Date: April 5, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
The forest greeted her with wary silence. Ulvia stepped under the trees' canopy, and the world changed — sunlight that had flooded the open space moments ago now broke through the dense foliage in rare, slanted rays. She walked quickly, wasting no time on deliberation. Mira's map lay in her pocket, its lines, drawn with a firm, confident hand, guiding her forward.
She didn't slow her pace. Her legs, accustomed to long marches, worked steadily, her muscles not complaining. The forest around her shifted — sometimes closing in, forcing her through thick undergrowth, sometimes opening up, revealing small clearings where she could catch her breath and check the map. Ulvia did this on the move, without stopping. There was no time to lose — the sun was already high, and she still needed to reach the next point.
She reached a stream as the shadows grew shorter. The water ran swiftly, tumbling over stones, its murmur the only sound breaking the silence. Ulvia surveyed the streambed. Wide, but shallow. Easy to cross.
She took off her shoes, secured Mira's bundle higher on her shoulder, and stepped into the water. The cold stung her feet, rising to her ankles. She walked quickly, not looking down, feeling the stones slip beneath her heels, not pausing. Midstream, the water reached her knees. She suddenly thought of Dur — how he feared any water, how he flinched when drops fell on his hand. She wondered: had he conquered his fear? Learned to look at rivers and lakes without the icy terror that lived in his eyes?
She reached the opposite bank, shook herself off. Put her shoes on without delay, and continued.
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The forest began to climb. The hills that appeared gentle on the map proved steep, and Ulvia, maintaining her pace, strode upward. Her legs tensed, her breathing quickened, but she didn't stop. Wind from the east blew in her face, tousling her hair, and on that wind was the scent of something new, unfamiliar — perhaps those very lands the cartographer's hand had never reached.
At the summit, she stopped. Not to rest — to check the map. The old paper rustled under her fingers, the lines converging at a point where, according to Mira, was a turning. Ulvia raised her head, looking around. Below lay a valley, green and wide, with winding streams and patches of clearings. And directly before her, on the slope among sparse trees, lay stones.
She moved towards them.
The stones were flat, as if placed by hand. Ulvia crouched, ran her fingers over the surface. Warm, smooth, it held the memory of those who had passed this way long ago. Not voices — echoes. Footsteps, breathing, the heavy creak of wagon wheels. Ulvia closed her eyes for a moment, letting these sensations pass through her, then opened them again. The map was right. She was on the right path.
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Beyond, the forest thinned. There was more light, and Ulvia quickened her pace. The sun was sinking towards sunset, shadows lengthening, but she didn't intend to stop. The next point was very close — she could feel it. Not by map, not by sight. By something else that had lived within her since the day she first summoned her power.
She emerged into a wide clearing as the sun nearly touched the horizon. At the far end, where two lines drawn by the old cartographer converged, lay a stone. Large, flat, sunk so deep into the earth it seemed it had always been there. On its surface, worn by time, marks were visible — ancient, carved by hands that knew neither iron nor steel.
Ulvia approached, ran her fingers over the indentations. The stone was warm, and in that warmth, that antiquity, was something that made her heartbeat steady, calm. She took out the map, checked. Here, at this place, the road turned. From here, it went northeast. But her path lay due east.
She put the map away, stood up. The wind, still blowing from the east, stirred her hair, and now on that wind was not only the scent of new lands, but something else. Smoke. Thin, barely perceptible, it drifted from beyond the hills darkening on the horizon.
Ulvia walked faster. Her legs carried her forward, the fatigue accumulated during the day vanishing. She was almost running, leaping over roots, dodging trunks, feeling her heart pounding in her throat — not from fear, but anticipation. Smoke meant people. And people meant rest, hot food, and maybe answers.
She crested the ridge as the sun was almost setting.
Below, in the valley, fields spread out. And where they met the foothills of low mountains, roofs were visible. Several houses clustered together, narrow lanes winding between them like forest paths. A thin wisp of smoke rose from somewhere in the middle, and in that smoke, those roofs, was something that made her smile.
A village.
Ulvia stood on the ridge, looking at the lights just beginning to flicker below. Her legs ached, her back throbbed, and she wanted only one thing — to go down there, find a place to sleep, ask for directions. But she knew: now was not the time. Darkness would fall quickly, and in an unfamiliar place, it was best not to take risks.
She found shelter among the roots of an old oak — dry, warm, with a soft bed of last year's leaves. She settled herself comfortably, using Mira's bundle as a pillow. Below, in the valley, lights were being lit, and she watched them, feeling weariness settle on her shoulders, but with it — calm. She had made it. Tomorrow she would descend to the village, find those who knew the way, and continue.
But today — rest.
She closed her eyes, and sleep came almost immediately — deep, without dreams, full of the promise of a new day.