An Old Letter from the Future
A Journey Through the Inner Realm
Nikaleona

© Nikaleona, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0068-7467-1

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

CHAPTER 1 The Tower of Silence

Sometimes the world folds in such a way that the boundary between what has passed and what is happening blurs, as if time itself has faded in the sun, leaving behind only its dry essence.

In such moments it becomes clear: there are places where history does not seek remembrance but simply continues to live, unaware of our presence.

Here, everything is arranged differently.

Here, the past is not finished, the present does not hurry, and the future feels like a heated seam beneath the skin – unseen, yet pulsing. This is a space where a person becomes a witness, even if they have come alone. And in this very silence, dense with the pressure of centuries, there arises the sense that the world is watching you, not you watching it.

In these lands, steeped in the scent of soil that holds within it the time-charred roots of old worlds, green fields press against the horizon, strewn with poppies like the blood of ancient battles spilled upon the earth and never washed away. Their colour is not merely vivid – it is disquietingly honest, like a memory that refuses to fade.

Light does not move here as it should. It does not fall – it prowls. It glides softly, as if testing the earth’s skin by touch, trying to reach places it has not entered for centuries. There is no directness in it, only a persistent attempt to discern what lies hidden beneath the surface.

When the mind is confronted with the castle, it does not reveal itself at once, like all things unexpectedly vast, lacking easily grasped boundaries. It feels not built but grown – not like a tree, but like a geological obstacle on the path to understanding the world.

There is such force in its architecture that its towers seem like columns holding up the sky. The rough texture of the darkened stone has locked within it the memory of an ocean where, millions of years ago, long before humanity appeared, this limestone was forming, gathering the dying life of ancient seas as its trophies.

The gates of this castle are always closed – not because it protects its inhabitants but, on the contrary, because it protects the world from them, striving to restrain the unrestrainable.

This fortress is like an old man returned from war, condemned to eternal life and weary of struggle, yet faithfully standing guard over long-forgotten ideals that have lost their worth. This place has become home to a princess without a kingdom, without a court or subjects.

It is not enforced solitude but the deliberate choice of one who has found freedom within it. In the silence, in a place where the echo of centuries becomes the only interlocutor. Here one can be oneself without knowing who one is; here there is no need to adapt or seek compromise. Here morality becomes a game, and the rules of that game can be kept secret even from oneself.

You step inside this vast castle, and the world contracts, as though the walls have absorbed space itself, whispering in the voices of drafts trying to tell you of the once-tumultuous lives of its inhabitants. The music of balls and the voices of departed generations, caught as echoes within the stone, cannot break free, struggling to recount their stories with the desperation of voicelessness.

Walking barefoot along the long corridors, the resident held up the hem of her worn linen dress as she moved soundlessly past countless rooms filled with garments and ornaments to which she felt no attachment. And her indifference was wholly justified, for no attire could add beauty to the natural, effortless confidence, the comfort and lightness that had become the sole arbiters of fashion here.

Stepping out onto the castle roof, where she spent most of her time, the princess released the hem of her dress, relaxing her fingers and turning her palms toward the wind. Its warm, gentle gusts carried to her the scent of flowers from the fields and wove it into her long, unbound hair – just as untameable as the wind itself. The fragrance of the blossoms caught in her hair was forced to compete with the smell of smoke from the sputtering torches her dragon dutifully lit at dusk.

It was neither a pet nor a monster. It was a part of her – the very inner strength with which she protected her fragile heart, the fury that allowed her to hold on to her solitude, the coldness with which she shielded her tenderness.

The dragon was her armour. Her shadow. Her second self.

Its wings covered half the sky, its scales shimmered in shades of obsidian, like shards of volcanic glass whose sharp, glossy surface knows how to disguise itself and deceive the eye. Its eyes were like bottomless oceans of lava, promising wisdom and ruin at once. Its very presence felt like the embodiment of primordial power, unbound by the laws of nature – a force that thickened the air with premonition, luring and repelling at the same time.

Slowly and deeply drawing in the summer evening air, the princess closed her eyes, catching the wind in her relaxed palms. She stood as though there were meaning in it – as in the solemn mystic ritual of a shaman for whom the spirit world has long been a commonplace. As if she greeted the universe, and the universe greeted her in return, untroubled by its own infinity, whose unfathomable nature unsettles only those who do not feel themselves a part of it.

