Date: October 6, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
There was no dawn in the tower. Only the even, diffused light that never changed, and the silence unbroken even by the wind. But Ulvia felt time differently — by how her body had rested, how the pain in her muscles had eased, how her thoughts had cleared. A night had passed. A new day had come. The day when, for the first time in a month and a half, she would leave the tower's walls and go out into the white world alone.
She lay on the hide in her cell, looking at the ceiling where the glowing threads formed intricate patterns. Thoughts flowed slowly, unhurriedly. She thought about what awaited her out there, beyond the walls. About the guardians, who had grown stronger during their absence. About the leaves she needed to gather. About the fact that she would be alone — without Datuk to watch her back, without Rosh to support her with vectors, without Sobra, whose presence always calmed her. Alone. For the first time in a long time.
She sat up, pulled on her boots, adjusted the belt at her waist. Her left hand, her living vine, pulsed evenly, calmly, and the silver veins on it glowed faintly in the twilight. Ulvia ran her fingers over the vine — it stirred slightly, responded with warmth. She felt inside her, where the green leaf pulsed, a familiar warmth spreading. Not heat — confidence.
She walked out onto the central platform. Datuk, Rosh, and Sobra were already waiting for her at the exit. The dwarf stood with his arms crossed, his face, usually mocking, serious. Rosh leaned against the wall, his mismatched eyes — green and brown — watching her with the same cold, assessing attention as always. Sobra sat at the threshold, his amber eyes fixed on her, and in their depths, in that calm, trusting gaze, was something that made Ulvia's heart tighten.
The old man stood a little apart, at the edge of the platform. His black cloak seemed to absorb light, only his gray hair, flowing behind him, betrayed his presence. He said nothing — only nodded, and that was enough.
Ulvia approached the exit. Sobra stepped toward her, nudged her shoulder with his nose. Warm, rough, he smelled of forest and snow — smells that had never been here, in the tower. She stroked his head, lingering a moment longer than usual.
"I'll be back," she said. "In a week."
Datuk extended his hand. Ulvia shook it — firmly, like a man.
"Don't play the hero," the dwarf said, then added in a playful tone. "If anything — come back. We won't laugh."
"You will," Ulvia replied, and the corners of her lips twitched in a weak smile.
"Be careful," Rosh said, and for such a reserved half-Sylvan, that was already a lot.
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The white world greeted her with its familiar silence. Sand, rocks, sky — all were as they had been a month and a half ago. But something had changed. Or so it seemed. Ulvia didn't know. She simply walked forward, and her legs, accustomed to the smooth stone of the tower, now stepped on loose sand, and it felt strange, but not frightening. The energy in her feet gathered by itself, without effort — like breathing, like a heartbeat.
She walked slowly, looking around. White zones replaced each other — deserts, hills, rocky ridges. In some, she recognized places where she had fought with the group a month and a half ago. In others, she had never been. She was in no hurry. She had a week, and she wanted to use it wisely — not only to gather leaves but to understand what she was now capable of alone.
By midday — if one could speak of midday in this world — she reached a low ridge, beyond which a new zone opened. And she stopped.
She had never seen anything like it.
The zone stretched as far as the eye could see — wide, flat, without a single stone. The sand here was not white but grayish, with a metallic sheen, and it didn't crunch underfoot but emitted a strange, barely perceptible ringing, as if composed of thousands of tiny glass grains. The air was different — denser, heavier, and it smelled of ozone and something else she couldn't name.
And in the sky, high, high above, birds flew.
Huge. White. Their wings, with spans reaching tens of meters, beat slowly, solemnly, rising and falling in some unknown rhythm. They did not cry, did not call to each other — only flew. In a circle. An endless, even circle that seemed to have neither beginning nor end.
Ulvia watched them, and her left hand, her living vine, stirred uneasily under her sleeve. There was something unnatural about these birds. They did not breathe — at least, she did not see their sides rise and fall. They did not look around — their heads were motionless, their eyes empty. They just flew. Circle after circle. And never stopped.
