Date: March 26, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
She hadn't planned her descent. She simply stepped off the edge, and the ground vanished from beneath her feet, and the world turned upside down, and for an instant, she felt as if she were falling again into that chasm she had once climbed out of. Wind whistled in her ears, the yellow dust of the slope rising to meet her, and somewhere below, she could already hear shouts — from both the mercenaries and the robbers who had spotted the figure flying towards them.
Five meters. Three. One.
Ulvia thrust her left hand downward, and the vine dormant in her stump responded instantly. Three thick, flexible stems burst from her palm. They pierced the earth of the slope, braking her fall, then, bending, softly caught her body, absorbing the last of the inertia. She touched the ground almost silently, only a small puff of dust rising from her feet.
The robbers who were nearest the edge of the hollow turned at the noise. Surprise flickered in their eyes, replaced by malicious grins — before them was just a girl, unarmed except for the strange glove on her right hand.
"Another one!" someone shouted, and two broke away from the main fight, heading towards her.
Ulvia didn't wait. She didn't waste time on reconnaissance. A year of training under Klii and Bagurai's watch, a year in which she fell and rose, learning to feel every movement, every beat of her spirit — all of it distilled into one short, swift moment.
She crouched, touched the ground with the fingers of her right hand. And the earth answered.
A thin, flexible shoot burst from under the feet of the nearest robber. It wrapped around his ankle, and the robber, not expecting an attack from below, crashed to his knees, dropping his sword. The second, standing slightly farther away, saw the movement but couldn't react. Two stems burst from the ground beneath him, and before he understood what was happening, his legs were tightly bound by vines pulling towards the earth itself, like the roots of an old tree.
"What the—" he began, but didn't finish.
Ulvia was already there. Her right fist, encased in the metal glove, met his temple, and he collapsed to the ground without even a cry, raising a cloud of dust.
She straightened, looking around. The main battle raged in the center of the hollow. The mercenaries were holding, but there were only four of them against nearly a dozen robbers. The woman with the daggers was retreating, pressed by three opponents at once. The grey-haired man, covering her, took a blow to the shoulder and barely kept his feet.
Ulvia moved forward, and now she didn't hide her power.
---
She took the first attacker, the one pressing the woman, from a distance. Her left hand, hidden beneath her sleeve, shot out a long, flexible stem. It grew before their eyes, lengthening, and in a moment wrapped around the robber's sword. He jerked, trying to pull free, but the vine tightened, not letting him lower or raise his weapon. The woman with the daggers, not wasting a moment, stepped forward and with a short, precise movement placed her blade against the throat of the second attacker.
"Don't move," she said, her voice calm, as if she hadn't been a hair's breadth from death moments before.
The third, left without cover, tried to retreat, but Ulvia didn't allow it. Her left hand, still entwining the first robber's sword, suddenly changed. The vine holding the weapon loosened for a moment, and a new, thin shoot burst from her fingers. It didn't wrap around or constrict. It simply touched the retreating man's neck.
The robber froze. His eyes widened, his arms fell limply to his sides, and a second later, he crumpled to the ground, plunged into a deep, dreamless sleep.
It was a plant Bagurai called "sleep-grass." Its sap, entering the bloodstream, acted faster than any potion. Ulvia always carried it within her — a tiny, barely visible thorn on her fingertip, ready to become a weapon at any moment.
"What was that?" asked the woman with the daggers, looking at the fallen robber.
"Sleeping draught," Ulvia replied curtly, already turning to face new opponents.
There were five left. Those pressing the spearmen, and two hanging back slightly, covering their comrades' backs.
"Shoot!" someone shouted, and the two standing aside raised their bows.
Ulvia saw the bowstrings draw taut, saw the arrowheads glint dully as they aimed at her. She didn't dodge. She simply raised her right hand and snapped her fingers.
A wall burst from the ground before her. Not thick, not wooden — living. Dozens of thin, flexible stems intertwined in an instant, creating a dense, quivering barrier. The arrows embedded themselves in it, stuck, causing no harm. The stems trembled but didn't part.
"Impossible," one of the robbers breathed.