It was an ordinary long evening after an ordinary long day – one that had passed like so many other days of so many other years, all merging into a single, seamless Now.

On the roof stood a massive wooden table, carelessly draped with a coarse, wind-tossed cloth. At its centre lay a large dish of meat, taken in the evening hunt and roasted by the flame of her fire-breathing dragon. To either side were small plates of forest berries and fragrant herbs.

In a dew-beaded clay jug was ice-cold water, tasting like the pure snow of mountain peaks unfit for life. And beside it – an angular, heavy goblet of mountain crystal, clouded by time, whose uneven shape cast glimmers of unpredictable life, flickering freely, appearing and vanishing as they pleased. Like a portal for souls weary of other world, stepping out for a brief stroll and trying to escape into freedom, only to fade quickly, as though their overseer – darkness – dissolved them, sending them back into oblivion.

The air above the roof was dense with scents: roasted meat, stone dust, the moist wind carrying the valley’s freshness. At the edge of the table a knife was stuck – its blade darkened, its handle made of deer horn. Not a kitchen knife, but a working one, suited equally for skinning a hide or slicing bread. Yet the princess never used it, nor any of the cutlery gathering dust somewhere in the kitchens on the lower floors of the castle, which she never descended to. She ate with her hands – with the dignity and grace of a royal who regards food as a tiresome amusement rather than salvation from hunger.

The torch flames arranged around the table barely wavered – the wind touched them cautiously, as if stepping aside, as though it respected this supper. From the height of the roof there opened a view of the distant forest where they had hunted not long ago, and of the fields that, for the night, switched off the redness of their poppies, turning into bottomless dark abysses.

The princess was already seated at the table, finishing her quiet, solemn meal to which none of the uninvited guests had come. Leaning back comfortably in the heavy wooden chair with its high backrest, she held between her fingers a large black berry that left violet-black stains on her fingers, as though she had smeared herself with the night sky while pinching off a piece of it.

The dragon sat on the edge of the roof not far from the table, gazing into the night and shimmering with its scales – whose flickering made it impossible to grasp its true size, confusing and captivating the eye.

Approaching silently from behind the dragon, the princess settled softly beside him on the very edge of the wall. He always felt her presence, knew where she was, and understood her thoughts. Thus they spent their nights in wordless conversation, gazing into the cosy abyss above and below.

CHAPTER 2 The Knights

This morning turned out surprisingly warm: the princess lay in a spacious bed, covered with a thin blanket, while the canopies above it remained drawn open, letting in the first rays. Her eyelids were still closed, yet the light was already seeping through them, meeting no resistance – insistent, relentless, it invaded her awareness, tempting her with its golden warmth. This persistent explorer beckoned her to leave the distant, slipping expanse of sleep and return to reality, to the waking world.

The windows of her chamber had neither glass nor shutters – they were always open, yet this hardly affected the temperature inside, as though the castle possessed a climate of its own, like the mood of a sage: calm, detached from the storms outside, impervious to the whims of fate. Only long, sheer curtains gently veiled the narrow openings, like eyelids powerless before the sunbeams that had traveled millions of kilometers just to enter within.

The princess’s bedroom was located on the very top floor of the castle, with direct access to the roof. Down the narrow staircase lay the hearth hall – a spacious room crowded with rolls of canvas. These rolls were the paintings the castle’s inhabitant would sometimes create.

And today was one of those days when, upon waking, she immediately went downstairs, unrolled a fresh canvas of dense linen cloth, took a piece of charcoal from the fireplace, sat on the stone floor, and slowly, thoughtfully began tracing patterns that resembled a script not yet invented – or long forgotten.

It was her meditation, a bridge to the world to come, where words would die out and pure, telepathic understanding would awaken – just like the one between her and the dragon.

When humanity grasps this connection, the script-paintings will reveal to them the messages that have preserved the princess’s reflections, born at the edge of the abyss of her mind – on the edge of the castle wall.

These paintings were her message to the future – letters whose answers had already come long ago, only to be forgotten and worn into the dust of time, leaving behind nothing but a quiet, warm echo of their former wisdom.

