Date: April 14, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
Ulvia woke before dawn. Outside it was still dark, but somewhere far away, beyond the hills, the sky was beginning to lighten. She lay on the bench, covered with a sheepskin, and felt something changing inside her. Not fear — she had long stopped being afraid. Rather, readiness.
She sat up, stretched. Her left arm under her sleeve was calm, the vine sleeping, curled into a tight ball. But Ulvia felt its presence — warm, alive, pulsing in time with her heart. Today it would wake.
Mila was already busy in the kitchen. Hearing footsteps, she peered around the partition.
"You're up early," she said, eyeing her guest. "Breakfast in fifteen minutes. Get some more sleep."
"I don't want to," Ulvia walked to the table, sat on the bench. "I'm going to training today."
"I know," Mila nodded, stirring the porridge. "Mark said so. The men gather when the sun rises. Gavil's probably already gone."
She paused, then asked cautiously:
"Will you... show your hand?"
Ulvia looked at her. There was no fear in the woman's eyes — only curiosity and perhaps a little concern.
"I will," she said. "They've already seen it. Yesterday. In the clearing."
Mila nodded, stirring the porridge.
"I know. They talked. Mark said you saved them. And your hand..." she paused, "your hand is your own business. Our people are simple, but not mean. They'll understand."
She set a bowl of porridge on the table, a mug of milk, a slice of bread. Ulvia ate in silence, feeling the warmth spread through her body. Outside, it was getting light. Somewhere a rooster crowed, a well creaked. The village was waking.
---
She went outside as the sun rose above the roofs. She had left her cloak in the house.
The air was cold, but Ulvia didn't feel the cold. She walked down the street, and the people she met turned, looked. Some froze, some whispered to a neighbor, but no one called out. She didn't quicken her pace. Didn't slow.
The men were already gathered in the clearing. Mark stood in the center, loosening his shoulders. Cort and his brothers — the one wounded yesterday sat on a log, his bandaged shoulder tightly wrapped, but he had come too. Gavil, noticing Ulvia, raised his head and froze.
She approached the edge of the clearing, stopped. The men looked at her, and in their eyes was everything — curiosity, a little fear. Someone exchanged glances with a neighbor, someone coughed into his fist.
Ulvia raised her left arm. The vine woke.
It grew from her stump slowly, unhurriedly. First, thin, flexible shoots wrapped around her forearm, then they intertwined into a dense cord, then began to form a hand. Fingers, long, green, with barely visible thorns on the knuckles, opened, closed, opened again. The hand she didn't have became alive, mobile, ready.
The clearing was silent.
"This is my hand," Ulvia said. Her voice was calm, steady. "I lost mine. This one grew in its place."
The men were silent. Someone let out a breath, someone seemed to forget how to breathe. Mark stood with his arms crossed, watching. Then he stepped forward.
"Does it hurt?" he asked.
"No," Ulvia answered. "It's part of me."
Mark nodded, came closer, examining. The vine on her arm was calm, didn't move, allowed itself to be looked at.
"And what can it do?" he asked.
"Whatever is needed," Ulvia clenched her fingers into a fist, opened them. The thorns on her knuckles gleamed. "It can be hard as wood. It can be flexible as rope. It can..." she paused, not knowing how to explain the rest.
"It can save lives," Gavil said. He approached, and there was no fear in his eyes — only interest. "We saw yesterday."
He reached out, carefully touched her vine. His fingers were warm, rough, and when they touched the green stems, Ulvia felt it — the vine responded to the touch, trembling faintly.
"It's warm," Gavil said, pulling back his hand. "Alive."
"Alive," Ulvia confirmed.
Cort came next. His usually hard face was now calm.
"You saved my brother yesterday," he said. "I don't care what kind of hand you have. What matters is what you can do with it."
He extended his palm, and Ulvia, without hesitation, shook it. The vine wrapped around his wrist — gently, not painfully, and Cort, feeling it, grinned.
"Strong," he said. "Like steel."
The others came one by one. Some watched from a distance, some came closer, examined, asked questions. Ulvia answered calmly, not hiding her hand, not embarrassed. The vine, sensing her mood, behaved calmly — didn't shoot out thorns, didn't reach for curious fingers, simply was. A hand. Her hand.
