Date: April 6, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
Ulvia woke to light. It seeped through the branches she had used to cover her shelter the night before, falling on her face in thin, golden stripes. Somewhere below, in the valley, the village was already living its life. She heard roosters — many of them, calling across yards, setting the rhythm for the waking day. Somewhere a well creaked, a bucket clanked as it descended. Women's voices, muffled by distance, merged into a steady, unhurried murmur. Someone was chopping wood — the axe's stroke carried clearly across the countryside, measured as a metronome.
Ulvia sat up, stretched, feeling her muscles, stiff from the night, settle into their working rhythm. Legs, back, shoulders — all functioning smoothly. She brushed dry leaves from her cloak, adjusted Mira's bundle, checked that the map was still there. The old paper rustled under her fingers, its edges, frayed from travel, reminding her the goal was near. She tucked the map away, felt the leather pouch at her belt — Garth's token and Kell's wooden flower were there, safe. Everything was in order.
She crawled out from her shelter. The sun was just rising over the hills, and the valley below was bathed in soft morning light. The village was tightly built — house to house, roofs of dark shingles, smoke already curling from chimneys. The lanes between were narrow but well-worn — people walked here often, knew every stone, every rut. Beyond the outskirts, in the pasture, a cow lowed, someone called back to it, their voice calm, familiar.
Ulvia found a small hollow among the old oak's roots where she could wash without being seen. A stream running down the slope was narrow, but the water was icy. She cupped her hands, splashed her face, the cold burning her skin, chasing away the last remnants of sleep. Then again, again. She washed unhurriedly, feeling her body wake, blood flowing faster, dispersing the morning heaviness.
Checking that no one could see her — the village was too far to make out details — she removed her cloak and began her warm-up.
Squats. Deep, back straight. She did them slowly, feeling her leg muscles tense, her lower back work. Then lunges — right leg, then left. Her gloved hand moved with her torso, helping maintain balance. Torso rotations. Bends. She warmed every muscle, every joint, making the movements automatic.
Then strikes. She stood before the old oak, its bark covered in deep cracks, and began practicing the combinations Klii had drilled into her year after year. Short straight punch, uppercut, hook. A series. Step back. Again. She worked quickly, without stopping, until her breathing quickened and sweat beaded on her forehead. Her left arm, hidden beneath her sleeve, didn't hinder her. The vine slept, curled deep within, and Ulvia didn't wake it. Now she needed only her own strength, without unnecessary miracles.
Finished, she caught her breath, listened to her body. Her heart beat steadily, her muscles hummed with pleasant fatigue. She pulled her cloak back on, adjusted her hood to shadow her face, and moved down the slope.
---
They noticed her immediately. It was inevitable — a stranger couldn't go unnoticed in a place where everyone knew everyone. Ulvia walked down the main lane, unhurried, keeping to the middle, and the people she met turned, their eyes following her. Women at the well, just discussing their affairs, fell silent mid-sentence. One pressed a hand to her chest, another stepped back, as if ready to call someone. A boy playing with his dog by the farthest house froze, staring wide-eyed, and the dog, sensing his tension, growled — low, warning.
Ulvia didn't quicken her pace. Didn't slow. She walked steadily, feeling dozens of eyes on her, and under those gazes, her cloak felt like both protection and a challenge. She knew how strangers looked to such villages. People here lived their own lives, closed, habitual, and any outsider was a disruption of order. She didn't take offense. She had been the same — wary, cautious, distrustful.
From the farthest house, set slightly apart from the others, with wide shutters and a massive door, a man emerged. He was tall, even by local standards, with broad shoulders and a weathered, hard face. Two others followed him — younger, equally stocky, axes at their belts. They didn't hurry, didn't run, but stood across the lane so that passing was impossible. Not aggressively, but insistently.
"Stop," said the first. His voice was low, calm, without threat, but carried the confidence of a man used to being obeyed.
Ulvia stopped.
"I mean no harm," she said, her voice steady, calm. "I need shelter for the night, and perhaps some advice."
"Advice?" The man narrowed his eyes. His eyes, light, almost transparent, scanned her cloak, the bundle on her back, the arm held at her side. "Where do you come from?"
"From the west."
"Alone?"
"Alone."
He looked her over from head to toe. A cloak of heavy cloth, worn but clean. Boots that had walked many miles. A well-tied bundle. Nothing that spoke of danger. But he wasn't quick to trust. In his eyes was what Ulvia had seen many times before — a mix of wariness and curiosity, a desire to understand who stood before him before deciding how to act.
"Show your face," he said.
