Everything had merged into a slow, tedious stream of days, even, almost ordinary. Everything, except for one thing. My bed.
It stood like a mute sentinel of the past, silently reminding me: this place was not mine. The moment I lay down, an old pain pierced the back of my head, as though something inside rejected me, refusing to let me sink into rest. I did not know whether I had the right to speak of it, to complain, or simply to confess. Everything around me seemed too familiar, too orderly, as though every object in the room knew how it should be, and sensed the falsehood in me.
I was afraid to disturb that order. Afraid to show carelessness, as though every gesture that did not match the former mistress might spark a storm of whispers behind closed doors. Until there was word from the council of generals, I simply tried… to be. I adjusted to their world, to their rules. I pretended to be a shadow, without a past, without a need for the future.
That is why I slept on the floor. Quietly, modestly, in the corner, leaning against the cold wall. The soft, fluffy carpet became my solace, almost a palm supporting me in the night. And a strange thing: there, among wool and stone, the dreams were purer.
Descending the spiral staircase carved of grey stone, I felt the coolness streaming through each of its curves. The stone gave off cold through the thin sole of my shoes, as though it held the breath of all who had stepped upon it before me.
The first floor greeted me with silence and the restrained echo of footsteps rebounding from massive walls. Several stone doorways led to different parts of the castle. One, with a half-open leaf, revealed the inner courtyard; another led to the kitchen.
There, among cobblestone walls, braziers burned, casting uneven shadows upon the ceiling. The air was warm, steeped in herbs and smoke. It smelled of stewed meat, fresh bread, and iron. In the centre of the hall stood a heavy table with two benches along its sides. Massive, as though carved from the same rock as the walls.
In recent days I had grown accustomed to coming here twice a day. And the longer I remained unseen, the easier it became. Here reigned Ada: a formidable, solid woman with copper-coloured, perpetually tousled hair that smelled of fried onions. She growled at anyone who intruded upon her territory, especially soldiers creeping in for food like thieves. Servants, like me, suffered less. The brown robe made me part of the background. And though my heart beneath it beat too loudly, no one looked my way.
Sunny once advised me to cover my hair with a kerchief, tying it tightly like a band. She said I would become less noticeable. I obeyed. In this world there were too many questions without answers. And while I hid, I survived.
Ada was a woman of about forty; her brown robe, the same as worn by the servants of the castle, did nothing to conceal the main things: a loud voice, a lively temperament, and the habit of commanding cauldrons, people, and time. She spoke as though everything around her belonged to her: pans, spoons, bread, the kitchen walls, even the air with its flavour of onion and rosemary.
With her arrival, any morning filled with sounds, sometimes laughter, sometimes curses, sometimes marvellous stories of knights, mages, and pies. And though I had known her only a few days, it seemed she had always been here. Not as a cook, not as a servant, as the spirit of this stone kitchen. Its warmth. Its scent of fresh bread. I could not imagine this place without her. As though it was she who held everything in balance. She who made this space alive.
"For treatment?" I repeated, though I had already heard the answer between the lines, like an echo running through my thoughts. I simply wanted to confirm that I had understood correctly.
Ada nodded without lifting her eyes from the cauldrons where the stew was boiling. Sprays of steam curled around her cheeks like warm mist.
"Yes," she replied. "Mages who have absorbed too much darkness… they need purification. Otherwise, the particles of magic that seep into the body during battles slowly take root, like weeds… and pull the soul into darkness."
I watched her hands slide deftly from one pot to another, marvelling at how matter-of-factly she spoke of such things. It seemed, for her, they were no more frightening than oversalted soup.
"They say it has become truly dangerous on the front lines. Many Keepers have been called back," she went on, lifting the lid from a brew and inhaling its aroma. "Now only in the capital and in the larger fortresses remain those who can heal. And those who have been on the front for more than a year are permitted to return to the capital, for rest and treatment…"
Her voice faded. The kitchen filled with the hiss of steam.
Then she gave a small chuckle and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial murmur:
"…Though, if you ask me, most choose not the Keepers, but carnal pleasures. You should see their faces when they come back, as if they have not come to heal pain, but to seek adventure…"
I could not help but smile. Her chatter was like shelter from the wind, simple, human, cosy. And for a moment it was easy to forget that somewhere out there were battles, blood, and darkness.
"Carnal pleasures?" I repeated, as though doubting whether I had heard her right. The words slid over my hearing like raindrops over glass, strange, out of place, and yet challengingly true.
"Yes," Ada confirmed without a blink. "When a mage's body is filled with pleasure, love, or a simple feeling of bliss, their mana concentrates, releases, cleanses. In that moment, soul and flesh merge, feed the crystal within, and it burns away the darkness that has pierced the body."
As she spoke, her hand, as if on cue, lifted the ladle. As though emphasising her words, Ada deftly extinguished half the boiling cauldrons. Warm steam settled on her cheeks, softening her face slightly.
