Date: April 13, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
The morning was grey. Clouds covered the sky, and the wind from the east was cold, biting. Ulvia sat on the bridge's edge, dangling her feet over the emptiness, looking at the ravine below. In a week, she had studied every stone, every crack, every patch of moss. The bridge didn't give up its secrets. Perhaps there were none.
She was about to leave when she heard sounds.
At first, she thought it was the wind — it had strengthened, humming in her ears, tugging at her cloak. But then she distinguished cries. More than one. And barking — sharp, vicious, unlike a dog's.
Ulvia jumped up. The sounds came from the west, from the direction of the village, but not from it — further, where the fields gave way to sparse woods, and sparse woods to true forest. She ran.
---
The path she walked every day now seemed longer. She ran, not choosing her way, leaping over roots and rocks, the sounds growing louder. Cries, the clang of metal, hoarse snarling. She burst into the clearing where the village men trained every morning and saw them.
There were five. Mark, Gavil, the red-bearded man called Cort, and two others — brothers, she thought, from the house by the well. They stood back-to-back, bristling with axes and pitchforks, while around them circled a pack.
Wolves. Six, seven, eight — she lost count. They were large, with thick grey fur and yellow eyes burning with a hungry, inhuman fire. Not ordinary beasts. Ulvia felt it immediately — her spirit, her power responded to their presence with a dull, anxious hum. The wolves were Woitels. Every one of them.
One of the brothers lay on the ground, clutching a bloody shoulder. Cort tried to cover him, swinging his axe, but the wolves pressed, their movements too fast, too coordinated. Mark struck left and right, but his axe met emptiness each time — the beasts dodged at the last moment. Gavil stayed close to the headman, his face pale, but he didn't retreat.
The wolves were in no hurry. They waited.
Ulvia didn't think. She tore off her cloak, threw it to the ground, and charged forward.
---
She took the first wolf at a run. It noticed her too late — she slammed into it shoulder-first, knocking it off its feet, and before it could rise, her gloved fist crashed down on its skull. A dull, wet crack. The beast twitched and lay still.
"Ulvia!" Gavil shouted. Surprise and hope mingled in his voice.
She didn't answer. The second wolf was already turning towards her, jaws agape. She stepped forward, let it leap, and at that moment, her left arm burst from under her sleeve.
The vine woke. Thick, flexible stems burst from the stump, wrapped around her forearm, closed over her palm. The hand she didn't have became hard as wood, sharp as a blade. The wolf crashed into her, and the thorns sprouting from the vine sank into its chest. The beast yelped, jerked, and collapsed.
Ulvia spun. The third wolf was already there.
---
The battle turned to chaos. Ulvia didn't count blows, didn't think about technique. She worked as Klii had taught her — fast, hard, without stopping. Her left hand changed shape every second: now a shield, taking the impact of claws, now shooting forward a long, flexible thorn that pierced wolf hide. Her right hand, in its glove, worked short and precise — every blow finding its mark.
The men rallied. Mark, seeing they had help, roared and charged, swinging wildly. Cort, leaving the wounded brother to his comrade, stood beside Gavil, and together they pushed two wolves back towards the clearing's edge. The brothers — the wounded one sat on the ground, pressing a bloody rag to his shoulder, watching Ulvia with wide eyes.
She ignored him. Before her were three.
She took the first with her vine — wrapped it around its neck, squeezed, and the crack of vertebrae sounded like a shot. The second leaped from behind, but she dropped, rolled over her shoulder, and her gloved fist met its muzzle. Bones crunched, the wolf flew aside, whimpered, and thrashed in its death throes.
The third, the largest, the leader, froze at the clearing's edge. He looked at her with yellow, unblinking eyes, and in his gaze was not fear. Only malice and something else she couldn't name. He was stronger than the others. Ulvia felt it — his essence, his spirit pulsed heavily, powerfully.
She stood, raised her left hand. The vine stilled, becoming a long, curved blade. The leader crouched, ready to spring.
"Go," Ulvia said quietly. "While you still can."
The wolf snarled. Its hackles rose, thick saliva dripping from its jaws. It leaped.