Having nearly finished the painting, she suddenly froze, sensing the dragon’s aggression: he was calling her to battle. Dropping the charcoal, the princess dashed upward with resolve – without hesitation, without fear.

The dragon stood tensely at the edge of the wall, exhaling scorching air through his massive nostrils. He looked like a trained hound poised to leap, but waiting for the familiar signal of his master. Quickly and confidently, the girl approached the parapet, peering into the horizon.

In the distance, across the green field strewn with poppies, appeared a knight with a sword and arrogantly gleaming armor. Another brave warrior, walking toward the unknown in the hope of rescuing the unfortunate princess from the dragon who held her captive. He was neither the first nor the last to give his life to such misguided ideas. So many of them – splendid, valiant warriors who had added to these fields the redness that stings the eye, that withers, yet is reborn again.

They did not know that the princess was no prisoner of her confinement: to her, these knights were a threat – an assault on her freedom and happiness, on the quiet, harmonious world she cherished. In her eyes, they were thieves, intent on taking from her everything she held most dear. And she defended her home, her world, and her harmony without hesitation or pity.

Upon seeing the knight, the princess instantly shifted from focused readiness to irritated boredom. She turned slowly and walked away. As she left, she gave a barely perceptible wave of her hand and headed downstairs to finish the painting she had begun.

That wave was the very signal the dragon had been waiting for. He hurled himself downward at once, with explosive force, toward the knight.

The princess descended the spiral staircase back into the hearth hall, picked up the piece of charcoal from the floor, and continued drawing her painting line by line, feeling how the dragon tore into the flesh of the uninvited savior with the screech of rending armor.

The painting was finished. And so was the life of the naive youth who had dreamed of glory and love. Like a long road toward hope, guided by a broken compass, doomed to failure from the very beginning.

Returning to the roof, the princess walked to the edge and looked down. The poppies stood calm again, as though what had happened was merely part of their familiar cycle – like morning rain or evening wind.

The world is made that way, she thought.

If you have a dragon, someone will always try to prove you don’t need it.

The dragon lifted his gaze to her. He knew: she was not thinking about the knights.

She was thinking about everything that had once tried to invade her life.

She ran her soot-blackened palm over his bloodied head, as though sharing with him the stains of her own soul and taking back her half of the responsibility for the spilled blood.

The dragon slipped into the sky, and the princess, marked with blood, stood on the edge of the tower, thinking of the sea that hid somewhere beyond the horizon and sometimes reminded her of itself with waves of salty air.

“It’s time for the sea”, she said to herself.

“This is not a day worth remembering.”

And she stepped down from the edge of the wall. It was not an act of risk or a craving for sharp sensations – it was the only way out of the castle she had ever used. Whenever she wished to descend or go somewhere, she simply walked into the void. And even if the dragon was nowhere in sight, he would appear beneath her feet with lightning speed, cleaving through space as it yielded before the onslaught of his scales.

Clinging to the dragon’s neck, they set off toward the sea, leaving behind the castle that stood like an impenetrable shell, untouched by fear or destruction. The poppy fields once again concealed their secrets. And the world, which had so stubbornly tried to interfere, withdrew – as it always does when it meets a force it cannot understand.

CHAPTER 3 Sunset Depth

The evening sun had almost drowned beyond the line of the sea. A red, heavy disc of molten light stretched across the surface, turning the water into slow, thick lava. But beneath that layer – darkness. Real, dense, cold.

And in this strange union – scalding surface and icy depth – the truth of nature emerged, a truth that never chooses one side. It is under no obligation to be whole. It carries fire and cold, light and abyss, stillness and disturbance – not blending them, but letting them stand beside each other like two worlds that do not argue over the right to exist.

What seemed like flame above turned into motionless night below. And the sea did not suffer from this contradiction – on the contrary, it lived by it. Water could be both refuge and threat, gentle and cruel, alluring and repellent. In it, there was no choice of “or” Only “and”

It is the union of the incompatible that creates the whole. Only where extremes meet is depth born.

Perhaps all living things are made this way: what seems irreconcilable is, in truth, two halves of the same whole. And real harmony arises not where opposites disappear, but where they look at one another without turning away.

