Date: April 16, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
Ulvia woke. Outside it was still dark, but somewhere far away, beyond the hills, the sky was beginning to lighten. She lay on the bench, 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 steadily counting seconds.
She didn't want to get up. Not because she was tired — simply because she knew this day would be the last. Tomorrow she would leave for the east, beyond the forests, beyond the hills, to where the column called her. And today... today she wanted to remember everything.
She sat up, pulled on her boots. Her left arm was calm, the vine dozing. Today she would go to the bridge again. For the last time.
---
She left the house as the eastern sky was just beginning to turn pink. The street was empty, only somewhere in the distance a well creaked, and a sleepy rooster rasped its first crow. Ulvia walked the familiar path, and every stone, every tree, every rut in the road was now known to her.
She reached the bridge as the sun rose above the hills.
It stood in its place — old, stone, overgrown with moss. Nothing had changed. Ulvia walked to the middle, stopped. Below, in the ravine, it was still dry, only the wind stirring the tough grass.
"You told me nothing," she said aloud. "But you led me where I needed to go. Thank you."
She stood a little longer, looking east. Then she turned and walked back. The bridge remained behind.
---
The men were already gathering in the clearing. Mark was loosening his shoulders, Cort and his brothers cleaning weapons, Erk, whose shoulder was almost healed, trying to draw a bow. Gavil stood apart, and when he saw Ulvia, he stepped toward her.
"Did you say goodbye?" he asked.
"I did," she answered. "For the last time."
He nodded, said nothing. Just stood beside her, and they walked to the others together.
The training that day was different than usual. Mark didn't push them, didn't make them repeat the same thing a hundred times. They worked in pairs, but talked more than they struck. Someone recalled how Ulvia had shown a new technique yesterday, someone asked how to hold their back properly when striking. Gavil, working with her, tried to memorize every movement, every correction.
"Will you come back?" he asked when they paused to rest.
"If I can," Ulvia answered.
"Then I'll wait."
He said it simply, without drama, and Ulvia felt something tighten in her chest. She wasn't used to being waited for. Wasn't used to someone hoping for her return.
"I'll try," she said.
---
By midday, everyone dispersed. Mark, saying goodbye, clapped her on the shoulder.
"Come to the community house tonight," he said. "There'll be a dinner. In your honor."
Ulvia wanted to refuse — she didn't like being the center of attention — but he wouldn't listen.
"Don't argue," he said. "People want to thank you. Don't refuse."
She nodded, and he left, leaving her alone in the clearing.
---
She spent the rest of the day with Mila. Helped with chores, carried water, peeled potatoes. The woman asked no unnecessary questions, only occasionally glanced at her with a particular, warm sadness.
"You mean a lot to them," Mila said when they sat down to lunch. "To everyone. Not just because you saved them. But because you're... different. And they see it."
"I did nothing special," Ulvia replied.
"You were yourself," Mila shook her head. "That's enough."
---
In the evening, Ulvia put on a clean dress that Mila had taken from a chest — light, with embroidery on the sleeves. It was a little large, but the woman said it was better that way.
"You're beautiful," she said, adjusting the collar. "Let them see."
Ulvia wanted to object, but didn't. Mila looked at her with such warmth that words stuck in her throat.
The community house stood in the center of the village, by the well. It was a large, sturdy building of dark wood, with wide benches and long tables. When Ulvia arrived, lights were already burning inside, and voices, laughter, the clatter of dishes came from within.
She entered, and the conversations quieted.
Men and women, old and young — almost the entire village was gathered. They looked at her, and there was no fear in their eyes. Only gratitude and, perhaps, a little sadness.
Mark stepped forward, raised his hand.
"Sit, guest," he said. "Tonight we honor the one who saved our husbands and brothers."
He indicated a place at the head of the table, and Ulvia, not knowing how to refuse, sat down.
