Date: October 6, 542, from the Fall of Zandra the Dishonorable.
The bird flew steadily, neither speeding up nor slowing down. Its wings, huge and white, beat in a measured rhythm, rising and falling to some unknown cadence. A faint vibration ran through its back, traveling up into Ulvia's legs, making her knees bend and straighten almost imperceptibly. She stood at the edge of a wide platform of feathers—stiff and springy, they cushioned the soles of her boots, creating an unfamiliar but not unstable sensation.
A few dozen paces ahead, a formation of kobolds stood frozen.
There were many of them. Ulvia counted around thirty—thirty white, stocky figures with spears and shields, arrayed in three tight rows. Those in front were Warriors; she could feel it in their aura, in the way they held themselves, the way they glanced at one another, the way they shifted from foot to foot in nervous anticipation. Perhaps two dozen of them. Dangerous, but predictable. She could handle them.
The problem lay with those standing behind.
Five of them. They did not move. They did not glance around. They did not shift their weight. They stood frozen at the center of the formation, and their black eyes—just as empty as the others', but with something else lurking in their depths. Not animal attention, but awareness. They knew she was here. They knew who she was. And they were not afraid.
Pillars. Five Pillars.
Ulvia clenched her left fist, and the vine—her living arm—responded. It did not writhe or lash out; it simply grew denser, heavier. She felt the green leaf pulsing within her, felt the energy flowing through her expanded channels, felt her body—hardened by months of training—waiting for the signal to act.
*Thirty against one,* she thought. *Five Pillars. Twenty-five Warriors.*
She did not wait.
---
The first row of kobolds stepped forward, and Ulvia charged to meet them.
Energy gathered in her legs instantly—a smooth, natural flow. Her body threw itself into the thick of the enemy, and before the first kobold could lower its spear, her left arm had already changed shape.
A spear. Long and slender, with a jagged tip. It grew from her stump in seconds. Ulvia lunged, and the point pierced the chest of the first kobold, exiting its back and burying itself in the second standing right behind it. Two bodies collapsed simultaneously, crumbling into white dust. Without wasting time to pull the weapon free, she shifted its form again.
A hammer. Massive, with a spiked head. It crashed down on the third kobold with such force that it didn't even have time to cry out—white dust billowed into the air, mingling with the remains of its disintegrating body. A second blow—the fourth kobold, trying to attack from the side, vanished in a cloud of white sand. A third blow—the fifth and sixth, standing too close together, shared the same fate.
She did not count. She simply moved, and every movement was lethal.
A sword. Long, curved, its blade humming in the air like a plucked string. Ulvia swung it, and three kobolds in the row clutched at their slit throats. White dust poured from the wounds, and they collapsed before they even understood what had happened.
A whip. Flexible, studded with thorns. It coiled around the legs of four kobolds, and she yanked hard—their bodies collided, tangled together. In that same instant, her right fist, encased in its metal gauntlet, descended upon their heads one by one. A crunch. Another crunch. Another.
She felt no fatigue. Only excitement. Only the thirst for battle.
A blade. Short, wide. It shattered shields and broke spears. The kobolds tried to surround her, but she was faster. She slipped away from their strikes like a shadow, and every one of her lunges left behind only white dust and silence.
She lost count. There were too many of them, but they fell too quickly. She felt her vine pulsing in time with her heart, felt energy flowing through her channels without resistance.
*Too easy,* the thought flickered.
But she did not allow herself to relax.
---
The fifteenth kobold tried to stab her in the back with its spear. She sensed its approach—the vine caught the vibration in the air—and without looking, she transformed her left arm into a spiked mace. A sharp backward swing—and the kobold vanished in a cloud of white dust.
The sixteenth and seventeenth attacked from two sides. She crouched, letting their spears pass over her head. In the same moment, her right fist met the temple of one, while her left arm, now a blade, cleaved the chest of the other.
The eighteenth tried to flee. She did not allow it. Her whip-arm snared its leg, dragged it back, and a short punch to the back of its head finished the fight.
The nineteenth, twentieth, twenty-first—they fell one after another, and Ulvia felt her strength beginning to wane. Not because the enemies were strong, but because there were too many of them. Every movement, every strike, every shift of form demanded energy, and energy was not infinite.
She paused for a moment, breathing heavily. Around her, on the white feathers, lay piles of ash—all that remained of two dozen kobolds. She had not counted how many she had killed.
Before her stood five. The Pillars.
---
They had not moved. They had been watching. Their black eyes, empty and cold, regarded her with the same expression as before. No fear, no surprise—only anticipation.
