Date: March 27, 541 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
The following days became a time of discovery for Ulviya. Every morning she came to the lower training ground to see Clii, and her body, accustomed to pain, now worked in a new way. She did not just repeat movements — she felt them. Every strike, every step, every exhalation resonated in her new hand, in her spirit, in that strange, pulsing warmth that now lived in her chest. Clii did not comment on her progress, only nodded, sometimes corrected her, sometimes made her repeat again and again. But Ulviya saw: in the yellow eyes of the lioness, something that could be taken for approval flickered more and more often.
After training, she went to Bagurai. In his underground workshop, time flowed differently. Here, in the semi-darkness, among glowing roots and thousands of pots, she learned what is not taught on the surface. She learned to be herself. But not the self she had been before — a new one, one who could change form, who could become a weapon or a shield, who could grow through stone and reach for the light.
"Today," Bagurai said as she entered the workshop, "we will begin with you trying not just to create a hand, but to change it while moving."
He pointed to the dark stone circle in the center of the hall. Inside the circle, on the floor, three plants were laid out. Ulviya recognized them — vine, rosehip, and a thin, almost weightless stem Bagurai called "dancer." She had learned to feel them, distinguish them, understand which was needed for what.
"Stand in the center," Bagurai said. "Create a hand from vine. Then, when I say, change it to rosehip. Then to dancer. And so on, until you are exhausted."
Ulviya nodded. She entered the circle, closed her eyes, reached out to the first plant. The vine responded immediately — it was always obedient, flexible, familiar. The new hand formed quickly, and Ulviya opened her eyes, looked at it. Green, with thin, long fingers, it was almost beautiful.
"Good," Bagurai said. "Now — rosehip."
Ulviya focused. The vine began to change — the stems thickened, thorns emerged on them, short, sharp, dangerous. The hand became heavier, harder, and the fingers that a moment ago were flexible now ended in hard, pointed growths.
"Slow," Bagurai noted. "But acceptable. Now — dancer."
She reached out to the third plant, and here difficulties began. The dancer was capricious. It did not like being forced, did not like being rushed. Ulviya felt her spirit, her new, strong power, trying to subdue the plant, but it slipped away, writhed, refusing to take form.
"Don't force it," Bagurai said. "You are not its master. You are a part. Just be near."
Ulviya exhaled, relaxed. And in that moment, when she stopped demanding, the plant responded. The hand changed — becoming light, almost weightless, the fingers turning into thin, flexible threads that swayed in an invisible wind.
"Good," Bagurai said. "Now — vine again."
She changed the form again and again. Vine, rosehip, dancer. Rosehip, vine, dancer. Dancer, rosehip, vine. Each time faster, more confidently. By the end of the day, she could change her hand, a little bit faster, and Bagurai, watching her from behind the table, nodded.
"Enough," he said. "We will continue tomorrow. But today, before you leave, I want to show you something."
He walked to the wall, where a single pot sat in a deep niche. The plant in it was small, inconspicuous, with gray, almost invisible leaves. Ulviya felt nothing from it — no warmth, no life, no response.
"This is false root," Bagurai said. "You already know it. It is poisonous, but not deadly. It makes one weak, slow, defenseless. Its poison does not kill, it simply... takes strength."
He took the pot and placed it before her.
"Try to create a hand from it."
Ulviya froze. She remembered the first time she had felt false root. Emptiness. Cold. Wrongness. She did not want to feel that again.
"I... I don't know if I can," she said.
"You can," Bagurai answered calmly. "Your fear does not make you weak. It makes you cautious. And caution is what you need when working with poison."
Taking a deep breath, she reached out her hand to the plant. Her spirit, her new, strong power, recoiled, unwilling to touch it. But she forced herself. Not by violence, but by patience. Just being near. Breathing. Waiting.
And in this emptiness, this cold, she suddenly felt something else. Not life, no. But something that was before life. A memory of when this plant was something else. Before the corruption touched it. Before it became false.
She opened her eyes. Her new hand, made of vine, was still in place. She had not been able to change it. But she understood.
"It's not its fault," she said. "It's just... sick."
Bagurai looked at her for a long time, and in his yellow eyes, something like satisfaction appeared.
"You are right," he said. "It is sick. But it is not hopeless. And one day, when you are strong enough, you will be able to help it. And that, Ulviya, will be your true gift. Not to kill, but to heal. Not to destroy, but to create."
He put the pot back in the niche, and Ulviya watched him go, feeling that inside her, where her spirit dwelt, something was changing. Not growing — not yet. But finding its place.
---
After her lessons with Bagurai, she went to the lower training ground. Today, Clii had allowed her to join the sparring, and Ulviya had been waiting for this since morning.
Disak was already there. He stood in the center, stretching his shoulders, and when he saw Ulviya, he nodded.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready," she answered, clenching her new hand into a fist.
They began. Disak was slow, but his strikes were heavy, and Ulviya felt the air hum as his axe passed close. She dodged, moved sideways, tried to find a gap in his defense. But he was too strong. Too experienced.
"You think too much," he said, when she retreated once more. "Don't think. Feel."
Ulviya exhaled. And at the moment he raised his axe for another strike, she did what she had never done before. She changed her hand. From vine to rosehip. The fingers sharpened, became hard, dangerous. She stepped forward, directly into the strike, and instead of blocking, she struck.
Disak grunted, stepped back. On his shoulder, where the thorns had touched his skin, blood appeared.
"Not bad," he said, and respect flickered in his eyes. "Again."
They continued. Ulviya changed her hand without thinking. Rosehip for attack, vine for defense, dancer to slip away, to be faster, lighter, more elusive. She did not win, no. Disak was too strong, too experienced. But she made him work. And that was more than she could have done a week ago.
"Stop," Clii said as the sun began to set. "Enough for today."
Ulviya lowered her hand, breathing heavily. Disak stood opposite her, and on his fur-covered face, something like a smile appeared.
"You have become stronger," he said. "But that is not the main thing. You have become faster. Smarter. More dangerous."
"Thank you," Ulviya answered.
"You're welcome," he extended his paw, and she shook it. "We will continue tomorrow."
---
Ulviya looked at her new hand — made of vine, green, alive. And she knew that tomorrow this hand would become something else. Rosehip, dancer, perhaps even false root. But that didn't matter. What mattered was that she could choose.
She lay down on her bed, closed her eyes. The city hummed outside the window, children laughed somewhere, someone sang, steel rang. And she lay and felt that inside her, where her spirit dwelt, something was growing. Not fast, no. But steadily. Like a root reaching for water. Like a stem pushing through stone. Like life, which always wins.