Ulvia raised her hand, pushed back her hood. Light struck her eyes, and she squinted for a moment, then opened them, looking directly at the man. He looked at her for a long time, appraisingly. A young face, tired but calm. Hair, escaped from under the hood, tangled, dusty from the road. Eyes — clear, attentive, without fear.
He glanced at his men, nodded. The axes stayed at their belts.
"I'm Mark," he said. "The headman here. Who are you?"
"Ulvia."
"Ulvia," he repeated, as if tasting the name. "And what brings you to our village, Ulvia?"
She didn't beat around the bush. There was no time for long conversations, and it wasn't in her nature to waste words.
"I'm looking for a bridge," she said directly. "An old stone bridge. I was told it's somewhere in these parts. My search brought me here."
Mark frowned. His already stern face grew harder. Behind him, the two exchanged glances, and one — the younger, with a reddish beard — stepped forward, but Mark stopped him with a hand gesture.
"A bridge, you say," he drawled. "We have a bridge. An old one, very old. Crumbling stones, overgrown with moss. No one's used it for a long time. I don't know if it's the one you're looking for."
Ulvia felt something stir inside her. Not hope — recognition. That was exactly the bridge she was looking for. Old. Overgrown. Forgotten.
"That's the one I'm looking for," she said, her voice firmer than she expected. "Old. Stone. Overgrown with moss. I need to see it."
Mark was silent. He looked at her, and Ulvia didn't look away. She knew what he saw. Not everything, but enough. A stranger. One who came not for bread or shelter. One who had a road behind her and something ahead more important than mere travel.
"The bridge is beyond the hills," he said finally. "The path starts right outside the village, heading east. Half an hour's walk, no more. You won't get lost."
"Thank you," Ulvia nodded. "I'll go there today. Take a look."
"Look," Mark crossed his arms over his chest. His face was calm, but his voice carried a warning. "But, girl, I'll tell you this. A bridge is a bridge. Old, no one's. Our people don't go there, and we don't advise outsiders to. We don't need trouble here. Do you understand?"
Ulvia understood. She knew how easily the peace of such places could be disturbed, even unintentionally. A stranger coming to seek something among old stones — that was a story told around fires for long evenings. And not always a kind one.
"I understand," she replied. "I won't cause trouble."
Mark nodded. His face softened slightly, but not much. He was the headman, and his concern was for the people who lived here, worked, raised children. A stranger, even the most harmless, was always a risk.
"You can stay with Mila," he said, nodding towards a house with red shutters at the end of the lane. "That one, with the garden. Tell her I sent you. She'll feed you, give you a place to sleep. Won't refuse."
"Thank you," Ulvia said. She wanted to add something — ask if she could stay longer if the bridge proved to be what she sought, or find out if he had heard of other such places. But she didn't. Words were unnecessary now.
Mark turned to his men, nodded, and they stepped aside, letting her pass. Ulvia walked by, feeling their eyes on her. The reddish-bearded one, who had stepped forward, watched her with a scowl but remained silent. The second, older, followed her with his eyes and, it seemed, exhaled in relief when she passed.
The women at the well whispered, watching her go. Children peered from behind fences, but no one else called out to her. She walked down the lane, and the village slowly returned to its life. Somewhere the well creaked again, a dog barked, an axe struck. A stranger had come and gone, and now they could attend to their own affairs.
Ulvia found the house with the red shutters. A woman stood at the gate — stout, with a kind face and hands dusted with flour. She looked at Ulvia with curiosity, not fear.
"Mila?" Ulvia asked. "Mark said I could stay with you for a while."
"Mark said it, so it's fine," the woman nodded. "Come in. Supper's in an hour. You can eat after your journey."
She stepped aside, letting Ulvia into the house. Inside smelled of bread and dried herbs. Ulvia sat on a bench by the window, placing her bundle beside her. Outside, the village lived its life — someone carted water, someone mended a fence, children chased a rag ball. Everything was simple, familiar, habitual.
She watched this life and thought of the bridge. Old, stone, overgrown with moss. Just what she sought. Tomorrow she would go there, look. Perhaps it would be the one marked on the map. Perhaps not. But she had to check. The Temple had said — find the bridge. She had found it. Now she needed to understand what to do with it.
Ulvia adjusted her cloak over her left shoulder, feeling the faint, barely perceptible warmth beneath the fabric. The vine slept, curled deep within, but she knew — when she called, it would wake.
"Tomorrow," she whispered. "Tomorrow we'll see."
Mila busied herself by the stove, humming under her breath. Ulvia leaned back against the wall, closed her eyes. The evening promised to be quiet.