Date: March 26, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
When the last robber was bound and the wounded tended to, that particular silence settled over the hollow — the silence that follows a battle. Not a peaceful one — watchful, like a forest holding its breath after a storm. The caravan people, who had been huddled against the wagons, began slowly emerging from cover. The woman with the child, whom Ulvia had noticed from above, was the first to dare approach. She looked at the robbers bound with vines, at the sleeping ones, at those still struggling, and something like awe flickered in her eyes.
"Is it her?" she asked Mira, nodding towards Ulvia. "The girl who came down from the cliff?"
"It's her," Mira adjusted her dagger harness. "And if it weren't for her, we wouldn't be standing here now."
---
While Mira and her people were putting the caravan in order, the mercenaries hired for guard duty talked among themselves. Garth — the grey-haired man — sat on the driver's seat while his comrade bandaged his wounded shoulder. The second mercenary, stocky with a short spear, kept glancing towards Ulvia.
"Did you see what she did?" he asked, lowering his voice. "Vines came out of the ground. Like roots, only faster. And her hand... I've never seen anything like that even from spirit users."
"I saw," Garth winced as the bandage was tightened. "But she's not just a user. She's a Woitel. And judging by how easily she handled their leader, who was also a Woitel... she's stronger than she looks."
"How old is she? Sixteen? Seventeen?" the stocky one shook his head. "Being a Woitel at that age... that takes years of training."
"Apparently a lot," Lyra interjected, approaching them. "And her spirit... I've never encountered one like it. It's like life itself. Plants respond to her as one of their own. It's a rare gift."
She looked towards Ulvia. Ulvia, noticing her gaze, nodded. Lyra nodded back.
"She's strange," said the stocky mercenary. "But she fights well. And her spirit is... strong."
"Shut it," Lyra repeated, and he fell silent.
---
Ulvia sat on a rock, listening to fragments of conversation. She knew they were watching her. Knew she wasn't like everyone else. But there was no fear. During her year in the Forest Dwellers' city, she had grown used to being different. There, where those whose spirits were part of them walked beside her, her vine was almost ordinary.
She stood up, brushing herself off. The vine on her left arm, now calm, retracted, leaving only a faint, barely perceptible warmth where her stump was. Ulvia put on her glove, adjusted the belt at her waist, and walked towards the wagons.
Mira met her by the first wagon. The woman with the child — her name was Rena — stood nearby, and the little girl, now calm, watched Ulvia with curiosity.
"We're leaving soon," Mira said. "We need to get out of here before the robbers recover. If you want, you can ride with me. There's room in my wagon."
Ulvia nodded. She helped harness the horses, handed Rena the bundle of belongings she had dropped during the commotion. Rena took it with trembling hands.
"Thank you," she said, her voice a mix of gratitude and lingering fear. "Will you... will you stay with us?"
"For a while," Ulvia replied. "I need to go further."
---
Ulvia sat in Mira's wagon, her back against a bale of goods. Nearby, on a soft bedding, the little girl dozed — Rena had put her to sleep after everything that happened. Rena herself sat opposite, her face, still pale, gradually regaining color.
Mira drove the horses, but kept glancing back at Ulvia. There was no fear in her gaze — only curiosity and, perhaps, hope.
"Where are you from?" she asked, when the road smoothed out and the wagon stopped jolting over bumps.
"From the south," Ulvia replied. "I was walking through the forest. Heard the screams."
"Alone?" Mira raised an eyebrow. "The southern forests are dangerous. Even for someone like you."
"I can take care of myself," Ulvia said calmly.
Mira grunted but didn't argue. She was silent for a moment, then nodded towards the sign carved on her wagon's side — the one that had caught Ulvia's attention.
"You asked about the sign. Why does it interest you?"
Ulvia hesitated. She didn't know how much she could say. But in Mira's eyes, tired but alive, there was no deceit. Only the question.
"I'm looking for a bridge," she said. "An old stone bridge. I was told it leads to a place where I'll find answers."
Mira was silent for a long time. Her face, illuminated by the setting sun, looked as if carved from warm stone.
"My grandfather looked for that bridge too," she said finally. "He was a cartographer. Traveled half the world, making maps for merchants, for the military, for anyone. In his spare time, he searched for it. He said it was a place where time stops, where you can see what was and what will be. I don't know if it's true. But he believed."
"Did he find it?" Ulvia asked.
Mira shook her head. Sadness flickered in her eyes.
"No. He died on the road. Left me his maps, his notes, this sign. I've carried them with me for years, thinking that someday I'd continue his journey. But life... life had other plans. The caravan, the goods, the people depending on me... I can't abandon them for an old legend."