The princess was already standing at the water’s edge, having left her dress lying on the sand. Her feet were washed by the smooth waves of a sea that was scaldingly cold yet calm. She looked at the path of light that began right at her toes, as though the rays of sunset knew exactly where to find a lost wanderer, to illuminate the way into the darkness.

After a few steps, the seabed dropped sharply into depth. As though the earth itself ended at this point. Drawing a breath, she slipped down and felt the water immediately grow denser, heavier, as if unwilling to release her from its upper layer. Every stroke of her arms required effort – it seemed the sea itself was asking:

“Are you sure?”

But she kept descending – stubborn as always. A few meters down, and the resistance became like a wall.

Then everything changed.

She exhaled the last of her tension, allowed her body to yield to the deep – and the water stopped resisting her. As if it had ceased its testing. It became pliant and accepting. The princess opened her fingers, loosened her muscles, and the descent turned into a fall – silent, smooth, bodiless.

She looked upward, toward the wavering boundary of the world, where the threads of sunset broke through the thickness of the water in shattered shards of red and orange. They shifted, trembled, turning into strange shapes – as if it were a language of light understood only by the lowlands of the sea.

The cold, sharp and merciless near the surface, quickly transformed into something else – a viscous, sluggish warmth, like the kind one feels in a dream when the body stops belonging to itself.

The mass of water accepted her completely. And for a moment it seemed that if she kept falling downward, she could reach a silence unknown to any person on land. The silence underwater was almost physical – it pressed against her temples and leveled her thoughts. Here her lungs reminded her of themselves for the first time, painfully. She slowed her movement, touching the bottom with the tips of her toes. Placing her feet on the smooth floor, which felt as though it had been made for walking, she sensed the dragon sitting calmly on the sand, guarding the air until her return, watching the surface of the sea that gave no hint of those it had taken in.

Clenching her palms and bending her knees, she closed her eyes – preparing to leap – and for one more second listened to the stillness of sound, as if she wished to take it with her. Around her was absolute darkness, and within it something breathed deeper than a human mind could conceive.

The princess pushed upward, cutting through the layers of water. She had strength, yet returning – back toward the light – was harder than descending into the depths.

When she finally broke the surface, the sun had already burned out, leaving her the heat of its last glow for that long-awaited breath. The saltwater on her lips tasted like the blood she had come to wash off – yet now innocent, evaporating from her skin without a trace.

Stepping onto the shore, she climbed onto the dragon at once. After such depth, she longed to feel height. The dragon, taking her dress in his teeth, rose skyward immediately, shaking droplets of water from her hair, which fell back to the sandy beach like a rainfall bidding it farewell. Home was close, and the dragon flew very slowly: wings spread wide, suspended in an almost imperceptible glide. He allowed her to savor the height of this early, newborn evening – just like the millions of evenings before it, just like the millions after.

On their way back to the castle, they stopped at the edge of the forest, where the dragon hunted to bring the princess her supper while she gathered berries.

Upon landing, the princess headed straight for a nearby thicket of blackberries. The dragon laid her dress on the ground and disappeared into the undergrowth at once, while the dress remained lying in the grass like a marker – not an object, but a coordinate. A point to which they both would return.

The dark berries, guarded by sharp, wickedly curved thorns – little warriors ready to defend their harvest at any cost – hid behind the night. Her gentle fingers seemed far too delicate for such work – made more for touching petals than for the prickly weave of branches. But it was precisely this delicacy that made her movements infallible. The sensitivity of her skin allowed her to anticipate the direction of each thorn, as if her fingers sensed the danger before they reached the tip. For her, gentleness was not a weakness but a weapon: sensitivity, refined into instinct, served as armor.

With two handfuls of berries, she walked back through the night forest, her bare feet sinking into the cool, damp bed of leaves. The soil beneath her felt warm and supple, as though it adjusted itself to her steps – like a forest that recognizes its own.

In the shadow of the roots, soft mushroom caps rose like small lanterns without light, moist with the early-night dampness. They grew in tight circles, as if discussing her gait and passing along news of the rare visitor who had disturbed the secrecy of the night.

Somewhere high above, owls called to one another softly – rarely, measuredly, as though checking their domain.