"So there are two paths," she went on, "the first, through the Keepers, as through healers. And the second, through love… sex… carnal delight. Call it what you will, the essence is the same."
She turned to me with the look of someone discussing not magical methods of purification, but the recipe for pumpkin stew.
"A large or a small portion for you today?"
I gave a small laugh, not at her words, but at her utter ease, as though all that mysticism had merged with pots, spices, and the heat of the stove.
"Like any ordinary hungry person," I replied with a faint smile.
And inside, it was as though another grain of truth had settled, unexpected, candid. Now I knew a little more about mages. And about the nature of their power.
Today was one of those days when most of the army was returning from the front.
Having eaten breakfast, I was almost back to my room when a sunbeam, reflected in water somewhere in the distance, flashed in my eyes. An instant, and something inside me quivered. The river. That same one. It called to me again, silently, but inexorably, like the memory of freedom that had barely brushed my fingertips, and vanished.
I stepped slowly into the inner courtyard, treading carefully, as though I might startle this quiet moment. Empty. No guards, no soldiers, no trainees with swords. Only the doors flung wide open. Sunlight. Wind. And the teasing shimmer of water.
"Only for five minutes…" I whispered to myself, as if in an excuse. "No one will notice. Today, everyone is busy…"
My gaze was still locked on the river. It glimmered, as if leading me onward. And the gates, through which streamed the fresh, living wind, enticed not with the promise of escape no, but with at least a small sip of free air.
And I went, to where, for a few moments, it might seem that I belonged to myself.
As if under a spell, without knowing my own will, I crossed the threshold, into the grass strewn with pale, still-unopened buds. They trembled under the light breeze, as did I, in anticipation of something unknown. The gleam of water called more strongly. Like the summons of ancestors. Like the echo of alien memories that should not have been mine.
I came to the very edge and took a deep breath. Freshness ran through my lungs, as though the river itself had flowed inside, cool, alive. In that moment I felt: yes. I am here. I exist. This is not a dream. Not an illusion.
I lowered my hand into the water, smooth and cold. And at that very instant I heard children's voices. An argument. Quiet laughter. Startled, I turned.
There, near a small structure resembling a little castle, three children, a red-haired girl and two dark-haired boys, were animatedly discussing something.
Our eyes met. And, as if on command, they silently darted away and ran into the building. Only the wind remained beside me, caressing my face. As if in farewell.
There was no one else around. No footsteps, no voices, not even a rustle, only me, the river, and the air, clear as morning light. I stood on the bank, drawing deep breaths of freshness, as though for the first time in my life I could breathe freely.
For a moment, everything vanished: fear, pain, doubt. Even the name I had been given melted somewhere in the back of my mind.
I was not thinking of escaping. Not of the walls that held me, nor of the people who watched. I simply stood, alive.
As though, for the first time, I admitted to myself: this is not a dream. This is life. And I am in it.
"Were you given permission to come here?" a sharp, rough, low male voice addressed me.
I turned at the sound, and in the morning light, as though carved from marble and steel, stood he. Tall. Almost dauntingly imposing. In pale armour inlaid with fine engraving and gleaming blue crystals, as if magic itself pulsed on his chest and around his waist. The lines of the armour were not merely beautiful, they spoke of strength, status, and perhaps a blessing.
Skin, lightly tanned. Gaze, piercing. Dark brows drawn together in irritated expectation. Face, sharp, regular, almost flawless. Hair, dark, cut short, emphasising the stern features.
He looked at me without blinking, like a man guarding a border I had crossed.
"Were you given permission to come here?" he repeated. His voice was deep, heavy, like a step in an empty hall.
I felt the warmth of freedom in my chest replaced by the chill of wariness.
His beauty did not match the harshness of his tone, as though perfection itself had learned to be cruel. Behind him, I glimpsed Adel. She seemed even shorter, even smaller, against the background of his massive, almost impossible figure.
Tall as a tower. And just as unyielding.
He was unbearably beautiful. Not with the soft beauty that consoles, but the kind that breaks down walls. And will.
"I beg your pardon?" I asked, unable to look away.
He walked toward me. Step by step. With the precision of a predator. As if every movement had already been decided, calculated down to the last muscular detail.
I stood rooted to the spot.
And now he was before me. Too close. Too tall. My gaze climbed upward, my nose was level with his chest, covered in the delicate patterns of the armour. The crystals on it glowed, like the breath of magic.
Silently, he lifted my chin with two fingers. The movement, firm, almost rough, but not cruel. His skin was hot. Like a stone that had held the sun.
"Why are you here?" now his voice had dropped lower. Darker. As though a storm had spoken in it.
And without warning, his finger slid over my lower lip. A light, almost negligible touch.
But my heart stumbled on that moment.
I did not know whether to be afraid. Or to breathe.
It seemed to me that time had frozen. Everything around fell silent, as though the air itself had held its breath. His thumb stopped on my lips: hot, commanding, like the mark of something greater.
My lips flamed, whether from surprise, or from the heat that passed from his skin straight into my blood.
