The Great Queen of the North, seeking to glimpse her own future, gathered thousands of wielders of power in her palace. She wished to see a century ahead—every war, every victory, every betrayal. But the other Lords, sensing the threat, interfered with the spell.
The power tore like fabric under the blows of the wind. The currents broke free from control and swept across the entire continent.
People fell where they stood: in palaces and markets, in fields and on ships. Their eyes closed, and they sank into a deep, unbreakable sleep.
The Lords, like the Queen herself, did not lose consciousness entirely. They hung in a strange state—between sleep and wakefulness, between body and spirit. Their bodies remained motionless, but their consciousness soared over the continent, observing everyone ensnared by the spell.
And among the millions swallowed by the silence was a boy who would later be called the Lord of Twilight.
His father, a senior guardsman at the Great Ice Barrier, had several wives. The chief among them was Velymyra—a wielder of power, harsh and cold as the ice of the Barrier. With her, he had a son, Mstyslav, and a daughter, Yaroslava. Even as a child, Mstyslav stood out for his cruelty: he would push a younger child for no reason, break another boy's toy, or take pleasure in torturing an animal until it died. Velymyra never punished him—on the contrary, she looked on with pride, as if he were an heir worthy of her blood.
Olekir was the son of his father's younger wife, a quiet and unnoticed woman. He was born weak: his body couldn't withstand the cold, his lungs couldn't bear the wind. This made him an easy target for Mstyslav's mockery, who never missed a chance to humiliate him in front of others.
The fortress where they lived was one of hundreds stretching along the northern border like stone teeth biting into the ice. No songs were sung here—only the wind tore through the cracks, and the footsteps of the guards at night echoed like heartbeats.
Everyone mocked Olekir and his mother, but especially Velymyra. Her words were poisonous, her gaze cold.
"He won't survive," she would say, passing by, "it would have been better if he'd never been born."
But when the Queen of the North summoned the wielders of power for the ritual, Velymyra set off for the palace like all the others. And for the first time in many years, silence fell in the fortress—not magical, but human.
Olekir had several weeks without her voice, without her shadows. And it was then that he began to go out into the snow alone. He stood on the fortress walls, gazed at the endless ice, and listened to the wind speaking with the stone.
He didn't know that soon this wind would become his ally. And that it was in the silence that would be cast by the Queen's spell that he would live a century—and return not as a boy, but as someone even the Lords would fear.
The day after the flash of light, everything was as usual: grueling morning training with his father and brothers in the cold, tasks from the guardsmen—caring for weapons, armor, horses, helping in the kitchen. Mstyslav, as always, found a way to humiliate him even in small things: handing him a broken belt instead of a good one, slipping him a dull blade before exercises, or simply shoving him so he'd fall into the snow to the laughter of others.
Days, months, years passed this way.
When the wielders of power returned from the palace, life in the fortress settled back into its usual routine. And so Olekir lived for ten long years.
When he turned twenty, he and the other young men were summoned to be tested for worthiness to receive the title of guardsman. Velymyra looked him over and said coldly:
"With a body like that, you have one path. To the Tower of Mages, like cattle, for training."
He said nothing, but fear pierced his heart. He'd heard many stories about that place from Yaroslava, who knew more than she said aloud.
The exam consisted of simple trials and practical combat. He wasn't an outstanding fighter, but something in his gaze made the examiners pass him. Yet instead of honorable service, he was sent to a true hell—the forward reconnaissance unit of the North.
Many despised him there: too weak, too gentle. But he proved he deserved his place—not with words, but with actions.
After a decade of service, he earned a rare chance to return home. His armor and sword, forged from pure mithril by the Gorians, shone white even in the snowy wasteland. And his faithful Frost Wolf, standing nearly two meters at the shoulder, made people step aside as he passed.
He returned to the fortress after long years, and the gates opened before him as if for a victor. The guardsmen greeted him, the boys bowed their heads in respect, the women watched with curiosity. But no one recognized in him that sickly boy who once ran through these courtyards.
Among those who approached was his older sister—Yaroslava, daughter of Velymyra. Her gaze slid over his figure, his movements, his manners—and there was something more in it than just familial joy.
He didn't recognize her immediately either. Before him stood a woman in whom he saw beauty, confidence, and warmth in her gaze, but not the girl from his childhood memories. Letting things take their course, he surrendered to the atmosphere of the moment: the silence behind closed doors, the closeness growing with every breath. And they made a mistake that might have lasted longer if he, unable to resist, hadn't called her by a nickname known only to the two of them.
She froze.
"Olekir?.." Her voice broke between disbelief and fear.
"Yes. It's me," he replied.
She recoiled, fell from the bed, grabbed her scattered things. Her gaze darted to the door, but he was already standing there, blocking the way.
"No… this can't be…" she whispered, turning away.
"It's true," he said quietly.
