ody>The will of the few
Albert Zinkevich
© Albert Zinkevich, 2025
ISBN 978-5-0065-6510-4
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
Prologue: Shadows of the Past
Fog. Mornings in Novoteria always began with this oppressive shroud, a mantle that draped itself over the city, shielding it from the silent brutality of reality. Thick and impenetrable, the fog clung to the streets as if trying to conceal the horrors and devastation left behind by a world once brimming with life and light. Once, cities had glittered with vibrant energy, but now they lay submerged in a dim twilight. Their streets were lit by flickering lamps, which sputtered like dying stars, casting grim shadows over the thoughts of those who passed beneath them. People hurried along the asphalt, their eyes downcast. Their faces, devoid of expression, resembled masks of extreme indifference. They asked no questions, sought no answers to the anxieties that gnawed at them. They no longer remembered what freedom felt like.
These dark times were the result of a cataclysm that had irrevocably altered the landscape, not only of Novoteria but of the entire continent. Legends of cities engulfed in flames, of volcanoes erupting from the depths of the earth, intertwined with the harsh reality of what had transpired. The Chaotic Era had begun – a time of upheaval when ideals crumbled and society fractured. People lost hope in the madness, and the explosion of possibilities turned into disaster. The cities they had once dreamed of building vanished. Vast expanses were reduced to ruins, and only small groups of survivors managed to endure, forming the isolated state of Novoteria.
And then came the Council.
The Council of Observers, created to maintain order in Novoteria, acted swiftly and ruthlessly. They demolished the ruins, paved the land with concrete, and erased every page that might have told the story of the past. Those who could still hear, read, or remember disappeared into the depths of secrecy. But the shadows of the past could not be entirely destroyed. They lingered in the corners of memory, in the whispers of the wind, in the dreams of those who still dared to yearn for freedom.
In this new order, proclaimed by the Council of Observers, harsh laws reigned. Every old tradition and ideal was consigned to oblivion. Society was divided into castes – some served, others ruled, while the overwhelming majority remained silent, each carrying the scars of the past and the weight of what it meant to exist. The clash between the old and the new gave rise to resistance – a movement of people striving to reclaim what had been lost, fighters for freedom who faced relentless terror. Unseen in their actions, they used whispers and secret gatherings to spread their ideas.
Somewhere in the depths of the abandoned districts, among the remnants of old buildings, fragments of the past endured. Shards of glass, rusted metal frames, scraps of paper with barely legible words. These words, once powerful enough to alter the course of lives, now sat on the shelves of oblivion, symbols of courage and hope weakened by the blows of a bitter reality.
One such forgotten voice was that of Arkady Renn, a young scholar whose words had once captured the spirit of the age. It was there, in one of those ruins, that he had penned his final lines. His name had been erased from history, his works destroyed, but the shadow of his ideas still lingered in the air like a restless ghost.
«Man is not a cog in the machine,» he had written. «He is a creator, a maker, a source of light in a world of darkness. But that light fades when it is locked in a cage of fear and obedience.» These words resonated deeply with those who still remembered what hope felt like, but they were brutally suppressed.
Over time, these ideas found their way into the hands of a young boy who stumbled upon them among the debris. He saw them as a riddle, not fully grasping their meaning, but his soul responded to the undercurrent of anxiety and hope they carried. He brought the scrap of paper to his father, who paled as if seeing a ghost from a bygone era and immediately threw it into the fire. But it was too late – the words had already begun to spread like a virus, eating away at the foundations of the new world.
Now, decades later, Novoteria appeared peaceful on the surface. The cities had been rebuilt, everyone worked and obeyed, and life seemed to resemble a silent existence of order and stability. Yet beneath this facade, cracks were forming. Echoes of the old world.
Somewhere in this bleak world, among the gray walls and faceless crowds, there was a girl who would one day find what had been lost. Her name was Elira Valtorn. She did not yet realize that her fate was already intertwined with the shadows of the past, or that she would soon become part of a resurgence of ideas that would change everything.
The fog thickened. Somewhere in the distance, the hum of machinery echoed, and the lamps flickered once more. But this time, one of them went out forever.
Part I: A World Without Faces
Chapter 1: The Nameless City
Elira Valtorn was a woman who didn’t stand out in a crowd. Her appearance was ordinary, yet there was something subtly striking about her that drew attention. Her dark, slightly curly hair was always neatly tied back in a ponytail to keep it out of her way while she worked. Her eyes, gray and cold like the skies of Novoteria, held a depth few could discern. Her figure was slender but not fragile – years of labor as an engineer had toughened her body, making it strong and resilient.
She was a creature of habit, strict in her routines. Every morning, she woke up precisely at 6:00, did a short set of exercises to get her blood flowing, and headed to work. By the age of 24, her days were meticulously scheduled, and she rarely deviated from her plan. Elira loved order; it was her shield, her comfort. But deep within her soul lurked a shadow of chaos, a dark whisper she tried in vain to suppress.
Yet, despite her efforts to maintain the illusion of a calm and orderly life, Elira couldn’t shake the flashes of memory from her past. She couldn’t recall her parents’ faces, their smiles, or their voices. These fragments were hazy and elusive, like shadows retreating step by step from the light. Her life had begun in an orphanage in Novoteria, under horrific conditions that would have broken anyone else. She remembered only fragments – cold nights on hard beds, whispers and screams mingling with childish laughter and animalistic fear.
The orphanage offered no care, no love. Cruelty reigned there, masked by ruthless discipline. The caretakers, pressured by the Council of Observers, were merciless, like exterminators targeting every child. Elira remembered how some children vanished – emaciated, blending into the gray shadows. She never understood where they were taken, but each disappearance left a heavy mark on her heart. Every factor – systemic lobbying, persecution of gatherings, the screams – didn’t kill hope but instead strengthened her will to survive.
She learned to hide her emotions because showing them came at a cost. Her childhood wasn’t filled with toys and laughter but with constant struggle. She sought her own salvation, and it was this desire that once led her to dream of becoming an engineer. Every incident at the orphanage – whether it was the sting of mockery or a slap that left marks not only on her body but on her soul – added to her resolve to escape that place.
Elira succeeded. Later, she learned that her ticket out had been the opportunity to study, granted to her by the strict rules and distant lessons far removed from the orphanage. She studied relentlessly, spending days in the library surrounded by books that became her only solace. Technology and engineering became more than just subjects to her – they were her path to freedom. Every formula, every
