This is a story of a plain boring young man named Jon. He is not the main character, he is just an ordinary guy, he is a minor character of very little importance. He is whiny and pathetic. And yet, this story is happening from his point of view—something is clearly wrong here, isn't it? Is this even a story? Could it be not a story, but just a moment of someone else's dream or death? Or...?
On that autumn evening, when the heavens were strewn with stars and the moon smoothly illuminated the dark sky, I first learned about the phone that connects the worlds of the living and the departed. This phone was not an ordinary device, but a magical bridge stretching between reality and eternity.
In the shadow of the piano moon, where the heavens become the great ocean of night, a symphony of longing is born. Sounds, like raindrops, fall on the gray streets of memories, forming puddles in which the echoes of lost moments drown.
A modern girl, a child of the age of sarcasm, cynicism, and memes, accidentally finds herself in a real medieval setting at the height of religious wars. But Anzhelika isn’t one to despair, and by the way, now the noble Sultan Salah ad-Din, who has intrigued her since her school years, is very close by...
Her training as an enchantress is not even half complete. Her job is to kill monsters. She travels alone in a barbarian land, recently conquered by her compatriots. Her path does not promise to be easy, but she does not intend to retreat.