The air was filled with the ancient scent of the night: damp earth, bark, old leaves, and decaying grass.

She walked slowly, so the berries would not spill – and because the forest itself set the pace. Here one could not hurry; night did not tolerate sudden movements. It required immersion.

Having returned to the marked point, she poured the berries onto the dress, wrapping them up like a pouch. The dragon was already waiting for her with a large piece of meat in his teeth. He never took the whole carcass – only its finest part.

The remaining stretch of road to the castle caught them in a brief but intense downpour, in which they frolicked like children left unsupervised. The dragon tumbled through the air like a playful puppy, pretending to dodge the raindrops, while the princess laughed, pretending she was about to fall during those sharp turns – sometimes giving a small scream as if in fear, only to laugh even louder a moment later. Near the castle, it was dry: the rain had passed it by, not daring to disturb the giant’s peace.

Emptying the berries from the soaked dress into a bowl on the table, the princess hung the dress to dry on one of the towers – like a flag of surrender the castle had never known, and one that clearly did not suit it.

There was neither defiance nor vulgarity in her nakedness – it was so natural and innocent that it drew no attention at all, like nature itself baring its body to the dawn light: pure and untouched by shame.

Her supper was already steaming on the heated metal platter in the center of the table. Today she was unusually hungry. Her winged guardian, noticing her appetite, brought over a few more apple branches still heavy with fruit and laid them on the table. She ate with a smile, remembering the flight in the rain, and, glancing at her friend, realized how profoundly happy she was.

CHAPTER 4 Jump Into The Dawn

The next morning began in motion. The mistress of the castle was brimming with energy and mischief. Leaping from her bed as though she were late for something, she ran to the roof with a light smile, snatched up her dress, and – pulling it on without slowing – jumped from the rooftop, eyes squeezed shut against the bright sunrise.

The dragon’s back was, as always, in the right place at the right time. Gently absorbing her landing, he carried her leap into a downward sweep, dipping and rising again like a wave. With the same spirited momentum, he flew toward a blooming field near a river.

Jumping off her trusty carrier, the princess ran laughing through the tall grass and flowers, while the dragon flew just above her, tumbling and romping alongside, stirring whirlwinds in its wake. She cried out in delight, reaching her arms up to brush the great wings that dipped low with every beat as they passed.

Tired at last, she fell into the grass, breathing heavily, arms and legs spread wide, and with a smile kept gazing up at the sky – at the monster playing with the clouds – a creature that, from afar, looked like a nosy little bird.

Catching her breath, she rolled onto her side on the flattened grass, studying the flowers around her. Choosing the largest one – a vivid yellow – she pulled it closer without picking it, and plunged her face into its curled velvet petals. Drawing in its scent with a full breath, she closed her eyes and sank into the many-layered bouquet of ripe lemons, sun-warmed honey, youthful carelessness, fresh basil, and the resinous woodiness that bound it all together, crystallizing the fragrance into memory like amber.

The earth gave off pleasant dampness, its grasses pushing back the summer heat, and the long stalks bent over her in a fan, shading her drowsy bliss at being free.

Thirst disturbed her pleasant, shallow sleep. The dragon was lying beside her, curled into a ball like a motionless boulder afraid to wake the earth. The river was very close, and after brushing the pollen from her skin, she walked toward the sound of the water.

The turbulent current, an unnaturally bright shade of azure, carried the chill of the mountain peaks where it began as tiny streams, branching into the larger veins of an icy realm. Trees stood guard over the coolness, lining the riverbed: their high crowns converged into a green vault that shut out the daylight and held the roar of the water inside a damp, shaded cavern of freshness at the heart of the blooming meadow.

The oasis’s visitor crouched by the shore and scooped water into her palms. The cold bit at her skin, yet there was something pure in it, something calming. She lifted her hands to her lips and took a sip. The water tasted like liquid ice – clear, sharp, but astonishingly soft, as though it managed to melt only in the very moment it touched her.

