — one on each side of the bed — are both closed.
And so, in this faceless stillness, I am alone. My body feels foreign, my breath erratic. My heart beats — but as if it had waited too long to believe. I remain on the other side of sleep, where the body is motionless and no longer mine.
I try to move. My fingers obey with difficulty. Every effort feels like pain, like pulling bone from earth. But I keep going. Waking myself, joint by joint, bone by bone. As if rising from frozen soil, not from sleep.
The room seems to watch me. The walls remain still, the curtains heavy, and only the light — thin, almost timid — scratches at my gaze. You're still here, it whispers.
I hear blood relearning how to flow. Despite its sterility, the room is beautiful. Too precise to be real. Too unfamiliar to be mine.
I look at the walls, the doors, the light. I try to latch onto something. Remember something. But everything feels distant — as though this world saw me long before I saw it. And slowly, the first truth arrives: I don't know where I am. This place is not mine. But here — is where I woke up.
My chest tightens. A thin thread of fear pulls from heart to throat. It doesn't scream. It whispers, hiding beneath the skin.
Breathe. Slowly.
I need to reach the window. I need to see something — a tree, a stone, the sky. Maybe then I'll remember.
The word abduction flares within. I don't know where it comes from. It's sharp, sudden. But I push it away. Too early to fear. Too early to believe the worst.
Now — only one thing: stand. Reclaim arms. Legs. Weight. Center. Reclaim myself.
I move my feet. They respond slowly, sullenly. Then knees. Shoulders. My body trembles. I sit up.
The world tilts.
But I'm upright. I'm here. I breathe.
My feet slip from the edge of the bed. They sink — not into cold, but into a soft, warm, plush carpet. Only now do I notice: it's everywhere. Stretching wall to wall, softening the severity of the white stone.
Too comforting. Too warm. Too alive — for a place where everything else feels frozen.
I decide to rise. Not because I'm ready — but because I can no longer be a guest.
I tense my muscles. Shift my weight forward — and fall.
Softly. Painlessly. But the sound of the fall rings like disappointment.
I try again. And again. Each time — slightly better.
On the fifth or sixth — I stop counting — I manage to stay upright. I stand. I breathe. Hurriedly. As if afraid the world will knock me down again.
I don't walk — I lunge. But my legs feel foreign. Roots, not limbs. And again, I fall into the carpet.
It greets me — as if it had been waiting.
I lie there. Breathing. To the side — a slit between the curtains. Thin, like a wound.
The light is no longer white. Now it's golden-pink. Dusty. As if the sky didn't change time — only mood.
Sunset.
And in that word — a strange comfort. As if even here, the world still remembers: evening must come.
I'm still on the floor. The carpet doesn't press down — it holds.
And yet — there's impatience within me.
A voice stirs inside. Dry. Stubborn. Almost cruel: You can do this. You will stand. You will walk.
It's not comfort. It's a command. And it's right.
I push forward. Leaning on rage, breath, remnants of strength.
My body resists. It won't forgive quickly.
I rise. Wobbling. Every step — learning to be alive again.
I limp. One leg — not mine. But I go. Toward the window. Toward the light. Toward an answer.
I yank the curtains open. Light slams into my face. Blinding. But I don't look away.
Beyond the glass — silence.
A narrow strip of grass. Hesitant flowers. As if waiting for something to wake them fully.
Farther — a small river. Alive. Sunset ripples on its surface.
And walls. Old. Severe.
Beyond them — a city. Scattered rooftops and towers, colors pulled from a painter's palette, longing for light.
It breathes. It lives.
And beyond — more walls. Higher. Older. As if one city is nested inside another, like dreams inside dreams.
I watch. And everything inside me quiets. Warms.
For the first time — since awakening.
I didn't look away right away. The city was too vast, too bright, to believe it was real.
But my breath steadies. Emotions recede, like waves after a storm.
I let myself look around.
To the left, a massive structure. Solid. Like a fortress. Not ceremonial — practical. With narrow slits for windows, angular towers — as if built for meaning, not for majesty.
To the right — a citadel. But unlike any other. Every arch — a breath. Every tower — a brushstroke. As if it stepped out of legend. As if it wasn't meant to be here.
I stood, lightly leaning against the windowsill, and felt the question ignite inside me.
It had been faint. Now it burned clear: Where am I? Why am I here? How much time has passed? Who brought me here? Who... am I?
I froze. Those two words — who am I — raced through me like an arrow striking its mark.
I tried to remember anything: a name, a voice, a touch — but everything echoed back in silence.