She paused, then looked at Ulvia.
"But you can. And if you're looking for that bridge, maybe his maps can help you."
Ulvia didn't answer immediately. She looked at the road stretching ahead, towards where, beyond the hills and forests, what she had seen in the Temple awaited her. The Bridge. The Column. The Tree with silver leaves.
"Show me," she said. "If you can."
Mira nodded. She handed the reins to Lyra, who was walking alongside, and reached into the depths of the wagon, where an old, battered chest was stored under bales and crates. She wore the key around her neck, and when the lock clicked, Ulvia saw its contents.
Scrolls. Dozens of scrolls, carefully rolled and tied with strings. Some were new, others yellowed with age, their ink faded. Mira took out one, the oldest, and unrolled it on her lap.
"This is the map he made before he died," she said. "It marks all the places he searched for the bridge. And one place he never got to."
Ulvia studied the map. Lines, dots, notes written in a firm, confident hand. And in the center, where the roads converged — that same sign. A bridge spanning a river that wasn't there.
"How do I find this place?" she asked.
"I'll show you," Mira rolled up the map and handed it to her. "You saved us. It's the least I can do."
Ulvia took the scroll. The paper was warm from Mira's hands, smelling of the road, dust, and something else — that particular scent found only in old, well-handled maps.
"Thank you," she said.
Mira shook her head.
"It's not gratitude. It's... hope. Maybe you'll find what he couldn't. Then his journey won't have been in vain."
"Your grandfather... was he a spirit user too?" Ulvia asked.
"No," Mira smiled, a warm sadness flickering in her expression. "He was an ordinary man. But he believed there were things stronger than any spirit. Perseverance. Faith. Love for what you seek. Maybe that's why he never found the bridge. He relied too much on maps, not enough on his heart."
Ulvia clutched the scroll in her hands. She thought of her own path. Of the Temple, the visions, the sign that had led her here. And that perhaps the bridge truly awaited someone who sought not with their eyes, but with something else.
---
When the sun set and the first stars appeared in the sky, the caravan stopped for the night. The wagons were drawn into a circle, a fire was lit, and the weary travelers began preparing supper. Ulvia sat by the fire, watching the flames dance on the faces of those she had saved. Rena, having put her child to sleep, approached her and silently handed her a bowl of stew.
"Eat," she said. "You spent a lot of strength today."
Ulvia took the bowl. The stew was hot, hearty, smelling of something homely and forgotten. She ate slowly, feeling the warmth spread through her body.
Then she stood, walked away from the fire, and, finding a free spot, began her training. Not the hard kind, full of strikes and lunges, that Klii taught her. A different kind. Meditation. She sat on the ground, cross-legged, placed her hands on her knees, and closed her eyes. The vine on her left arm, calm during the journey, stirred again, and her fingers — green, alive — began to pulse slowly, barely perceptibly.
The caravan people watched her, whispering. Garth, sitting by the fire, shook his head.
"Being a Woitel at her age..." he said quietly. "I've only met a few like that in my life. And each time, they were either heirs of great houses or those trained by the best masters since childhood. But she... she's different. Her spirit isn't like the ones I've seen. It's like a part of her."
"She came out of the forest," Lyra remarked. "Places even robbers are afraid to go. And she came out alive. That says a lot."
"It does," Garth agreed. "And her spirit... I've heard of those. Ones connected to life, to plants. It's a rare gift. Very rare. And dangerous if you don't know how to control it. But she does. You can see it."
Mira watched Ulvia, and there was something like understanding in her eyes. She saw the girl sitting motionless, her breathing even and deep, the vine on her left arm pulsing in rhythm with her heart. There was something ancient, calm about it, silencing even the most talkative.
"She's looking for the bridge," Mira said quietly. "The same one my grandfather sought."
Lyra fell silent. She knew that story. Knew how many years Mira had carried the maps and scrolls, hoping someday to continue the journey. And knew she couldn't.
"Do you think she'll find it?" Lyra asked.
"I don't know," Mira replied. "She has something my grandfather lacked. Not maps. Not knowledge. Something else."
She looked at Ulvia. The girl sat motionless, her face illuminated by moonlight, calm, almost detached. In that face, in that silence, in the way she breathed, there was something of the forest itself — ancient, patient, eternal.
"Maybe that is the path," Mira said. "Not the one on the map. But the one within."
Ulvia opened her eyes. She felt their gazes on her but paid them no attention. In her hands was the map, and on it — the path. Tomorrow she would learn where that path led. But today... today she simply breathed. Listened to the crackle of the fire, the rustle of leaves, and the distant something, beyond the hills, waiting for her — what she sought.