*They were waiting,* Ulvia realized. *Waiting for me to tire.*
She was not wrong. Her breathing was ragged, her hands trembled slightly. The energy in her legs, which had surged moments ago, now barely flickered. The vine on her left arm, usually so vibrant and flexible, had become sluggish, slow.
*Not yet,* she told herself, and stepped forward.
The first Pillar attacked. Its spear, longer and thinner than the Warriors', traced a complex arc through the air. Ulvia dodged—barely, a hair's breadth from the blade—and in the same instant, her left arm, now a blade, slashed across its side. The Pillar grunted, stumbled back, but did not fall. White dust seeped from the wound—not blood, but something akin to it.
*It lives,* Ulvia realized. *This is no Warrior. It won't crumble from a single scratch.*
The second and third attacked simultaneously. Their spears aimed for her legs and torso. She leaped—not upward, but sideways—and her left arm, now a hammer, smashed down on the second Pillar's shoulder. A crack echoed, and the Pillar, thrown off balance, crashed to its knees. She would have finished it, but the third was already upon her.
Its spear pierced her left forearm, impaling the vine completely. The pain was sharp, searing, but brief. Ulvia clenched her teeth and, ignoring the wound, punched the attacker in the face with her right hand. The metal plates of her gauntlet met white flesh, and the Pillar flew backward, leaving a dark smear on the feathers.
The fourth tried to attack from behind. She sensed its approach—the vine, even wounded, caught the vibration—and, spinning around, met its spear with her blade. Steel rang, sparks flew, and Ulvia, using the momentum, shoved her foot into its chest. The Pillar staggered, and she slashed its throat.
Not fatal, but deep. White dust gushed from the wound, and the kobold, choking, retreated.
The fifth did not attack. It stood still, and in its empty, cold black eyes, something resembling mockery flickered.
*They're testing me,* Ulvia realized, wiping blood from her split lip. *They know I'm tired. They're waiting for me to fall.*
She would not fall.
She stepped forward, and her left arm, transformed into a spiked mace, crashed down on the first Pillar as it tried to rise. The blow struck its head, and the kobold, without a sound, crumbled into white dust.
Four left.
She felt her strength draining away. The wound in her left forearm throbbed, and the damaged vine was healing slowly. The energy in her legs was almost gone—every step was an effort. But she did not stop.
The second Pillar, the one wounded in the shoulder, lunged with its spear. She dodged, but not fast enough—the point grazed her ribs, leaving a deep scratch. Pain flared, and Ulvia, snarling, punched it in the chest. Bone crunched, and the kobold, choking, collapsed onto the feathers.
The third and fourth attacked together. Their spears moved in perfect rhythm, and Ulvia, dodging one, left herself open to the other. The blade plunged into her thigh, and she cried out, stumbling back.
Blood—her own, red, crimson—splattered onto the white feathers.
*If this keeps up, I'll lose,* she thought, retreating.
The fifth Pillar, the one that had not attacked, finally moved. Its spear was already in the air, arcing toward her. Ulvia, too slow to dodge, realized it would reach her.
She raised her left arm, and the vine—her living arm—responded. Not as a blade, not as a hammer, not as a whip. But as a shield. Wide, curved, covered in thorns, it took the blow. The spear pierced the vine, impaling it, but stopped short of her body.
Using the last of her strength, Ulvia shoved the shield forward. The kobold, caught off guard, stumbled back. She did not finish it—she couldn't. Her legs were buckling, her breathing was a ragged wheeze, and darkness was creeping into the edges of her vision.
*Five,* she thought, looking at the three surviving Pillars. *I killed two. Three left.*
She was on her knees, gasping for air, the white feathers beneath her soaked with her blood. The vine on her left arm barely flickered with life, its thorns—usually so sharp—limp and almost lifeless. The energy in her legs was gone—she couldn't even stand.
The three Pillars surrounded her. Their spears were pointed at her chest, and in their empty, cold black eyes, there was no pity, no triumph. Only the fulfillment of an order.
*It's over,* Ulvia thought. *This is the end.*
But she did not close her eyes. She stared at them, and in her gaze—tired yet unyielding—there was something that made them freeze for an instant.
And then she remembered. The energy control technique. The one the elder had taught them. The one she had not yet fully mastered.
*I'll try,* she told herself. *One chance. One surge.*
She closed her eyes. The energy in her legs, nearly extinguished, suddenly flared—not as an explosion, not as a burst, but as a weak, barely perceptible flow.