---
The training began as the sun rose higher. The men paired off, practicing strikes, blocks, combinations. Ulvia worked with Gavil.
He was strong, fast, learned quickly. But his technique was rough — he relied on strength, not precision. Ulvia corrected him, showed him how to shift his weight, how to strike short and economically.
"Don't pull your arm back," she said, stopping his swing. "The strike should come on the exhale. Watch."
She demonstrated — short, sharp, without wasted motion. Gavil repeated, and it came out better.
"Why don't you strike with your left?" he asked when they paused to rest.
Ulvia looked at her hand. The vine was calm, fingers relaxed.
"I can," she said. "But I don't want to wound. It's sharp."
"Show me," Gavil asked.
She walked to the log they used as a target. Her left hand flashed, and her fingers, clenched into a fist, sank into the wood up to her palm. The thorns entered the wood easily, like butter.
The watching men froze. Gavil whistled.
"Now I understand why the wolves didn't survive," he said.
Ulvia pulled her hand out. Five deep holes remained in the log.
"That's not for training," she said. "That's for battle."
"Then what's for training?"
"For training, there's my right," she raised her gloved hand. "And technique. Do you want me to show you how to properly evade a strike?"
Gavil nodded, and they continued.
---
By midday, everyone was exhausted. The men sat around the edges of the clearing, some drinking water, some just lying on the grass looking at the sky. Ulvia sat down on the grass, leaning her back against a tree. Her left hand, now calm, retracted, leaving only a faint, barely perceptible warmth where her stump was.
Mark came over and sat beside her.
"Don't you want to stay?" he asked. "With us. For good."
Ulvia looked at him. There was no pity in his eyes — only an offer.
"I can't," she replied. "I have a goal."
"The bridge?"
"Yes."
Mark nodded, was silent for a moment.
"Maybe it won't open," he said. "Maybe you're looking in the wrong place."
"Maybe," Ulvia agreed. "But I have to try."
He wanted to say something more, but didn't. Just patted her on the shoulder and went back to his men.
Gavil sat down next to her a few minutes later. He held two mugs of water — one he offered to Ulvia.
"Will you come tomorrow?" he asked.
"I will," she answered. "Until I leave."
"And when will you leave?"
"I don't know. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in a week."
He nodded, took a sip from his mug.
"Then I'll train," he said. "So that when you leave, there's something to remember."
Ulvia smiled — faintly, but he noticed.
"You'll learn," she said. "You learn fast."
"With a teacher like you," he grinned, "fast won't work. I'll have to try hard."
They sat at the edge of the clearing, watching the sun sink toward sunset. The men dispersed to their homes, some carrying tools, some just walking, stretching stiff shoulders. Ulvia watched them, and her heart was calm. She didn't know what awaited her tomorrow. Didn't know if the bridge would open. But she knew that here, in this village, she had a place. At least for a while.
---
She returned to Mila's as the sun set. The woman set the table, silently placed a bowl of stew before her. Ulvia ate, feeling fatigue spread through her body, but with it — lightness. She hadn't hidden today. Hadn't concealed what she was. And the people had accepted her. Not been afraid. Not turned away.
"Will you go to the bridge tomorrow?" Mila asked when the bowl was empty.
"I will," Ulvia answered. "Then to training."
Mila nodded, clearing the dishes.
"Gavil stopped by while you were out," she said. "Asked if you needed anything. I said you had everything."
"Thank you," Ulvia stood, helped clear the table. "You've been very kind to me."
"You saved our people," Mila shook her head. "That's worth more than any bread."
She paused, then asked quietly:
"Will you really leave?"
"Really," Ulvia looked at her. "When I find what I'm looking for."
"And if you don't find it?"
Ulvia hesitated. She hadn't thought about that. Hadn't allowed herself to think. But now, in this warm house, with this kind woman who asked no unnecessary questions, she allowed herself to imagine.
"Then maybe I'll stay," she said. "For a while."
Mila smiled, and in her smile was something motherly, warm.
"For a while, then," she said. "And until then — live here. There's room."
Ulvia lay down on the bench, covered herself with the sheepskin. Outside, darkness fell, somewhere dogs barked, night watchmen called to each other. Tomorrow she would go to the bridge again. Tomorrow she would train with the men in the clearing again. And the day after — maybe she would find what she sought. Or maybe not.