"They are not alive," Ulvia realized, and a chill ran down her spine. "But not dead either. Something in between. Part of the Tree. Like the guardians. Like the goblins. Like the white bears. But different."
She moved forward, and the sand beneath her feet rang more softly as she stepped onto the grayish surface. The zone was vast — along the edges, as far as she could see, rose rocks, but in the center, beneath the flying birds, was empty. Only sand. Only silence. Only that endless, hypnotic flight.
Then she saw the trees.
They grew along the edges of the zone, at the foot of the rocks — tall, slender, with smooth white bark that glowed from within, like everything in this world. Their branches reached upward, toward the sky, toward the birds, and on the highest, where the trunks thinned, they touched the shadows cast by the flying giants.
The trees were a bridge. Ulvia understood immediately. If she climbed them, she could reach the birds. And on the birds' backs, there were probably guardians. And leaves.
She approached the nearest tree. The bark was smooth, almost slippery, but the vine on her left hand, responding to her will, extended several thin shoots that dug into the trunk, helping her hold on. Ulvia began to climb.
The tree was tall. Very tall. She climbed slowly, feeling the wind rising from below sway the trunk. Far below, the zone seemed endless, and the birds even more immense. She did not look down. Only up. Only at the branches, which grew thinner and more precarious.
The climb took perhaps a quarter of an hour. When she reached the top, her hands trembled — not from fatigue, from tension. The trunk here was thirty centimeters thick, and every movement made it dangerously bend. But she held on. And she saw.
The bird was flying directly toward her. Huge, white, with wings that covered half the sky. Its back was wide, flat as a platform, and on it sat guardians.
Kobolds.
Ulvia recognized them immediately — small, stocky, with long snouts and pointed ears. Their skin was white, almost transparent, and through it, dark, winding lines showed — like the goblins', but different. In their hands, they held short spears and round shields, and their eyes — black, pupil-less — looked at her with cold, animal attention.
There were many of them. Several dozen — Ulvia didn't have time to count. Most were Warriors — she felt it in their aura, in how they held themselves, how they exchanged glances. But five, standing in the center, were different. Their presence pressed on her, made the vine on her left hand clench anxiously. Pillars. Five Pillars.
She stood on a thin branch, swaying in the gusts of wind, and looked at the enemies who were too far to reach with their spears but too close to feel safe. The bird was approaching. A few more seconds — and it would be level with the tree. A moment more — and she could jump.
Ulvia took a deep breath. The energy in her legs gathered by itself — not in a burst, not in an explosion, but in a smooth, natural flow. She felt the energy control technique she had been learning in the tower fill her body with lightness, readiness for movement. She did not know if she could handle five Pillars. Did not know if she could win. But she knew she had to try.
The bird drew level with the tree. Ulvia jumped.
Wind whistled in her ears, the white sand below seemed distant, almost unreal. She flew — not long, only a second — and landed on the bird's back, softly, almost silently. The feathers beneath her feet sprang, and she felt beneath them, deep inside, pulsing the same power as everything in this world. The bird did not even flinch. It just flew on, its endless circle.
The kobolds froze for a moment. Their black eyes stared at her, and in this silence, in this stillness, was something that made Ulvia catch her breath. Then they stirred. One by one, they raised their spears, closed their shields, and in a few seconds, a wall stood before her — living, breathing, deadly.
The five Pillars did not move. They stood behind the Warriors, and their presence, their aura, pressed on Ulvia, making her vine clench. She felt their power — they were not weaklings.
But she did not retreat.
She raised her left hand, and the vine, her living hand, burst from under her sleeve, transforming into a long, curved blade. Her right hand clenched into a fist, the metal plates of her glove scraping habitually. The energy in her legs pulsed, ready at any moment to burst into a dash.
Ulvia stood on the back of a giant white bird flying in an endless circle, looking at her enemies. Ahead was a battle. The hardest battle of her life. She did not know if she would survive. But she knew she would fight.
"Come on," she said quietly, her voice hard as steel. "I'm waiting."
The kobolds stepped forward. The battle began.