My memory — like a room without doors. No name. No time. No past.
That thought didn't bring panic. It was a quiet, firm knowing.
I looked out the window again. At the base of the stone wall — an arch, where the water flowed through.
A way out. It called to me.
If I pass through it — maybe I'll find a path. To answers. To freedom.
But first — the doors.
I turned slowly.
Two doors. One closer to the foot of the bed. The other — tucked in a corner. Old. Dark.
I didn't trust either. But I had to choose.
I stood with my back to the window, cloaked in the last light of sunset.
And chose the right door. Smaller. Quieter. Maybe safer.
I took a step. Tentative. More intent than motion.
And then — with a creak, slow and heavy — the left one began to open.
Not the wind. Not chance.
My heart skipped a beat. Then another. But I knew: if not now — never.
I gathered everything I had left. My legs trembled, but I stood.
"You can do this," I whispered. "You will get out."
The door opened fully. A girl stood on the threshold.
Young. Calm. Her gaze — almost kind. Her hands empty. Her posture — without threat.
But I didn't wait. Instinct. A chance.
I lunged forward. Pushed her aside — not violently, but sharply. She swayed. I slipped past.
The door — wasn't just an exit. It was salvation.
My heart pounded in my temples. Air crashed into my chest. I ran. And came alive.
But beyond the door — they waited.
Two men. Tall. In matching clothes. Backs turned.
They turned around. Eyes wide with surprise. They didn't move. Didn't reach for me.
I was impossible.
I slipped past. Barely touching the floor.
From deep within the hallway, a wind blew. Fresh. Alive. It smelled like freedom.
That way. Where the air knows I am not a prisoner.
I ran. Didn't look back. The world shrank to breath and the sound of feet.
And then — him.
A knight.
He emerged from air itself. I had no time to fear, no time to stop. Just — impact.
My body slammed into his armor. Metal echoed low and deep.
I almost fell. But stayed upright.
Then I looked up.
He was tall. A head — maybe two — taller. Broad-shouldered. Rooted like an ancient tree.
Chestnut hair. Eyes — warm, but with steel beneath.
He didn't shout. Didn't grab. He just stood. And that was enough to make everything inside me tense.
I saw them — three swords. Slung across his back. Crystals on the hilts — red, like blood on fire.
I stepped back. Instinct. Still free. For now.
He didn't move. But in him — power. Command. Immovability.
And I — am not one to surrender.
He raised his hands. Palms toward me. No weapons. No threat. One gesture — and so much meaning.
You shall not pass. But I won't harm you.
He smiled. Gently. Not with triumph. But... simply. Humanly.
It stole my breath. For just a second.
He spoke. A language unknown. Sounded like silence intertwined with water.
I didn't understand. But I listened.
He spoke — and I stood. Between fleeing and fighting.
Then his gaze dropped. To my body. As if, only now, he saw — I was alive. Real.
He froze. His cheeks flushed. He covered his mouth. Embarrassed. As if trying to hide... himself.
I didn't think. I acted. He was open — on one side.
I slid past him. Almost touched him. He didn't catch me. Or didn't want to.
I reached the stairs. Where wind drew in breath and whispered freedom.
The stone cut my feet. But I felt no pain.
I flew downward. The light was calling. Closer than ever.
The stairs ended. In front of me — a door.
Real. Old. Banded with iron.
I didn't think. Just pushed. And burst through.
The courtyard. Sand. Benches.
Dozens of men. Tall. Muscular. Bare-chested. Weapons in hand.
I froze. They didn't look. Or pretended not to.
But I saw — the gate. Open. Beyond it — light.
Water. Freedom.
Behind me — stairs. He was descending. The chestnut knight.
Two paths. I chose the direct one.
I lunged forward. Through the field. Through the heat. Through the men.
I — was only run.
I slid between duelists. One almost knocked me down with a swing. I dropped to my knee. Stone bit into skin. I looked up.
He was following. Slow. Calm.
As if he knew — I wouldn't escape.
I surged forward. One last push.
And — impact. I hit a chest. Alive. Iron.
I flew back. Fell to my knees. Fingers dug into the sand.
Everyone stared. Every one.
Then — something draped over my shoulders. Cloth. Heavy. Warm.
I turned.
Him. The chestnut knight. Leaned over me. Covered me with a cloak. Spoke.
The language again. Unknown. Like a dream. Like an ancient song.
Air rushed into my lungs. Cool. Pure.
The world blurred. Light and faces swam.
I realized — my body was no longer mine. Consciousness fading.
Darkness came — without pain. Without fear.
It simply — embraced me.