Date: February 21, 543 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The white world stretched on endlessly. Sand, rocks, rare bushes of transparent grass — all flashed before their eyes, merging into a monotonous, wearying picture. They had been walking for two days now since leaving the tower, and the goal was close. Ulvia felt it — somewhere in her chest, where the green leaf pulsed. The Herald was waiting. He wasn't hiding. He knew they were coming.
The party moved in silence. Each was lost in their own thoughts, and only the steady crunch of sand underfoot broke the quiet. Wind, a rare guest in this world, blew stronger than usual today, its gusts tugging at their hair, making them squint.
Datuk walked second, right behind Ulvia. His axe lay heavy on his shoulder, and he absently stroked the blade — checking if it had dulled after yesterday's sharpening. Memories swirled in his head. The ones he tried not to touch, but which surfaced on their own when it grew too quiet.
*Two weeks ago. The Tower.*
Datuk sat in his cell, clutching the green leaf in his hand. He was the last. Ulvia had gotten hers before the tower, Sobra four months ago, Rosh two months ago. Now it was his turn.
The leaf pulsed, shimmered, and radiated warmth — just like the first one Ulvia had eaten. Datuk looked at it, and inside him, where the Spirit of the Berserker lived, something stirred. Not fear. Anticipation.
"Alright, come on," he said and swallowed the leaf.
The effect was instantaneous.
Heat spread through his body, but not the gentle kind he had expected — it was searing, like molten metal. It poured into his Vessel, expanded the channels, and Datuk felt his muscles tense, his bones grow heavier, the skin on his hands begin to redden. He roared — not from pain, but from the rage that suddenly flooded him. The Spirit of the Berserker awoke.
Datuk leaped up, grabbed his axe, and drove it into the stone wall of his cell with all his might. The blade sank into the stone up to the haft. The wall cracked, and small fragments scattered on the floor. The dwarf wrenched the axe out, looked at the blade — not a scratch. Then at his hands. They didn't tremble.
He walked into the central hall where the others were training. Without a word, he approached the heavy stone block — the one they used as a target for practicing strike force. He swung. The axe traced an arc, and the block shattered into three pieces.
Ulvia whistled. Rosh raised an eyebrow. Sobra snorted.
"Not bad," said Datuk, wiping sweat from his brow. His breathing was steady, though his heart hammered somewhere in his throat. "Not bad at all."
He felt his regeneration quicken. His muscles grew denser, and each strike now required less effort but yielded more result. He was close. Very close. One more step, and he could have crossed the Herald's threshold.
But he didn't cross. He stopped at the edge, feeling the new power pulsing within him but not yet breaking free. Not yet time.
*Rosh walked third. His fingers were woven into the pattern, and vectors — thin, almost invisible — hovered around him, ready to strike at any moment. He didn't look at them — he felt them. Every single one, even the weakest.*
*Two months ago. The Tower.*
He received the green leaf after Sobra. Ulvia brought it to his cell, laid it on the table, and left without a word. Rosh looked at the leaf for a long time.
He swallowed it, without overthinking.
At first he felt nothing. Just a faint warmth spreading through his body. Then his fingers began to tremble. He tried to steady them, but couldn't — they moved on their own, tracing vectors in the air. Dozens of vectors. More than ever before.
Rosh closed his eyes and felt the space around him. Every crack in the wall, every speck of dust on the floor, every breath of his comrades in the neighboring cells. The vectors became faster, thinner, and he could control them without strain.
He walked into the central hall. Sobra was training on the track, and Ulvia was repairing her glove. Rosh approached a stone pillar, raised his hand — and released thirty vectors at once. They pierced the stone, carving an intricate pattern into it. Deep. Perfect.
Ulvia looked up, gazed at the pattern.
"Beautiful," she said.
Rosh nodded. He felt his Vessel expand, his channels widen, energy flowing through them faster than before.
*Sobra was the second to receive the green leaf. His paws stepped softly, silently, and he kept twitching his nose, sniffing the scents of the wasteland. He was calm. Focused.*
*Two months ago. The Tower.*
Sobra got the green leaf. Ulvia brought it and placed it on the floor before him. The bear looked at the leaf, then at her. She nodded. He swallowed.
The effect was not like that of the humans. Sobra didn't feel heat — only a deep, aching pain in his muscles that lasted no more than a minute. And then his body changed.
His fur grew thicker, the silver stripes flared brighter, and he felt his Vessel expand, letting in new strength. He stood up and ran. In circles, the largest circle the tower had. Five laps. Ten. Twenty. He didn't tire.
Datuk, watching him, whistled.
"Way to go, furball," he said.
Sobra stopped, caught his breath. His heart beat steady, calm. He felt his regeneration quicken, his muscles grow denser, his claws — longer and sharper.
---
Ahead, beyond a rocky ridge, the familiar valley came into view. The same place where they had first met the Herald.
"We're close," said Datuk, shifting his axe.
"Close," Rosh agreed.
Sobra snorted.
Ulvia stopped at the edge of the ridge, looked back at her companions. They were ready. Not perfect — but ready.
"Let's go," she said.