She denied it, shaking her head.
"No… you're not him… he was a boy… weak…" Her voice trembled.
"And he grew up," he replied.
She tried to get around him, but he didn't yield.
"Step aside…" Anger rose in her voice like a protective wall.
"I mean you no harm," his voice was even, but steel lay beneath it.
The anger in her eyes faded, giving way to confusion. She clutched her head as if trying to force his words from her memory.
"It's not true… not true…" she whispered, but there was no certainty left in her voice.
He took a step forward, and she retreated to the wall. Her shoulders trembled.
"Look at me," he said quietly, but it was an order.
"I'm the same one you knew."
She raised her eyes, and there was no anger in them now—only pain.
"If this is true…" her voice broke, "why have you returned like this?"
He didn't answer immediately. And in that pause, she broke. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she sank to her knees, pressing her clothes to her chest as if they could protect her from the truth.
He bent down, touched her shoulder.
"I want to know… what happened to my mother."
She closed her eyes, and a quiet, broken whisper escaped her lips:
"You're not ready to hear this…"
"Speak," his voice grew cold as the ice beyond the fortress walls.
She was silent for a long time, as if gathering strength.
"It was your brother… Mstyslav," she said at last. "He… took advantage of her. And then killed her."
He froze but didn't interrupt.
"When he came to his senses, he ran to our mother in a panic. And do you know what she did?" A bitter smile touched her voice. "She was delighted. For her, it was a victory—the death of a rival for your father's attention."
Yaroslava looked away.
"But it was a blow to her honor. And to hide the shame, she arranged it so it looked like your mother was attacked while walking outside the fortress. For that, she ordered witnesses killed. Ten people. Women. Men. Those who simply happened to be nearby."
She clenched her fists.
"I found out by accident. I was passing by and heard her preparing to cover up his crimes again."
Yaroslava raised her eyes to see his kind smile freeze. How his pupils darkened, losing any spark of life, and in an instant flared anew—furious, cold, and inexorable.
He silently put on his armor. The mithril sword slid from its scabbard with a dry metallic shriek. He lacked the patience to simply open the door—he tore the heavy oak panels from their hinges, taking chunks of the wall with him.
His steps were relentless. The first to stand in his way was Mstyslav. A mocking grin, a familiar slap on the shoulder—and his fate was sealed. The next moment, a body lay on the floor, hacked into bloody fragments.
A servant's scream awakened the fortress. It came alive like a stirred-up anthill: some rushed to flee, some grabbed weapons, some simply froze in terror. But Olekira paid no mind.
The bloodbath continued until he stopped before Yaroslava. She tried to stand between him and the unarmed women and children, begging him to stop. He answered with a blow. Her head fell onto the stone floor, her body slumping lifelessly.
Now he was a criminal. But for him, it was a beginning.
He carried his justice, saving the weak, and people joined him. He shared his last crumbs, as if trying to atone for his crime with the blood of good deeds. His path led through villages and towns, where he left behind not fear, but hope.
Eventually, the road brought him to the Tower of Mages. He went there at the plea of a little girl—to bring back her brother. But what he saw inside was far more horrifying than Yaroslava had described. People who lacked the talent to become knights but possessed a spark of power were treated like cattle. They were milked like cows, their power drained along with their blood, and sometimes slaughtered to feed on their energy-rich flesh.
His rage destroyed the tower. He mercilessly cut down all who had allowed this to happen. Rebels flocked to him, seeing him as a leader. Blow by blow, he carved a path for himself and his followers toward a new world. Lords who refused to change and took up arms fell to the ground, adding to the bloody trail he left behind.
The flames rising over the ruined Tower of Mages became a beacon for those seeking guidance. Rebels, scattered and broken, began to gather under his banners, bringing their oaths and hopes. He marched ahead, and every step he took was a blow to the old world.
Cities fell one by one. Lords unwilling to change met his sword and were left lying in the dust, extending the bloody path he tread. His name became a symbol—for some, liberation; for others, inevitable doom.
And now, after years of campaigning, he stood before the gates of the last city. Behind them—the last of them, the Sky Lord. Beside him—his closest friends, those with whom he had shared bread and blood, those who had weathered storms and battles with him.
He did not know that here, on the threshold of victory, the greatest blow awaited him. When those he loved approached, he did not suspect. Smiles, quiet words… and a sudden strike that pierced his white mithril armor. Power from the blade spread through his body, burning from within. A second strike. A third. Blades sank into him from all sides.
He lifted his gaze and met the eyes of one of his beloveds—Princess Drevlyan.
"Why?" he rasped.
"So the world can continue to exist," she replied with a smile.
Beside her stood a tall man in dark robes. A hand on her shoulder, and Olekir recognized the Sky Lord. Once, in a female form, they had loved each other. She had said she would wait. Now he saw—she had waited to plunge a blade into his heart.