Date: April 8-12, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
Every morning, Ulvia rose before dawn, went beyond the outskirts, and walked to the bridge. The path had become almost familiar by now — she knew every turn, every stone, every tree she passed. Ulvia examined the bridge from every angle, again and again. She descended into the ravine, circled the arches, ran her fingers over the stones, hoping to feel something. She sat on the edge, looking east, and waited. Nothing. The bridge was silent.
By midday, she returned, helped Mila with chores, mended fences, carried water. The village had grown used to her. The women no longer whispered when she passed, the children no longer hid behind fences. Even the dogs, initially barking at the stranger, now slept peacefully by their kennels as she walked by.
Mark, the headman, occasionally exchanged a few words with her when they met at the well. He asked if she had found what she was looking for. She said no. He nodded and went on, asking no further questions.
---
On the fifth day, Ulvia returned from the bridge earlier than usual. The sun was still not high, the shadows long, when she noticed a group of men in the field beyond the outskirts.
There were about ten of them. They stood on a flat, trampled patch of ground, and Ulvia, looking closer, realized — they were training. Two were sparring in the center, practicing movements, the others watching, exchanging occasional words. She recognized some of them — Mark stood to one side, arms crossed, beside him the two young men she had seen her first day, axes at their belts.
Ulvia stopped at the edge of the field, watching. This wasn't what Klii had taught her — no complex techniques, no refined movements. The men worked roughly, relying more on strength than precision. But there was truth in it. Simple, understandable.
She watched as one of the young men — broad-shouldered, dark-haired — tried to repeat a movement Mark had shown him and couldn't. Mark corrected him, positioned his hands, explained something, but the young man still faltered.
Ulvia took a step forward. Then another.
The men noticed her only after a moment. Mark was the first to look up, his face showing surprise when he saw who was approaching. Then the others turned, and silence fell over the field. Someone coughed, someone adjusted his shirt, as if unsure where to put his hands.
"What do you want, girl?" asked one of the older men, the reddish-bearded one Ulvia remembered from her first day. "Lost?"
"No," she came closer, stopped at the edge of the circle. "May I join you?"
The men exchanged glances. Mark raised an eyebrow, an unreadable expression on his face.
"You want to train?" he asked. "With us?"
"Yes."
The field fell silent again. Then someone snorted, someone chuckled. The red-bearded man opened his mouth to say something, but Mark silenced him with a look.
Mark looked at her for a long time. Then he nodded.
"Well, show us what you've got."
She stepped into the center. The men parted, and Ulvia felt their gazes on her — curious, appraising, skeptical. She began her warm-up. Squats, lunges, torso rotations — quick, without pause, making each movement automatic. Then strikes — short, sharp, without wasted motion. Her right hand in its glove moved precisely, her left, hidden beneath her sleeve, did not hinder her.
When she stopped, the field was silent. The men looked at her differently. The red-bearded man opened his mouth, closed it. The young man who had been trying to copy Mark's movement stared wide-eyed.
"Not bad," Mark said after a pause. "Where did you learn?"
"In the south," Ulvia replied shortly. "May I join you?"
"You may," he nodded, and there was something like respect in his voice.
---
She came to the field every morning after inspecting the bridge. The men, initially keeping their distance, gradually grew accustomed. Some asked her to show a move, others just watched, memorizing. Mark sometimes approached, asked where she knew this or that technique, and Ulvia told him — evasively, without detail, but enough for him to understand: behind her were years of training and a true master.
The young man, whose name was Gavil, was the village's best hunter. He was tall, strong, with perpetually tousled hair and a quick, easy smile. During training, he stayed close to Ulvia, copied her, trying to keep up, and he succeeded — he was strong, fast, learned quickly.
On the third day, he approached her after training. The men were dispersing, some to the fields, some to their homes. Gavil waited at the edge of the field, shifting from foot to foot.
"You fight well," he said when Ulvia came over.
"Thank you."
"I'm not the worst hunter here," he grinned, adjusting his belt. "I could show you the forests, if you want. Out beyond the hills, there's plenty of game. Maybe we could go? See how you are with a bow."
Ulvia looked up at him. He looked at her with hope, and in his eyes, open, light, there was nothing but genuine interest.
"Thank you," she said. "But I won't be staying long."
"Mark said you were looking at the bridge. Find anything?"
"No," she shook her head. "Not yet. But I'm hoping."
"Maybe I could help?" he stepped closer. "I know every stone there. I've been climbing there since I was a kid. If there's anything to find, I'll find it."
Ulvia looked at him. He was sincere. And it was pleasant — to feel that someone was willing to help just because, not for payment or a favor. But she knew that what she sought was not hidden in stones. It was inside. Inside her. And no one could find it for her.
"Thank you, Gavil," she said softly. "But I have to do this myself. And once I solve this riddle of the bridge, I'll move on."
He was silent for a moment. Then he nodded, and something flickered in his eyes — disappointment, perhaps, or understanding.
"How much longer will you be here?" he asked.
"I don't know," Ulvia answered honestly. "Maybe a day. Maybe a week. But I can't stay."
He looked at her, and Ulvia saw him thinking. Then he smiled — that same quick, easy smile — and waved a hand.
"Alright. Then we'll keep training. And the rest... we'll see."
He turned and walked towards the village, not looking back. Ulvia watched him go, feeling calm. She hadn't hurt him. Hadn't deceived him. Had told him the truth.
---
She returned to the bridge every day. Examined it, sat on the edge, thought. Nothing changed. But something inside her was changing — she couldn't explain what. Patience, perhaps. Or quiet. She was learning to wait. Not hoping, not despairing. Simply waiting.
In the evenings, she sat in Mila's yard, looked at the stars, and thought of her friends. Where were they? What were they doing? Had they found what they were looking for? She didn't know. But she believed — they would manage. Just as she would.
Gavil didn't approach her with offers again. During training, he stayed nearby. Sometimes they exchanged a few words, and that was enough. Ulvia felt that he understood. Or at least accepted.
On the seventh day, returning from the bridge, she stopped on the ridge. The sun was setting, painting the sky crimson. Below, in the valley, chimneys smoked, people came from the fields, children chased a ball. The village lived its life, and in this life, there was a place for her. But not her own.
She looked west, from where she had come. Then east, where she had to go. The bridge was silent. But she felt — the answer was close. She just needed to understand where to look.