Ulvia lowered her hand, and the wall of vines, obedient to her will, began to dissolve, sinking back into the earth. But she didn't wait for them to recover. She stepped forward, and her left hand, hidden behind her back a moment ago, shot out a long, flexible whip. It wrapped around three robbers at once, squeezing their shoulders, their arms, pressing them together. They screamed, trying to break free, but the vine held fast.
The fourth, the one giving orders, was quicker. He jumped aside, drew a short sword, and, without hesitation, charged at Ulvia.
She recognized him as a Woitel. Not by rank — by his movements. They were faster, more precise, more confident than the others. And his strike carried a strength the common robbers lacked.
Ulvia stepped back, letting the sword pass her by. Her left hand, now free of the entangled robbers, changed again. The briar she had used earlier vanished. In its place, a thin, curved blade grew from her palm — not steel, but living, made of wood-hard vine. Small, barely visible thorns ran along its edge, each saturated with sleep-grass sap.
The robber leader attacked again. His sword whistled through the air, strikes raining down one after another. Ulvia dodged, blocked, retreated, but not because she couldn't counter. She was waiting. Waiting for him to tire, for his movements to become just a little slower, a little more predictable.
It happened after a few seconds. He swung too wide, and Ulvia, seizing the moment, stepped forward. Her living blade slid along his forearm, leaving a thin, barely noticeable cut. The robber jerked, stepped back, raised his sword for another strike... and froze.
His eyes widened, his arms fell limply, and a moment later, he dropped to his knees, then slumped sideways, plunged into a deep sleep.
Ulvia lowered her hand. The blade, obedient to her will, began to slowly, gradually retract, leaving only a faint, barely perceptible warmth where her stump was. She looked around. All around, lying on the ground, were robbers bound with vines. Some were already asleep; others, entangled hand and foot, tried to free themselves, but the stems held tight. The woman with the daggers approached the nearest one and touched his shoulder.
"What is this?" she asked, and there was no fear in her voice. Only curiosity.
"My power," Ulvia replied shortly. "Don't worry. They won't escape."
She walked over to the wagons. The mercenaries, now free, were already tending wounds and gathering scattered weapons. The grey-haired man, who had been covering the others, sat on the driver's seat, his shoulder tightly wrapped with a cloth. Seeing Ulvia, he nodded.
"You handled them fiercely," he said. "Haven't seen that in a long time. Are you... from the Order?"
"I'm a traveler," Ulvia answered. "I heard the screams. Decided to help."
She shifted her gaze to the wagon, the one closest to the edge of the hollow. On its side, beneath layers of grime and dust, metal glinted faintly. Ulvia moved closer, looking carefully.
The sign. Old, worn by time, but still distinguishable. A bridge. A stone bridge spanning a river that wasn't there. The same one she had seen in the Temple. The one that pointed her way.
She stood, unable to tear her eyes away. Inside her, where her spirit lived, everything was quiet. Not fear. Understanding. She hadn't come here by chance. This caravan, these people, this battle — all of it was part of what she was meant to find.
"That's my grandfather's sign," a voice said beside her.
Ulvia turned. The woman who had been commanding the mercenaries stood two steps away, her face, pale after the battle, now calm. She looked at the sign, and there was something like sadness in her eyes.
"He was a cartographer," the woman continued. "Spent his whole life looking for that bridge. He said it leads to a place where you can find answers. Or die trying. He never found it. But the sign remained."
"What's your name?" Ulvia asked.
"Mira," the woman extended her hand. "This is my caravan. And I believe I owe you my life."
Ulvia shook her outstretched hand.
"I'm looking for that bridge," she said. "I need to know where it leads."
Mira looked at her for a long time, appraisingly. Then she nodded.
"Then perhaps we're headed the same way," she said. "Stay with us. At least until evening. And tomorrow... tomorrow we'll talk."
Ulvia nodded. She walked to the edge of the hollow, where the vines still held the prisoners, and sat down on the ground, leaning her back against a warm stone. Her body hummed, but it was a good kind of fatigue. The kind that says: you did everything you could. She removed her glove, wiped the sweat from her forehead, and closed her eyes.