Date: April 7, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
Ulvia woke before dawn. Outside, it was still dark, only the far horizon beginning to lighten, promising an early sunrise. She lay on the bench, covered with a sheepskin, listening to the house breathe. Mila slept in the next room, her breathing even, deep. Somewhere behind the wall, a clock ticked — heavy, old, its pendulum marking the seconds steadily.
Ulvia sat up carefully, avoiding creaky floorboards. Her left arm under her cloak was calm, the vine asleep, and she didn't wake it. Not now. She pulled on her boots, adjusted Mira's bundle, checked that the map was still there. Her fingers found the rough paper, and she relaxed.
The kitchen was dark, but Ulvia found her way without light. By the stove stood a mug of milk, covered with a clean cloth, and a piece of bread — Mila had left it the night before in case her guest wanted a bite before breakfast. Ulvia drank the milk, ate the bread, trying not to make noise. Then she pulled up her hood and slipped out the door.
---
The street was empty. The houses were dark; only here and there, a faint light seeped between shutters — someone was already up, preparing for the day. Ulvia walked past the well, past the barn, past Mark's house, where horses moved quietly, audibly. Beyond the outskirts, the path began — the one the headman had mentioned. It led upwards, into the hills, disappearing into the pre-dawn haze.
Ulvia quickened her pace.
---
The path wound between hills, in places so narrow she had to step carefully to avoid stumbling. But Ulvia walked quickly, not slowing. Her legs were used to such paths, her breathing steady, deep. Somewhere to the left, in a hollow, a stream murmured — she heard it but couldn't see it. The wind from the east was cold, smelling of grass and damp earth.
She reached the bridge as the sun began to gild the hilltops.
It was old. Very old. The stones from which it was built had darkened with age, in places overgrown with moss, in others with tough, grey grass. The arches, once perhaps high, now seemed squat, sunk into the earth. Any railings there might have been were long gone, leaving only the uneven edges of the masonry. The bridge spanned a deep ravine, at the bottom of which, apparently, water had once flowed. Now it was dry, only occasional pools of rainwater standing in hollows, covered with a thin green film.
Ulvia stopped at the edge, examining it. Nothing special. Just a bridge. There were dozens, if not hundreds, like it across the east.
She stepped onto the stones.
---
She walked the bridge from end to end, slowly, carefully examining each stone. The masonry was old but sturdy — the stones sat tightly, didn't shift or crumble underfoot. Here and there, marks appeared on them, but looking closer, Ulvia saw they weren't inscriptions — just cracks, pits, the marks of time. Nothing that could be taken as a clue.
She walked back, now watching her feet. Nothing.
She descended into the ravine, circled the bridge from below. It was damp here, smelling of decayed leaves and old earth. The arches loomed above her, heavy, dark, and in this half-light, the stones seemed almost black. Ulvia ran her fingers over the masonry — cold, rough, nothing unusual. She circled all three arches, peered into every niche, checked every protrusion. Nothing.
She climbed back up, sat on the edge of the bridge, dangling her feet over the emptiness. Below, in the ravine, the wind stirred dry grass, blowing small pebbles along the bottom. To the east, beyond the hills, a dark line of forest. To the west, from where she had come, the village was visible — small, grey, with smoke rising over the roofs.
Ulvia took out the map, spread it on her lap. The lines drawn by the cartographer's hand converged here. There was the point, the notation, the label — "stone bridge over dry ravine." It was correct. She had found what she sought. But what now?
---
Ulvia looked up. Around her — hills covered with tough grass, and not a single road. Only the path she had come on, and the ravine below the bridge. She stood, walked to the other end, then back. She looked east — beyond the hills, a dark line of forest. West — the village she had come from. North and south — more hills, endless.
She crouched again, ran her fingers over the stones. Nothing. No warmth, no response, no particular, barely perceptible feeling that had guided her from column to column, from sign to sign. Just stone.
She sat there for perhaps an hour. The sun rose higher, shadows shortened, and somewhere below, in the village, life was in full swing. Ulvia looked at the bridge, the ravine, the hills, and her mind was empty. She had waited for something — a sign, a clue, a feeling that she was on the right path. Nothing.
She stood, brushed herself off. The bridge was here. She had found it. But it gave her nothing. No answers, no direction, not even a hint of where to go next.
She walked back.
---
She returned to the village as the sun climbed high. The streets were full of people — women bustling around houses, men gathering for the fields, children running between fences, chasing a rag ball. Seeing her, they fell silent, watched, but no one called out.
Mark stood by his house, talking with two men. Noticing Ulvia, he nodded to his companions and stepped towards her.
"Well?" he asked. "Find your bridge?"
"I found it," Ulvia replied.
"And?"
"Nothing," she shrugged. "Just a bridge. Old, stone. Nothing more."
Mark looked at her, and something flickered in his eyes — perhaps relief, perhaps disappointment.
"I told you," he said. "A bridge is a bridge. Nothing special about it."
"Yes," Ulvia nodded. "You were right."
She wanted to ask if he knew of any other such places, but didn't. She had already attracted enough attention. Better not to linger.
"I'll stay a couple more days," she said. "If that's alright."
"It's alright," Mark nodded. "Mila doesn't mind."
He turned and walked back to his men. Ulvia remained standing in the middle of the lane, watching him go. The wind stirred her hair, and on the wind was the smell of smoke, bread, and something else — something she couldn't name. Perhaps home.
---
She returned to Mila's as the woman was setting lunch on the table. Seeing her guest, Mila smiled.
"You went to the bridge?" she asked, pushing a bowl of stew towards her.
"I went," Ulvia sat on the bench. "Found nothing."
"What were you looking for?"
"I don't know," Ulvia answered honestly. "I thought it might give me a clue. But it's just there."
The bridge — it was empty. Let it stand.
Maybe she was looking for the wrong thing? Maybe the bridge wasn't the goal, only a marker? But where was it pointing?
She didn't know. And it irritated her.
---
In the evening, she went out into the yard, sat on the bench by the wall. The sun was setting, painting the sky in crimson and gold. Somewhere in the field, a bird called; in the house across the way, a light was lit. The village was quieting, preparing for sleep.
Ulvia looked east, towards the dark line of forest beyond the hills. Tomorrow she would go there. Not because the bridge had told her to. Simply because there was no other path.