The forest she stepped into was not the one surrounding the city of the Forest Dwellers. That forest had been a home — warm, familiar, with paths she knew by heart, with trees that whispered their names as she passed. This one was different. Alien. It greeted her with silence — not calm, but wary, as if listening to her, judging whether to let her pass.
Ulviya walked slowly, and each step took her further from the city that had become her home. She did not look back — Clii had told her not to, and she knew it was right. The past remains where you leave it. If you look back, you begin to doubt. And doubt is a burden not needed on a journey.
She carried Hope in her left hand — her real, human hand. Her right, woven from vine, was free, and her fingers, flexible and sensitive, occasionally touched the trunks she passed. The trees here were different. They did not know her, and their bark was rough, cold, but beneath that roughness she felt life — the same as everywhere. Deep, patient, eternal.
She walked until evening. The sun, breaking through the dense crowns, left golden patches on the ground, and they moved with her, as if alive, as if pointing the way. She did not know where she was going — only what she had seen in the Temple: a bridge, old, stone, spanning a river that was not there. A column, broken, overgrown with moss. A tree with silver leaves, glowing from within like a small sun.
As the sun began to set, Ulviya stopped in a small clearing. It was dry here, and the ground beneath her feet was hard, packed.
She crouched, touching the earth with her fingers. Dry, hard, but not dead. Beneath, deep down, she felt moisture, and roots — not hers, alien, but alive — reaching towards her as if towards a source of warmth. Ulviya smiled.
"Here we will spend the night," she said, and in her voice there was something of the girl who once spoke to flowers in the orphanage.
---
She did not light a fire. Sleeping in the open, alone, in an unfamiliar forest — it was risky, but fire could attract more than just warmth. She remembered what Clii had taught her: "In the forest, you are not alone. You are either part of it, or prey. A fire says: 'I am here. I am afraid of the dark.' Don't let the forest know you are afraid."
Closing her eyes, she reached for her hand. The vine responded immediately, and Ulviya felt her spirit, her power, flow through these thin, flexible fibers, filling every cell. She did not change its form — she simply felt. How the fingers clenched and unclenched. How the vine became harder when needed, and softer when needed. How it breathed — slowly, in rhythm with her heart.
She opened her eyes. The forest around her was black, and only somewhere far away, in the west, a thin strip of light still glowed. The stars were already lighting up, and their light, cold and distant, fell upon the clearing, making the shadows even thicker, even darker.
Ulviya stood, stretched. Her body was heavy after the long walk, but it was a good heaviness. The kind that says: you have done all you could. Now — rest.
She lay down on the ground, using her bundle as a pillow. Ulviya closed her eyes and slipped into sleep.
---
She dreamed of a city. Not the one she had left, but another — old, stone, with high walls and narrow streets that wound between houses like snakes. She walked through these streets, and her steps echoed hollowly in the emptiness. No one. Only her, the stones, and the wind driving dry leaves along the pavement.
Then the street led her to a bridge. Old, stone, spanning a river that was not there. The water beneath was black, still, and she looked into it, and in that blackness reflected the sky — also black, without stars, without moon.
"Do you know where to go?" someone asked nearby.
She turned. No one. Only the wind, only the leaves, only the black water beneath the bridge that led nowhere.
"I know," she said, and her voice was firm. "I know."
She woke as the first rays of sunlight touched her face. The forest was the same, but different. Light, alive, with birdsong and the rustle of wind in the leaves. Ulviya sat up, stretched. The dream faded, leaving behind only a strange, aching feeling. As if something important had been said, but she could not remember what.
"Time to go," she said.
---
She walked all day. The forest changed, sometimes thicker, sometimes thinner, and she walked, feeling her spirit, her power, reaching towards something ahead. Not the bridge, not the column — towards something else, something she did not yet have a name for.
Towards evening, she came to a stream. The water was clear, cold, and without hesitation, she undressed and stepped in. The cold burned her skin, and she paused for a moment, feeling her body adjust, her muscles relax, the water wash away the sweat and dust of the long journey. She stood in the stream, eyes closed, listening to the water gurgling over the stones, the wind rustling in the leaves, a bird calling somewhere in the distance.
---
She spent the night in the open. The forest around her was alive, and she felt its breath, its warmth, its sleep. She sat at the roots of an old oak, her hands on her knees, watching the stars. They were the same as over the orphanage. The same as over the city of the Forest Dwellers. And that was good. Stars do not change. They are always there, always waiting for you to look up and remember that you are part of something greater.
She thought of her friends. Of Kaedan, who had probably already become a great warrior, whose armor could withstand blows that shattered rocks. Of Gil, who had probably finished her academy and become the smartest among them. Of Dur, who had probably found his path in the east, found what he was looking for. They were far away, and she did not know if she would ever see them again. But they were there. Somewhere, beneath these same stars. And that was enough.
She closed her eyes and fell into a dreamless sleep.
---
In the morning, she woke to something touching her face. She opened her eyes — a branch was leaning over her, water dripping from its tip. Rain. Fine, warm, it fell upon the earth, and the forest around her rustled, lived, breathed. Ulviya stood, stretched. Her body was damp, but it was pleasant. As if the forest were saying: "I am here. I am with you."
The rain did not stop, and she walked beneath it, feeling the water run down her face, her neck, her arms. Her new hand, woven from vine, absorbed the moisture, becoming heavier, but it did not hinder her. She walked, and the forest around her changed. The trees became taller, the trunks thicker, and somewhere ahead, through the curtain of rain, she saw light.
She quickened her pace. The light grew brighter, and when she emerged into a clearing, the rain suddenly stopped. The sun broke through the clouds, and its rays, golden, warm, fell upon the ground, upon the grass, upon the stones. And in the center of the clearing stood a column.
It was old, broken, overgrown with moss. Its top was shattered, and fragments lay nearby, embedded in the earth. But it stood. And Ulviya, looking at it, felt something inside her, where her spirit dwelled, respond. Quietly, barely perceptibly, but respond.
She approached, placed her hand on the stone. It was cold, rough, and beneath her fingers she felt every crack, every scratch. She closed her eyes and listened. Not with her ears — with something else. Something that had awakened in her that day in the clearing. Something that had grown and strengthened with each passing day.
The column was silent. But in its silence was something Ulviya understood. She was not here by chance. This stone, this forest, this path — all were part of what she had seen in the Temple. And she knew she must go on.
She opened her eyes, looked at the column. Then looked ahead, to where beyond the trees, in the west, the forest began again. There, somewhere ahead, the bridge waited. And the tree with silver leaves. And the thing for which she had set out on this path.
"I am coming," she said quietly.
The forest closed behind her, and she walked through it, beneath the stars lighting up one by one. The path was long. But she knew she was going the right way.