Date: March 18, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
The morning began as always. Ulviya opened her eyes a moment before the first rays of sunlight touched the window-hollow, and for a few minutes she simply lay there, listening to the city wake up. Somewhere below, doors slammed, voices called out, dishes clinked. Hope stood on the windowsill, its leaves, dark green, glossy, open to the light.
She sat up, stretched, feeling her muscles respond to the movement. Over the year, her body had changed. It had not become stronger — no, it had always been strong. It had become different. More flexible, faster, more obedient. Every movement, every effort now resonated in her not as pain, but as confidence.
She stood, washed, pulled on a tunic. Put on the glove — the same leather one, with metal plates over the knuckles. Over the year, it had become almost like a part of her. Ulviya clenched her fist, and the glove creaked familiarly, squeezing with her fingers.
She left the room. The city lived its own life. Children were already playing by the fountain, the llamas, the same ones who had given her the wreath, sat on its edge, telling stories. Someone hurried to the House of Crafts, someone to the market. Everything was as always. And that was good.
---
The lower training ground greeted her with coolness and silence. Disak was already there, warming up by the weapon rack. Ilnos was stringing his bow, Viniya was checking her daggers. Urdash was fiddling with chains wrapped around his hammer handle. Corvin was nowhere to be seen, but Ulviya knew — he was somewhere nearby.
Clii was waiting in the center.
"Let's begin," she said, and her tail, long, serpentine, stilled.
---
The training proceeded as usual. Warm-up, balance exercises, running, work with the bag. Ulviya did everything without effort, almost without thinking. Her body remembered.
"Now — the hand," Clii said when Ulviya finished with the glove. "Show me."
Ulviya took off the glove, hung it on the rack. Concentrated. The vine that was always with her, dormant in the depths of her spirit, responded immediately. From the stump, from where her hand once was, shoots began to grow. Thin, flexible, they intertwined, forming a wrist, fingers, a palm. After a few seconds, where the stump had been, there was a hand. Green, alive, real.
"Good," Clii said. "Now — rosehip."
Ulviya exhaled. 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, sharpened growths.
"Dancer."
The hand changed again. The thorns disappeared, the stems became thinner, lighter, almost weightless. The fingers turned into long, flexible threads that swayed in the wind, though there was no wind. Ulviya felt her spirit, her power, flow through these threads, filling every fiber.
"Enough," Clii said. "Good. Better than yesterday."
Ulviya withdrew the hand. The vine slowly, gradually, retracted, leaving behind only a light, barely perceptible warmth at the stump.
"You have become faster," Disak noted as she approached the rack for her glove. "Before, changing forms used to take you twice as long."
"I trained," Ulviya answered.
"I can see," he nodded and smiled.
---
After training, she went to Bagurai. The owl's house greeted her with the familiar scent of books and herbs. Keya sat in her usual spot, sorting seeds, and chirped a greeting. Irkit, bent over a microscope, did not even lift his head.
"Sit down," Bagurai said as Ulviya entered the greenhouse. "Today we have your old friend."
He pointed to a pot in the center of the table. The plant was small, inconspicuous, with gray, almost invisible leaves. Ulviya recognized it immediately.
"False root," she said.
"Yes," Bagurai nodded, and in his yellow eyes behind thick glasses, approval flickered. "You remember it."
"I remember," Ulviya sat on a high stool. "It is poisonous. Not deadly, but makes one weak, slow."
"And now tell me how to work with it."
Ulviya was silent for a moment, remembering. Over the year, she had learned much. Not just to feel plants, but to understand them. Their language, their needs, their dangers.
"First, you need to determine how deeply the corruption has affected the roots," she said. "If the damage is shallow, the infusion can be used to temporarily weaken an enemy. If it is deep... it is better not to touch it. The poison could transfer to the one who collects it."
"And if you need to use it in battle?" Bagurai asked.
Ulviya thought. She knew the answer, but wanted to be sure.
"If using it in battle, you must not touch the plant directly. The spores or sap can be applied to a weapon, but only if you have the antidote. And you must remember that the poison acts slowly. It is not a salvation in close combat. It is a weapon for those who know how to wait."
Bagurai listened, his yellow eyes gleaming. When she finished, he nodded.
"Good. Very good. You didn't just memorize. You understood. That is the main thing."
He put away the false root and pushed another pot towards her. The plant in it was bright, almost glowing, with long, narrow leaves that trembled at the slightest movement of air.
"And this?" he asked.
Ulviya leaned in, looking. She did not know this plant. She reached out her hand, but did not touch — just held her palm near, feeling. Warmth. Life. And something else. Something she could not identify.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I've never seen it before."
"That's good," Bagurai smiled. "Because this is a new plant. It was brought from the south, from lands where war destroyed all life. It grew on the ashes. And it is... unusual."
He fell silent, and Ulviya understood he was waiting. She closed her eyes, concentrated. Her spirit, her power, reached out to the plant. And in response, she felt... emptiness. Not the cold, wrong emptiness of false root. Another. Quiet, calm, as if the plant was waiting. Waiting to be understood.
"It is not afraid," she said, opening her eyes. "It... it is waiting."
"For what?" Bagurai asked.
"I don't know," Ulviya shook her head. "But it is waiting."
Bagurai nodded, and in his eyes, something like satisfaction appeared.
"That is a good answer. The plant from the south. It grew where there was war. It remembers pain, but is not afraid. It waits for one who can understand it. Perhaps that one is you."
---
She left Bagurai's when the sun was already setting. The city lived its own life. Some were closing shops, others, on the contrary, were just waking up, preparing for the night shift. Ulviya walked slowly, feeling the exhaustion of the day weighing on her shoulders. But it was a good exhaustion. The exhaustion of one who had done everything she needed to do.
She was approaching her room when Corvin appeared on the path before her. The lizard emerged so quietly that Ulviya only noticed him when he was two steps away.
"You are expected," he said. "Tomorrow. In the Temple."
"Why?" Ulviya asked.
Corvin shook his head.
"I don't know. I was just asked to pass on the message."
He disappeared as silently as he had appeared, and Ulviya was left alone on the path, looking towards where the Temple was hidden among the trees.
She did not know why she was being summoned. She did not know what tomorrow would bring. But she knew: she would go.
"Tomorrow," she said quietly. "Tomorrow I will know."
The city hummed outside the window, children laughed somewhere, steel rang. And she lay and thought about what the next day would bring. Something new. Something that would change her life. She did not know what it would be. But she was ready.