Date: October 6, 542, from the Fall of Zandra the Dishonorable.
She opened her eyes.
The energy in her legs, nearly gone, flared—not as an explosion, not as a burst, but as a weak, barely perceptible flow. But it was enough. Her body, obeying not so much a command as desperate will, surged forward—toward the three Pillars standing with spears at the ready.
They did not expect it. They had seen her fall to her knees, seen her blood soak the white feathers, seen the vine on her left arm barely clinging to life. They thought she was finished. They thought the end was near.
They were wrong.
The first Pillar, the closest one, didn't even have time to raise its spear. Ulvia slammed into it with her shoulder, and the energy control technique—weak as it was, barely tangible—did its work. Her speed in that instant was twice her norm. The kobold flew backward, and before it could touch the feathers, her left arm, now a long, jagged blade, buried itself in its throat.
White dust gushed from the wound, and the Pillar crumbled without a sound.
One.
Ulvia did not stop. She spun, searching for the second, but it was already attacking. Its spear, long and thin, arced toward her head. She ducked, missing the blade by a millimeter, and in the same instant, her right fist met its chest.
The metal plates of her gauntlet sank into white flesh, and the kobold, grunting, stumbled back a step. But it did not fall. Pillars were tougher than Warriors—one blow was not enough.
"You're… tenacious," Ulvia rasped, her voice sounding foreign and hoarse.
She tried to finish it, but the third Pillar was already flanking her. Its spear was raised, already in motion, and Ulvia, unable to dodge, raised her left arm to block.
The vine, her living arm, took the blow. The spear sank into it up to the haft, and pain—sharp, searing—lanced through her shoulder and forearm. She screamed—not from pain, but from fury—and, ignoring the wound, kicked the kobold in the stomach.
It doubled over, and she used that moment to yank the spear from her arm. The damaged vine, oozing the white substance that served as its blood, began to slowly regenerate—but far too slowly.
*The second one,* she thought, glancing at the Pillar she had punched. *It's still alive.*
It was standing, clutching its chest. White dust seeped from between its claws. Its black eyes, empty and cold, stared at her with hatred—or whatever these creatures used in place of hatred.
"Two left," Ulvia said, wiping blood from her split lip.
The third Pillar, the one that had impaled her arm, was already rising. Its eyes burned with the same cold fire.
She felt her strength leaving her. The wound in her left arm throbbed, and the damaged vine was healing too slowly. The energy in her legs was spent—the energy control technique she had tried to use required concentration, and she had none left. Only pain. Only fatigue. Only the blood still seeping from the wound in her thigh and the scratch on her side.
*If I don't do something now, they'll kill me,* she realized.
She closed her eyes. She remembered the elder's words: *"Energy should not be hoarded. It must flow. You gather it, conduct it through your legs, and release it back. Do not hold it. Let it pass through."*
She stopped holding onto the energy. She simply… let it flow. Together with her. Her body, her mind, her will—all became part of the current. And in that moment, when she stopped fighting, the energy responded.
She opened her eyes. The world around her had changed—sharper, brighter. Every feather on the bird's back, every speck of dust in the air, every movement of the kobolds—all of it became accessible to her perception. She could see their muscles tensing before an attack. She could hear their heartbeats—muffled, steady, like mechanisms. She could feel the air tremble at their approach.
The energy control technique. The one she had been learning for a month and a half. The one that had never fully submitted to her.
---
The first of the remaining Pillars attacked. Its spear moved faster than before—or did it just seem that way? Ulvia did not dodge. She stepped forward to meet it, and in the same instant, her left arm, now a short, wide blade, met the spear's shaft.
Steel rang, sparks flew, and the spear, cut in two, fell onto the feathers. The kobold, unprepared for such force, froze for a moment—and that moment was enough.
Ulvia's blade plunged into its chest up to the hilt. White dust gushed from the wound, and the Pillar, without even a cry, crumbled into ash.
Another one. One left.
Ulvia turned to face it. The third Pillar—the one that had stabbed her arm—stood a few paces away, and in its black eyes, something resembling fear flickered for the first time. It understood that it was about to die. And it did not want to die.
It lunged at her, raising its spear for a final strike.
Ulvia raised her left arm to meet it, but the energy control technique she had just been using suddenly faltered. The energy, which had been flowing smoothly and calmly, surged upward—toward her shoulders, her head. She lost her balance and stumbled.
That instant was enough.
The Pillar's spear plunged into her stomach.
---
She felt no pain at first. Only a powerful, crushing jolt that stole her breath. Then—cold. A strange, icy cold spreading through her body, numbing her fingers and tangling her thoughts.
She looked down. The spear protruded from her abdomen. Its white shaft, covered in her blood, seemed alien, unnatural. Blood—her blood, red, crimson—flowed over the feathers, mixing with the white dust of the slain kobolds.