She didn't dodge. She stepped forward to meet it. The vine blade sliced the air, and at the moment the leader's claws should have ripped into her chest, the living blade sank under its jaw, into the soft, unprotected throat. The wolf choked, jerked, and fell.
Ulvia pushed the body off. The clearing was silent.
---
She looked around. Of the eight wolves, six lay motionless; two — those that had retreated into the forest — were gone. Cort knelt, leaning on his axe, his face covered in blood — not his own, wolf-blood. Gavil leaned against a tree, breathing hard, staring at Ulvia as if seeing her for the first time.
Mark walked over to the brothers. The wounded one sat on the ground, pale but alive. The other bandaged his shoulder, hands trembling.
"Alive?" Mark asked.
"Alive," the other replied hoarsely. "Just a scratch."
Mark nodded and turned to Ulvia.
She stood in the middle of the clearing, the vine on her left arm slowly, gradually retracting, hiding beneath her sleeve. The hand she didn't have was once again a stump, covered by cloth. Her face showed no strain, no fatigue. Only the calm that comes after battle, when it's over.
Mark looked at her for a long time. Then he looked at the dead wolves, at the marks of her blows — broken bones, torn hide, precise, deadly wounds.
"Who are you?" he asked, and there was no fear or suspicion in his voice. Only the question.
"I told you," Ulvia answered. "A traveler."
"Travelers don't fight like that," he shook his head. "And they don't have hands like that."
Ulvia lowered her eyes. Her left arm, hidden beneath her sleeve, was calm. The vine slept, curled deep within. But they had seen. All of them.
"I didn't mean to frighten you," she said. "I didn't want you to know."
"Knowing is one thing," Mark came closer. "Seeing is another. You saved us. That's what matters."
Gavil peeled himself from the tree, stepped towards her. His face was pale, but his eyes shone.
"You... you've always had that?" he asked, looking at her left arm. "That hand?"
"Yes," Ulvia replied. "Always."
He wanted to ask more, but didn't. Only nodded, and there was no fear in his gaze. Only respect.
Cort stood, leaning on his axe, approached Ulvia. He was older than Mark, his scarred face hard, but now something else showed there.
"You saved my brother," he said, nodding towards the wounded man. "I won't forget it."
He extended his hand. Ulvia shook it — firmly, as a man would.
"I did what I had to," she said.
Cort nodded and walked back to the brothers.
---
They returned to the village as the sun neared sunset. The wounded man was loaded onto a cart; the women who came out to meet them wailed, but Mark quieted them — all was well. Gavil carried the largest wolf skin, the leader's. The others they left in the field, said they'd collect them tomorrow.
Ulvia walked behind, hood up. She felt eyes on her — the men looked but didn't approach. Women whispered. Children who ran into the street froze, staring, then scattered as she passed.
Mark was waiting for her at Mila's gate. He stood with arms crossed.
"How are you?" he asked. "Not hurt?"
"No," Ulvia answered. "I'm fine."
Mark nodded, was silent for a moment.
"Will you go to the bridge tomorrow?" he asked.
Ulvia looked at him. There was no judgment in his eyes, only calm, masculine understanding. She had thought that after today, he would tell her to leave. Or perhaps ask her to stay. But he asked about the bridge.
"I will," she said. "I haven't found what I'm looking for. Maybe tomorrow."
Mark nodded.
"Then come to the field tomorrow. If you want. Gavil will be glad."
He turned and walked towards his house. Ulvia watched him go, feeling calm. She didn't know what awaited her tomorrow. Didn't know if the bridge would reveal its secret. But she knew that here, in this village, there was a place for her. At least for now.
She went inside. Mila, who must have heard everything, sat by the stove, silent. She placed a bowl of stew on the table, a slice of bread, a mug of milk. Ulvia sat, picked up the spoon.
"You're not leaving," Mila said. It wasn't a question.
"Not today," Ulvia replied.
The woman sighed, adjusted her headscarf.
"Good," she said. "Then you'll stay with me. Until you find what you're looking for."
Ulvia ate the stew, warmth spreading through her body, soothing her tired muscles. Outside, darkness fell, and here and there lights were lit. Tomorrow she would go to the bridge again. And perhaps tomorrow, she would finally understand what it was trying to tell her.