Date: March 26, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
The forest she had ventured into after encountering the shattered column was different from any she had known before. There was neither the familiar silence of the Forest Dwellers' city nor the wary quiet of foreign thickets. Here, the air was dense, saturated with the scent of pine needles and dampness, and the trees stood so close together that their branches intertwined into a continuous green canopy, barely letting any sunlight through. The path she followed was barely visible — not an animal trail, not a human one, but something else, perhaps born of nature itself to guide those who knew how to listen.
Ulvia walked slowly but surely. Several days had passed since she left the city. Days and nights had merged into a single, steady rhythm — rising at dawn, traveling until sunset, a short sleep under the roots of old trees, and then traveling again. Her body had grown accustomed to this rhythm, and the muscles trained by Klii worked flawlessly. Every morning, before setting out, she found a place to train. It was a ritual she never broke, even here, deep within this unfamiliar forest.
This morning was no exception. She awoke as the first rays of sun began to pierce the dense canopy and, without wasting time on thought, began her warm-up. Squats, lunges, push-ups — first on one arm, then the other. She removed her glove, stretching her fingers, but did not summon her power, did not change her form. She simply worked with what she had. Then came strikes against the trunk of an old oak — short, sharp, honed to automaticity by a year of training. The bark cracked, and the tree shuddered but did not take offense. It seemed to understand.
"Enough for today," she said, pulling on her glove. "Time to go."
---
By midday, the forest began to thin. The trees parted, giving way to open spaces, and ahead, beyond the hills visible on the horizon, Ulvia made out a wide, beaten road. She quickened her pace, and soon the forest finally released her, letting her out onto its edge.
It was bright here, almost like daytime, and the air smelled not of pine needles, but of sun-warmed earth and dry grass. She stopped at the edge, listening. The silence was uneasy. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the hills, came a strange, growing rumble. Not wind — something else, heavier, denser. Ulvia frowned. Her spirit, her power, usually calm and steady, suddenly began to pulse, warning her of something.
She took a step forward, and at that moment, a sound tore through the silence, a sound that made the blood freeze in her veins.
It was a scream. Human, full of pain and fear, it echoed over the hills, struck her ears, made her heart skip a beat. And following it — the clang of steel, dull thuds, the pounding of many feet.
Ulvia didn't think. She ran.
---
She ran down the slope, wind whistling in her ears, the ground dry and cracked beneath her feet, each step kicking up a cloud of dust. She didn't know what was down there, didn't know who was screaming or who was attacking. But she knew she had to be there.
Below, in a small hollow, stood a caravan. Three large wagons, covered with dark tarpaulins, were drawn into a circle, forming a kind of barricade. Inside the circle, huddled together, stood people — a woman with a child in her arms, two elderly people, several men with axes and pitchforks. And surrounding them, tightening the circle, moved the attackers.
But they weren't the ones who had screamed.
On the slope, slightly above the caravan, a battle was unfolding. Several people in sturdy, though worn, armor, with swords drawn, fought against a band of robbers. They were outnumbered — four against ten — but they held their ground confidently, working together. One of them, a tall man with grey in his hair, covered the retreat of his comrades, his sword whistling through the air, keeping the attackers at bay. Two others, stocky men with short spears, worked in tandem, pushing the enemies back from the wagons. The fourth, a woman in light leather armor with two daggers in her hands, moved the fastest of all, her blades flashing through the air, leaving bloody gashes on the robbers' bodies.
Mercenaries. Ulvia recognized it immediately from their movements — precise, economical, without wasted effort. They weren't like the ones attacking first. They were defending the caravan.
And they were succeeding. One robber already lay on the ground, unmoving; two others, wounded, had retreated to the edge of the hollow. In another minute, the mercenaries would crush the rest. Ulvia could see it. They were winning.
Suddenly, her heart stopped.
On the side of a wagon was carved a 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.
Ulvia stared at the sign, and deep inside her, where her spirit resided, everything went quiet. Not fear — no. 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.
She shifted her gaze to the woman with the child, to the elderly, to the men with pitchforks who dared not attack. To the mercenaries who were holding on but beginning to tire. A little more, and the robbers, whose numbers were dwindling, might falter and flee. Or they might not.
Ulvia clenched her fist. The metal plates of her glove creaked habitually, tightening with her fingers. She didn't know why this caravan mattered to the Temple. Didn't know why the sign was here. But she knew one thing: she couldn't just walk past.
Below, in the hollow, the robbers attacked again, and the mercenaries met them with a wall of steel. The woman with the daggers took a step back, her face pale with strain. The grey-haired man, covering her, took a blow to the shoulder and nearly fell.
Ulvia clenched her fist tighter. She was ready. Another moment, and she would leap down into the thick of the fight. Another moment, and the robbers would learn what it meant to stand in the path of someone who had walked through the forest, through pain, through her own death.