I felt myself becoming a stranger to myself, as though someone else were breathing into my throat. As though it were not I who stood here, caught in the snare of his gaze.
I took a step back. The cold water wrapped my feet, my ankles, the hem of my robe… I stepped into the river, lightly, silently, as if it were meant to be so. Unable to explain, I simply moved away from him.
Though I did not look away.
He looked at me. And his face, perfect a moment ago, darkened. Lightning and shadow froze in his features, the full fury of the sky before a storm.
"Why did you leave your room?" he repeated.
His voice was like the roll of thunder. Not a shout, but with enough force to shake the shore.
He said something short and clipped over his shoulder to Adel, without a glance, without a gesture. Only the coldness of command. And she, asking no questions, vanished into the open doors, the very ones through which I had, in a daze, stepped out barely five minutes earlier.
I could even hear her steps fade away behind the stone walls. As though they had never been.
The man before me still did not move. He did not breathe, he stood like a cliff carved from light and wrath.
His hand lowered, and I saw his forefinger flare with silvery light. As though ancient magic had awoken in it. The light was pure and bright, but not warm. It unsettled, like a star at the edge of oblivion.
The wind, light, alive, whispered between us. Touched my hair, embraced my waist, slid along my neck. Like an invisible hand. I closed my eyes for a moment.
This wind did not frighten me. There was something homelike in it. Almost tender. It did not drive me away. It called.
But the man did not stir. Still he stood, tall, cold, beautiful. His eyes looked into the very core of my soul.
As though they waited… for an explanation? Repentance?
No. Not obedience.
He looked as though he wanted to hear the truth.
Even if bitter.
"Everyone is busy today… because of the soldiers' return," I said softly, feeling the words fall from my lips gently, without defiance. "I only wanted… to breathe the freshness. To look at the river."
It was the truth. Simple. Transparent, like the water at my feet. I had nothing to hide. No shadow of intent. No wish to flee.
Only at this moment. The wind. The sunlit ripples on the waves. And… him.
The wind, the same, familiar, alive, tangled in my hair, whispered something in my ear, touched my cheeks. As though reminding me: I am alive. I am here. Now.
But along with that gentle freedom there stood before me this man, whose beauty seemed flawless. As though carved from the very essence of order. Stern. Silent. The embodiment of discipline, strength… and incomprehension.
He was alien to this morning wind.
And yet, he stood here. In the same air. Beneath the same sun.
I caught movement from the corner of my eye, behind him, a little farther off by the gates, appeared two familiar figures. Adel walked steadily, focused, as always. And beside her, Sunny. Small, embarrassed. As if she had stumbled into the centre of something larger than herself.
They were approaching.
"You are to be in your room," his voice was like a honed blade. Dry. Cold. Without a trace of doubt.
I frowned. Something stirred in my chest, not from fear, but from incomprehension.
"Is that an order?.. Or a decree?.." I asked, raising my eyes to him. "Or am I… a prisoner?"
He took a step forward. Without hesitation. Heavy battle-boots entered the water, sending up small waves that touched my bare feet. Now he was very close, tall, strong, as though carved from the essence of authority itself. I had to lift my head again to meet his gaze.
"You must be in your room. And asleep," he repeated. Menacingly. Almost with a growl.
I did not retreat. Not now.
"I am not a warrior," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. "And I am not… a prisoner."
The words sounded strange, but I knew no other way to voice this feeling.
"Why can I not simply be where I wish?"
He did not answer at once. The wind rose again, tossing my hair, brushing the edge of his cloak. But his eyes remained still. Dark. Focused. Almost fierce.
We stood on a fine edge. Between submission and freedom. Between words, and what we dared not say.
And then, like a shadow, a thought struck my mind.
Adel… she obeys him. Follow him.
She is a general. And she obeys him.
Which means…
My heart froze.
It cannot be.
He is the Archmage?
"If you were a prisoner…" he began sharply. His voice was dry and cutting, like a knife's edge. "You would be sleeping in a damp cellar, among mould that devours the skin overnight."
He lifted my chin. Not roughly, but with authority. His finger slid over my lower lip, lingered in the centre, and everything inside me went still.
"But you sleep in a soft bed. And under your feet is a carpet in which steps are swallowed."
He leaned closer. His light-grey eyes, with a trace of cold and something deeper, flashed white for a moment.
"So… you are not a prisoner. And not a warrior," he said, pausing.
"But you are in my house. And that means you will follow my rules."
I felt a silent protest rising in my chest. But he had already turned away, as though the conversation were over.
"And you are without memory," he added, lower. Almost wearily. "So… just return. And lie down to sleep."
He did not wait for an answer.
Turning sharply to Sunny, he threw curtly:
"See that the girl is in her chambers."
And then he walked away. With a powerful, certain stride. Leaving no doubt as to who he was, and in whose power this castle lay.
I watched him go. And only then did I notice Adel.
Her face was uncharacteristically soft. Calm. Not angry. Not sharp, as before.
And for some reason, it was that which frightened me most of all.