"You…" she whispered, staring into the Pillar's black eyes.
It did not answer. It only stared at her, and in its gaze there was no pity, no triumph. Only the fulfillment of an order.
Ulvia fell to her knees. The spear, still lodged in her stomach, struck the feathers, and the pain finally arrived—sharp, searing. It tore at her insides, making her want to scream, but no sound came. Only a rasp. Only a sob caught in her throat.
*It's over,* she thought. *This is the end.*
She collapsed onto her side, the white feathers beneath her growing wet with blood. The bird flew on, steady and unheeding, its huge white wings beating in their own rhythm, oblivious to the struggle upon its back.
The Pillar stood over her. Its spear, still buried in her body, was its only weapon, but it did not rush to retrieve it. It waited. It watched her die.
Ulvia stared up at the white sky. It was the same as always—flat, empty, infinite. Somewhere beyond that sky was the tower. Her friends. Datuk, who was surely cursing up a storm. Sobra, nudging her shoulder with his nose, demanding attention. Rosh, silent, but with worry in his eyes.
*I can't die,* she thought. *Not here. Not now.*
She tried to rise. She couldn't. The spear in her stomach impeded every movement, each attempt bringing a fresh wave of agony.
The Pillar took a step forward. Its claw closed around the spear's shaft, ready to pull it out—or drive it deeper.
Ulvia closed her eyes. In the darkness, images flared—Caedan, Gil, Dur. Their faces, so dear, so distant. She remembered the oath under the Old Pine. *"We'll build a Better World."*
*I haven't kept my oath,* she thought. *I haven't met up with them. I don't know what became of them. I can't die.*
She opened her eyes.
From the stump, from the very core of her being, thin, almost invisible threads burst forth. They coiled around the shaft of the spear. The Pillar, caught off guard, tried to pull its claw back, but the threads had already sunk into its skin, rooting themselves like vines in soil.
"What…" it began, but did not finish.
Ulvia, gathering her last shreds of strength, pulled the threads toward herself. The spear, still inside her, jerked. A fresh wave of agony washed over her, but she did not stop. She pulled until the kobold lost its balance and crashed onto the feathers beside her.
They lay side by side—she and her would-be killer. And in its black eyes, empty and cold, something like surprise flickered for the first time.
"You…" Ulvia rasped, her voice barely audible. "You made a mistake. I'm not dying. Not today."
She raised her right arm—the only one that could still move. The metal plates of her gauntlet glinted dully in the light.
And she struck.
Her fist, clenched in one final effort, met the kobold's temple. A dull, wet crunch echoed. The Pillar, without even a cry, crumbled into white dust.
The last one.
Ulvia lay on her back, breathing heavily, staring up at the white sky. Blood still seeped from the wound in her stomach, but slower now—regeneration, enhanced by the green leaf, was beginning its work. The spear, still embedded in her body, made it hard to breathe. Every movement sent a dull, throbbing ache through her.
*I have to pull it out,* she thought. *If I don't, I'll die.*
She gripped the shaft with both hands. Her left—the damaged, weakened vine. Her right—strong in its gauntlet, but trembling with exhaustion.
"One," she whispered. "Two."
A yank.
The pain was so intense the world went dark. She screamed—a loud, desperate cry that seemed to echo across the entire white world, bouncing off the cliffs, the sky, the very emptiness.
The spear came free. Blood gushed with renewed force, and Ulvia, pressing her hands to her stomach, tried to staunch the flow.
"Hold on," she told herself. "Hold on. You're not dying. Not today."
She lay on her back, staring up at the white sky, and felt life slowly returning to her. Not quickly. Not easily. But it was returning.
The bird flew on, steady and unheeding. White dust from the slain kobolds slowly settled on the feathers, and in this light, in this silence, there was something that made her heart ache.
She had won.
There were no cheers of joy. Only silence. Only the pulse of the green leaf within her, only the chill of the white plant in her pocket, only the blood still seeping from her wound despite the regeneration.
*I'm alive,* she told herself. *That's what matters.*
She opened her eyes. She stood up—slowly, leaning on her good arm, feeling every movement echo with pain in her stomach. She looked at what remained of her enemies. White dust, mounds of white dust. And leaves. Silver leaves lying on the backs of the birds, on pedestals, in hollows.
She gathered them. Without counting. Simply putting them into the bag on her back. There were many of them.
She didn't know exactly how many. She didn't count.
The bird flew on, steady and unheeding. The kobolds were gone. Only white dust, only silence, only her—alone in the vast white sky.
Ulvia raised her head and looked toward the horizon. There, beyond the white cliffs, beyond the wastelands, the tower awaited. Her friends awaited.
*This was the first day,* she thought. *Only the first day.*
She climbed down from the bird the same way she had climbed up. Her feet, accustomed to the smooth stone of the tower, touched down on the loose, ringing surface of the sand.