Date: March 25, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
She woke because a ray of sunlight touched her face. Ulvia opened her eyes and lay still for a few moments, gazing at the ceiling, feeling the warmth spread through the room, the scent of wood and moss, the birds calling to one another outside the window. Yesterday felt like a dream. The three wolves, the blood, the pain — and then that strange, deep change that she still could not fully comprehend.
She sat up. Hope stood on the windowsill, its two tiny leaves open to the sun. Beside it, in their pots, Bagurai's plants grew quietly — the very ones she had been learning to feel, to distinguish, to understand. Ulvia reached out and touched their leaves with her fingers. They were cool, slightly damp, and under her touch they seemed to tremble faintly. Or was that only her imagination?
She smiled. Yesterday, after returning, she barely remembered how she had made it to her room, how she had fallen onto the bed, how someone — Disaak, probably — had bandaged her wounds and poured a bitter, warming brew into her mouth. Now her body ached, but it was a familiar, almost comfortable pain. The pain that said: you are alive. You made it. You can go on.
She turned toward the door. It was open, and in the doorway stood someone she had not expected to see here. Klii.
The lioness watched her in silence, her yellow eyes, usually so sharp and demanding, now calm. She did not enter, did not ask how she was feeling. She simply stood and watched, and Ulvia sensed in that gaze not pity, not condescension, but something else. Recognition? Respect? Or simply expectation.
"Get up," Klii said. "Breakfast in an hour. Training in two. Don't be late."
She turned and left, her serpentine tail brushing against the doorframe, leaving a barely perceptible trace.
Ulvia watched her go, and inside her — where just yesterday a storm had raged — silence settled. Calm, deep. She went to the water jug, washed her face, pulled on a clean tunic — someone must have left it here while she slept. She bandaged her wounds — shoulder, forearm, thigh. Her fingers moved confidently, precisely, and she noticed that her movements had become somehow different. Smoother, perhaps. Or was that only her imagination?
She put on the glove — the familiar leather one with metal plates over the knuckles. Someone had cleaned the blood from it, oiled it, and it was once again heavy, reliable, familiar. Ulvia clenched her fist, and the glove creaked, tightening with her fingers.
She left the room. The city was living its life. Down by the fountain, children were already gathering; the llamas — the very ones who had given her the wreath — sat on its edge, chatting among themselves. Someone hurried to the House of Crafts, someone to the market, someone simply stood on their doorstep, squinting at the sun. Ulvia walked, and people turned, looking at her, at her glove, at her face, at the way she carried herself. But no one asked questions. Perhaps they knew. Perhaps they sensed.
She reached the lower training ground when the sun had already risen high enough for the shadows to grow short. Disaak, Ilnos, Viniya, Urdash, Corvin — they were all there. They were warming up, talking among themselves, and when Ulvia appeared at the edge, everyone turned to her. There was no pity in their eyes. Only the same thing she had seen in Klii's gaze. Expectation. And something more.
"Alive," Disaak said, and in his low, rumbling voice there was something like a smile.
"Alive," Ulvia answered.
She took her place in the line, and Klii, standing in the center, nodded.
"Let's begin."
The warm‑up was the same as always, but Ulvia felt that her body had changed. Movements that had once been difficult now came more easily, more quickly. She did not lose the rhythm, did not gasp for breath, did not fall. And when Klii, having finished the warm‑up, came over to her, in her yellow eyes was something Ulvia had never seen before. Approval.
"Good," Klii said. "Now — weapons work."
She pointed to the rack, and Ulvia, as always, reached for the glove. But this time Klii stopped her.
"No," she said. "Today you will work without it."
Ulvia was surprised but obeyed. She removed the glove and put it back in its place. Klii nodded.
"Your rank has changed," she said. "You are a Warrior now. Your strength is no longer in the metal. It is in you."
She stepped back a few paces and assumed a fighting stance.
"Attack."
Ulvia stepped forward. A strike. Klii sidestepped. Another strike — a miss. She did not stop, striking again and again, and with each blow she felt her body, her new rank, her changed strength begin to work together. Her strikes grew faster, more precise, heavier. Klii dodged, but now Ulvia could see her movements. She could not keep up with them, no, but she could see them. And that alone was a great deal.
"Stop," Klii said. "Enough."
Ulvia halted, breathing heavily. Klii approached her, and her heavy, warm hand rested on her shoulder.
"You are not the same as yesterday," she said. "Remember that."
She withdrew her hand and returned to the center. Ulvia remained standing, feeling beneath her skin, in her muscles, in the very depths, a new, strange power pulsing. Not like before. Different. Stronger.
After training, she went to Bagurai. The owl's home greeted her with the familiar scent of books and herbs. Bagurai sat at the long table, sorting seeds, and when Ulvia entered, he looked up. His yellow eyes behind thick glasses regarded her with interest.
"Sit down," he said. "I have been waiting for you."
She sat on the high stool, and Bagurai pushed toward her a pot with a plant she had never seen before. It was small, with thin, almost translucent leaves, and it gave off a faint, barely perceptible light.
"This is new to you," Bagurai said. "It requires not just feeling, but understanding. Your new rank opens what was previously hidden. Now you do not merely feel life. You can speak with it."
Ulvia looked at the plant. It was fragile, almost weightless, and its light — weak, flickering — seemed distant, unattainable. She closed her eyes, placed her palm on the edge of the pot, and began to breathe.
At first, nothing happened. Then, somewhere deep, in the place where her spirit dwelled, she felt a response. Faint, weak, but a response. The plant reached toward her, and she reached toward it. Not forcing, not commanding. Simply… speaking.
She opened her eyes. The light had grown brighter. Not by much, but noticeably. Bagurai watched her, and in his gaze was something like approval.
"Good," he said. "You have understood. Now — practice. Every day. Until you can do this without effort."
Ulvia nodded. She took the pot, feeling its warmth, barely perceptible, seep into her palm, rise up her arm, fill her chest. And in that warmth was something soothing, something promising.
She left Bagurai's when the sun was already sinking toward the horizon. The city was living its life. Children played by the fountain, someone hurried home, someone else was just waking from a nap. Ulvia walked slowly, feeling the fatigue of the day settle on her shoulders. But it was a good fatigue.
She returned to her room, placed the pot on the windowsill beside Hope and the two other plants. She looked at them — four sprouts, four lives that she must now protect. Hope, small and green, reached toward the light, its two tiny, pale‑green leaves open to the sun.
Ulvia touched them with her fingers. Under her touch, they trembled faintly, and she smiled.
"We will grow together," she said softly. "I am here, you are here. And someday we will become strong."
She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. The city hummed outside the window; somewhere children laughed, someone sang, steel rang. And she lay still, feeling that inside her — where her spirit dwelled — something was changing. Not growing, not yet. But becoming denser. Harder. Real.