After a few minutes the dragon returned, holding a heavy clay jug in his teeth. She filled it with water, hugged it to her chest with both arms, and settled onto the dragon as he bent down carefully before her. The flight home was calm, almost meditative: his powerful wings cut through the air with a quiet hum, and the land below drifted by slowly, like a watercolor washed into blur. The vessel in her arms swayed slightly, yet the dragon flew so steadily that not a single drop spilled – and the chill of the water reminded her of the river’s freshness she had just left behind. The wind caressed her face, carrying the scents of distant fields, and in that moment she felt herself a part of the sky, its very essence, with every beat of the wings resonating within her like an echo pulling her toward new horizons.

She stood on the rooftop, still feeling the sky within her, unwilling to leave that state. The noon heat began to press lightly against her skin, distracting her from the stolen shadows. The sun hung motionless at the zenith, contemplating the directions of the world, torn between going east in search of hope or west in search of rest – and in the end remaining where it was, leaving her waiting.

In the shimmering haze above the field, the horizon wavered, turning the flatlands into a flickering, elusive vision beneath the scorching sun – but a small dark speck disturbed the soft, undulating landscape. Sensing the intrusion, the dragon appeared beside the princess with a single leap, like a heavy rock falling from a cliff into soft snow – immense destructive force without sound or tremor, only a sharp gust of air that swept her hair upward.

After watching the horizon for a few moments, the princess clenched her fists and, slowly, with anger gritted through her teeth:

“Remove it.”

Even as she inhaled – before the words had fully left her lips – the dragon was already tearing through the air with his leap, leaving her to finish the sentence alone. Still holding her fists clenched, she went to her bedroom, feeling how hot she had become under the sun. Scooping some water from the jug into her hands, she splashed her face, pressed her fingers to her neck, and felt the strong pulse thudding in her temples. She lay down on the bed, battling the surge of fury that had overtaken her – whether from the heat or from yet another savior’s visit – feeling the blaze in her head melt into irritation.

Another knight… I wonder who sent him? A king? An oracle? Or his own imagination?… And there they come – shining, perfumed, with speeches prepared in advance. They don’t even trouble themselves with a simple question: why has not a single one of their predecessors returned triumphant?

She touched her temple with her fingertips, trying to steady the rhythm of her pulse.

Though, in their defense, I admit: logical thinking is not included in standard knightly training. Pathos, however – yes. That, apparently, is taught as an ancient science.

Her lips twitched – a tired, dry smirk.

I should hang a sign at the gate: “Heroes’ queue – that way.” “Complaints about the lack of a damsel-in-distress – this way.”

She turned onto her side, curling into the cool shadow cast by the canopy.

That’s why I keep the dragon close: he saves me time. A great deal of time.

The dragon… And then she suddenly remembered him. It was strange – to feel silence for so long; she sensed neither battle nor even his fury. But there was something else, some new sensation she couldn’t even name… It felt almost like… embarrassment?!

Bursting with fury, she jumped from the bed, rushed out of the room, and grabbed the sword kept within reach.

The dragon was standing right outside her doorway; he had returned but hadn’t dared let her know. She stopped short, pressed her forehead to his, her gaze locked with his, scorching him with the force of emotions and confusion. A moment later she stepped hard on his wing and vaulted onto his back. Though he was incapable of feeling pain, the mere intention of the princess to cause it made him experience physical torment.

In flight, she tried to shut herself off from the mental current emanating from the dragon; he was broadcasting some unprecedented nonsense: agitation, tenderness, embarrassment, and a scent… This knight smelled like “one of ours”, at that she wrinkled her nose with a smile of disgust.

Perfect. My dragon is broken.

Now, instead of grinding knights into dust, he apparently sniffs their collars and blushes. Next thing you know he’ll start reciting poetry to them – and then I can open a circus in the castle, she thought.

CHAPTER 5 Prey And Hunter

Springing from the dragon before he even touched the ground, the girl strode toward the knight with wide, heavy steps, the tip of her sword dragging across the earth as if she refused to spend an ounce of strength on a trivial inconvenience soon to be settled.

The disturber of peace stood in a confident, relaxed stance, without a trace of arrogance, and with no fear evident in him. A knight’s mantle hung from his shoulders, yet he wore no armor, and his sword remained sheathed.

“Greeti – » he began, only to be abruptly cut off as her blade pressed against his throat – firm enough to silence him, but not to cut. Frowning, she slowly examined the brave intruder.