Date: October 9, 542, from the Fall of Zandra the Dishonorable.
Three days had passed since she had killed the kobolds on the back of the flying bird. Three days of wandering the white wasteland, licking her wounds, gathering leaves where she found them, and trying not to think about what had happened. The spear that had pierced her stomach left behind a deep scar—regeneration had done its work, but inside, everything still ached, a reminder of how close death had been.
She walked slowly, unhurried. The bag on her back weighed heavily on her shoulders—it now held over a hundred silver leaves.
The wind, almost nonexistent in this world, suddenly stirred her hair. Ulvia looked up and froze.
Ahead, beyond a low ridge of white cliffs, a new zone opened up. It was unlike anything she had seen before. Not a desert, not hills, not an icy plateau. Gardens.
White gardens.
The trees here were low and gnarled, with smooth bark that glowed from within, like everything else in this world. Their branches stretched outward, intertwining to form natural arches and arbors. Between them, on soft, almost fluffy grass—also white, with a silvery sheen—grew flowers. Not like those in the ordinary world. Their petals were translucent, like the finest porcelain, and in the center of each pulsed a faint golden light.
The grass underfoot did not crunch or ring—it was soft as down, and every step sank into it without a sound. The air was different here—not heavy or dense, but light, almost weightless, and it smelled not of ozone and cold metal, but of something sweet, floral, almost forgotten.
*Beautiful,* Ulvia thought, and the thought made her uneasy. In this white world, beauty always meant danger.
She took a step forward, and in that same instant, a figure emerged from the shadow of the nearest arch.
---
The hound was enormous—two meters tall, perhaps more. Its fur, white with silver veins, shimmered in the diffuse light. Every strand seemed made of the finest glass thread. Its body was muscular and lean, radiating a strength that needed no proof.
But the main feature was its heads. Two of them.
They grew from a single powerful neck, each looking in a different direction. The left hound had black eyes—empty and cold, like all guardians. The right hound had golden eyes, almost human, and in their depths, in that warm, living light, was something Ulvia had never seen in any guardian.
They did not growl. They did not bare their teeth. They simply watched.
Ulvia froze. Her left arm, her living vine, shot up, ready for battle. But she did not attack. Something in this creature—its posture, its gaze—told her that fighting was not the only option.
"You won't attack," she said. It wasn't a question.
The right hound—the one with golden eyes—inclined its head. Its voice, when it spoke, was low and deep, lacking the cold, mechanical echo Ulvia had heard from other guardians.
"You are correct," it said. "I will not attack. If you agree to my terms."
"Terms?" Ulvia repeated, not lowering her arm.
"You may pass through these gardens," the hound nodded toward the white trees and flowers. "You may gather silver leaves. There are many here. But you must not harm this zone. Not a single tree. Not a single flower. Not a single blade of grass. And you must take nothing but the leaves."
Ulvia frowned.
"And if I refuse?"
The right hound tilted its head slightly toward the left. The left one—with empty black eyes—bared its teeth. It was not a threat, but rather a warning.
"Then we would have to fight," said the right hound. "And you would lose. I do not wish for that. You do not wish for that. The Tree does not wish for that."
"How do you know what the Tree wishes?" Ulvia asked.
The right hound did not answer. It only watched her with its golden eyes, and in their depths, in that warm, living light, there was something that made her lower her arm.
"Fine," she said. "I agree. Touch nothing. Only the leaves."
The right hound nodded. The left one closed its jaws.
"Pass through," it said, stepping back into the shadow of the arch.
---
Ulvia stepped into the White Gardens.
The grass underfoot was soft as down. Every step sank into it without a sound. The flowers leaned toward her as she passed, trembling slightly. She did not touch them. She didn't even look at them for too long—afraid that even her gaze might be considered a threat.
The trees lined the path, their intertwined branches forming natural arches. Beneath one such arch, on a small pedestal of white stone, lay leaves. Silver, pulsing, glowing steadily and calmly.
Ulvia approached and took them. Three. Five. Ten. She didn't count—she simply placed them in the bag on her back, feeling their warmth, their light seeping through the fabric and soothing her tired body.
She walked on. The gardens opened before her, and in every new grove, on every new pedestal, leaves awaited her. She gathered them carefully, damaging not a single flower, not a single blade of grass. The hound followed her—neither drawing closer nor falling behind. Its four eyes—two black, two golden—tracked her every move.
*It's testing me,* Ulvia realized. *Even though I've already agreed. It doesn't trust me.*
She wasn't offended. She didn't trust it either.
---
In the center of the gardens, in a small clearing, grew flowers she hadn't seen before. They were taller than the others, with long, slender stems and buds that glowed from within with a bright golden light. Ulvia stopped, staring at them.
"That is the heart of the gardens," the hound said, appearing from behind her. "Do not touch them. They are the foundation of this place. If they perish, the gardens will vanish."
"I won't touch them," Ulvia replied. "I promised."
She circled the flowers in a wide arc, careful not to even breathe in their direction. The hound watched, and its golden eyes seemed to grow slightly warmer.
She gathered leaves for perhaps another hour. The bag on her shoulders grew heavier, but she did not stop. There were more leaves here than in any other zone—maybe forty, maybe fifty. She didn't count. She just gathered, feeling her strength returning.
When the last leaf was in the bag, she turned to the hound.
"Done," she said. "I'm leaving."
The hound nodded. The left head—with black eyes—stared at her with utter emptiness. The right head—with golden eyes—inclined slightly.
"You have fulfilled the terms," it said. "You may go."
Ulvia took a step toward the exit, but paused. She turned back.
"Why did you speak?" she asked. "All the other guardians I've met didn't talk. They just attacked. But you… you speak. Why?"
The right hound looked at her. Its golden eyes, warm and alive, grew deeper, darker for a moment.
"The Tree changes the rules," it said. "And the conditions within the zones. Why—I do not know. I am merely a guardian. I do as I am bidden."
"And today you are bidden to speak?" Ulvia asked.
"Today I am bidden to speak with you," the hound replied. "Tomorrow, perhaps with another. The day after, with no one. I do not know. The Tree does not explain. It simply… changes."
Ulvia looked at him. In his words, in his voice, in his golden eyes, there was something that made her think. Guardians did not speak. Ever. Yet this one did. And it was no accident.
*The Tree is changing the rules,* she repeated to herself.
"Thank you," she said. "For the conversation. And for not attacking."
The right hound inclined its head slightly. The left head closed its eyes.
"Go," it said. "Your friends are waiting."
Ulvia nodded and stepped beyond the borders of the White Gardens.
---
She emerged onto the white wasteland, and the familiar, oppressive silence closed in behind her. The bag on her back was heavy—heavier than ever before. She could feel the silver leaves pulsing and shimmering, and in their light, in their quiet song, there was something that reminded her of home.
She turned around. The White Gardens were already hidden behind the ridge of cliffs. Only a faint golden glow betrayed their location.
*The Tree changes the rules,* she thought again. *Why? For what purpose? What is it planning?*
There was no answer. Only silence. Only white sand underfoot. Only the pulse of the green leaf within her, reminding her that she was still alive.
She walked on. Toward the tower. Toward her friends. Toward the rest she had earned.
Three days of her week still lay ahead. But today, she had taken a step none of them had taken before. She had spoken with a guardian. And it had answered.
*Perhaps that is the true path,* Ulvia thought. *Not only battles. But conversations too. Not only strength. But understanding.*