---
The meal was simple but heartfelt. Someone brought bread, someone brought dried meat, someone brought pickles and sauerkraut. Mila had baked a berry pie — the one Ulvia had come to love over these days. Cort brought honey — his own, from the hives he kept beyond the outskirts. Gavil brought a jug of homebrew from the cellar, and Mark, pouring it into mugs, said:
"Not every day we have such guests. Tonight we can."
The children, who had been shy around Ulvia, now crowded around, examining her left hand. The vine, sensing their curiosity, extended a few thin shoots, and the children gasped, reaching out to touch.
"It's alive," said one boy, about eight years old, staring wide-eyed at the green stems.
"Alive," Ulvia smiled. "Do you want to touch?"
He nodded, carefully touching with his finger. The vine trembled faintly, and the boy laughed.
"It's warm!"
Others quickly gathered, and Ulvia, feeling the vine twist playfully, let each one touch. Some laughed, some gasped, one, the smallest, hid behind his mother but peeked out from under her skirt with curiosity.
"Don't be afraid," Ulvia said. "It doesn't bite."
"But it bit the wolves," the same boy said, and there was respect in his voice.
"The wolves, yes," she agreed. "But not children."
The women who had shied away from her on the first day now came up, thanked her. Someone brought an embroidered handkerchief, someone a bundle of dried herbs, someone simply shook her hand and said, "Thank you for saving them." Ulvia accepted the gifts, feeling her bundle grow heavier, but refusing was impossible. This was more important than any coin.
---
When it grew dark, Mark lit torches, and the yard before the community house filled with light. Someone brought a pipe, someone a drum, and the young people, shy at first but growing bolder, began to dance. Gavil approached Ulvia, offered his hand.
"Will you dance?" he asked.
"I don't know how," she answered.
"Neither do I," he grinned. "But once won't hurt."
She placed her hand in his, and they stepped into the circle. The movements were simple — stomping, spinning, clapping. Ulvia stumbled, got confused, but Gavil held her hand, and it wasn't frightening.
"I'll remember this evening," he said when the music stopped.
"Me too," Ulvia replied.
They stood at the edge of the circle, watching the other couples spin in the torchlight. Somewhere to the side, old men sitting on logs sang a long, drawn-out song, their quiet voices blending with the sound of the wind.
"Will you really come back?" Gavil asked.
"I'll try," Ulvia answered.
She couldn't promise. Couldn't say for sure, that someday, maybe in a year or two. But she felt — this place would stay with her. And these people. And this evening.
---
The feast ended long after midnight. People dispersed to their homes, some carrying sleeping children, some staggering to their gates, humming. Gavil walked Ulvia to Mila's house.
"Early start tomorrow," he said. "I'll walk you to the edge of the forest."
"You don't have to," she replied. "I'll find the way."
"I know," he smiled. "But I'm coming anyway."
She didn't argue.
They stood by the gate, and in the moonlight his face was calm, almost serious.
"Thank you," he said. "For everything."
"You're thanking me?" she smiled. "I should be thanking you."
"No need," he extended his hand. "Just... remember us."
She shook his hand.
"I will remember," she said. "I promise."
He nodded and walked toward his house without looking back. Ulvia watched him go, and her heart was warm.
---
Inside, Mila had already prepared her bundle — bread, dried meat, dried apples, a vial of tincture.
"Did you get everything?" she asked, looking Ulvia over.
"Everything," she answered.
She stood at the threshold, not knowing what to say. Words were unnecessary. Mila seemed to understand. She came over, hugged her — tightly, maternally.
The moon stood high, its cold, silver light flooding the street, the houses, the path leading east. Tomorrow she would walk it. But tonight — the last night in this house, this village, among these people.
She lay down on the bench, covered herself with the sheepskin. In her pocket lay the column — warm, alive, pulsing in time with her heart. In the bundle — the gifts given today. The handkerchief, the herbs, a pot of honey. And Kell's wooden flower, and Garth's token, and the memory of those who had become almost family.
She closed her eyes. Tomorrow she would leave. But this day, this evening, these people would stay with her. Forever.