Date: April 17, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
Ulvia woke to silence. Outside it was still dark, but somewhere far away, beyond the hills, the sky was beginning to lighten. She lay on the bench, listening to the house breathe. Mila slept in the next room, her breathing even, calm. The clock on the wall had stopped — someone had forgotten to wind it in the evening, and the silence felt almost tangible.
She sat up, stretched. Her body was heavy after yesterday, but it was a good heaviness. The kind that comes after a long day when you've done everything you wanted, and fatigue arrives not as sickness but as peace.
She pulled on her boots, fastened the straps. Her left arm under her sleeve was calm, the vine sleeping. The column in her pocket was warm, its warmth echoing in her chest, reminding her it was time.
On the table, Mila had left breakfast — bread, a mug of milk, a pot of honey. Ulvia ate in silence, trying not to make noise. Then she checked her bundle — everything was in place.
She stepped onto the porch as the eastern sky was just beginning to turn pink.
---
There were many of them. Almost the whole village had gathered — women in warm headscarves, men in work jackets, children still sleepy, clinging to their mothers. Old Agnar stood by the gate, leaning on a stick, watching her with his faded but sharp eyes. Mark stepped forward when Ulvia approached.
"Did you forget anything?" he asked.
"No," she answered. "Everything's with me."
He nodded, and on his usually stern face, something warm flickered.
"Then go," he said. "And may the road be kind to you."
He extended his hand, and Ulvia shook it — firmly, as one man to another. Cort came next, clapped her on the shoulder.
"If you need help — you know where to find us," he said. "Our doors are open to you."
"Thank you," Ulvia replied.
Erk, his brother, the one she had saved from the wolves, approached, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. He was young, and his face, still pale from the wound, was now serious.
"I'm in your debt," he said. "If you ever need my arm — call."
"Take care of yourself," Ulvia answered. "That will be thanks enough."
He nodded and stepped back, hiding his eyes.
---
The children — those who had touched her hand yesterday — stood to one side. The boy who had first dared to touch the vine stepped forward, holding something wrapped in cloth.
"This is for you," he said, offering the bundle. "To remember."
Ulvia unwrapped it. Inside was a stone — smooth, grey, with a flower scratched onto it. Awkward, crooked, but done with care.
"I made it myself," the boy said, pride in his voice. "So you won't forget."
"I won't forget," Ulvia put the stone in her pocket, beside the column. "Thank you."
He beamed and ran back to his mother, hiding his face in her skirt.
---
Mila came last. She kept calm, but Ulvia saw her hands tremble as she adjusted her headscarf.
"Did you get everything?" she asked.
"Everything," Ulvia answered.
"And the handkerchief? I embroidered it for you."
"I took it."
"And the herbs? For colds, for wounds, for fatigue. I put them in, everything's labeled."
"I took it all."
Mila nodded, was silent for a moment. Then she stepped forward and hugged her — tightly, maternally, like yesterday, like so many times over these days.
"Come back," she said. "When you can."
"I'll try," Ulvia replied.
She felt her throat tighten, but she didn't let the tears fall. Not here. Not now.
Mila pulled back, wiped her eyes, and smiled.
"Go," she said. "Don't keep us waiting."
---
Gavil was waiting for her at the edge of the village. He stood with a backpack over his shoulders, and Ulvia was about to say he didn't need to walk her, but he shook his head.
"I promised," he said. "To the forest edge."
They walked together. The path, familiar down to every stone, led them east, past the field, past the hills, to where the forest began as a dense wall. Ulvia walked, and each step took her farther from the village that had become almost home.
"Will you find it?" Gavil asked when they reached the ridge.
"I hope so," she answered.
He was silent for a moment, then asked:
"And if not?"
Ulvia looked at him. In his light, open eyes there was nothing but hope.
"Then maybe I'll come back," she said. "Sooner or later."
He nodded, and in his smile flickered something boyish.
"Then I'll wait."
---
At the forest edge, where the path disappeared into the trees, he stopped.
"I won't go further," he said. "You go alone."
Ulvia nodded. They stood facing each other, and words were unnecessary. Gavil extended his hand, and she shook it.
"Take care of yourself," she said.
"I will," he nodded. "You too."
She turned and stepped onto the path.
---
She walked into the forest, and the trees closed behind her. The path wound between trunks, and Ulvia walked, feeling the column in her pocket grow warmer, pulsing in time with her steps. It led her east. To where her next trial awaited.
---
She walked, and the forest around her changed. The trees grew taller, the trunks thicker, and somewhere in the distance, through the leaves, light broke through. She didn't look back. The village remained behind — with its smells, its voices, its people who had become almost family. Mila, Mark, Cort, Erk, the boy with the stone. And Gavil, who promised to wait.
She walked, and the column guided her. The warmth in her pocket was steady, confident. It didn't hurry, didn't push — simply pointed the way. To where answers awaited her.
The forest grew denser, and Ulvia quickened her pace. Ahead, through the branches, she could see a clearing. She emerged into the open as the sun stood at its zenith. The column in her pocket pulsed stronger, and Ulvia knew — she was on the right path.
She stopped at the edge of the clearing, looking east. There, beyond the forests, beyond the hills, what she sought awaited her. She didn't know what it would be. Didn't know how long the journey would last. But she knew she had to go.
She took the first step. Then the second. The forest received her, and Ulvia stepped into the shadow of the trees, to where the column led her onward.