Date: October 14, 542, from the Fall of Zandra the Dishonorable.
Sobra opened his eyes and did not understand where he was.
Around him stretched an endless white space. Not a wasteland, not a desert, not gardens—something else for which he had no name. The floor beneath his paws was transparent—absolutely, perfectly transparent. It seemed he was walking on air, on emptiness itself. But his paws felt a solid surface—cold and smooth as ice.
And far, far below, the white world sprawled.
Sobra froze, staring down. His heart skipped a beat. There, beneath the transparent floor, as far as the eye could see, lay zones—white deserts, silvery hills, rocky ridges, icy plateaus. They were like the ones he had walked before, yet different. Alien. Unfamiliar.
He peered toward the horizon, hoping to see the tower—the one where Datuk, Ulvia, and Rosh waited. But there was no tower. No familiar cliffs, no lake he had swum across, not even a hint that he had ever been here before.
*This is a different region,* Sobra realized, and a chill ran down his spine. *I don't know this place. I've never been here.*
He tried to calm himself. Breathe. Breathe the way the elder taught—evenly, deeply, without holding his breath. But his breathing faltered, his heart hammered somewhere in his throat, and the fur on his neck stood on end, even though he sensed no threat.
Silence. Only his breathing. Only the pulse of blood in his ears. Only a strange, barely audible ringing that seemed to come from everywhere—the transparent floor, the white sky, the very emptiness.
And then a voice sounded from behind him.
"You won't see them there."
---
Sobra whirled around. His paws slipped on the transparent surface, and he nearly fell. Before him, a few paces away, a girl hovered.
She was short and delicate. Her white robes—a long dress with wide sleeves, cinched by a thin belt—rippled despite the absence of wind. Her hair, silvery and almost translucent, streamed behind her like a waterfall. Tiny, barely visible sparks shimmered within it if one looked closely.
But the main thing was her eyes. They were white—not light like the elder's, but truly white, without pupils or irises. In their depths, in that infinite whiteness, everything was reflected: the white world below, the transparent floor underfoot, and Sobra himself, standing before her.
She did not walk—she floated. Her feet did not touch the floor. She moved smoothly, like a phantom, like a dream, like a part of this strange, unreal place.
Sobra crouched low. His fur stood on end, and his silver stripes flared brighter. He didn't know who she was. He didn't know if she was dangerous. But his instincts—ancient, animal—screamed: *Careful. She is stronger. Much stronger.*
The girl stopped. She looked at him—and smiled. There was no threat in her smile. Only curiosity. And perhaps a touch of surprise.
"Don't be afraid," she said. Her voice was quiet and melodious, like the chime of a bell. "I'm not going to fight you."
Sobra did not relax. But he did not attack. He waited.
"How did you get here?" the girl continued, genuine bewilderment in her voice. "You weren't supposed to find this place. Even together, you couldn't have done it. And you're alone. Unless… wait."
She frowned. Her white eyes—empty and deep—narrowed, and she slowly raised a hand. Her long, slender, almost transparent fingers moved slightly. In that same instant, Sobra felt an immense amount of energy gathering in her hand.
"Ah, there it is," the girl said. Her fingers seemed to pull something from the very air.
The compass. The one that had vanished into the portal. It materialized in her palm—small and warm, pulsing with a faint golden light.
"Now it all makes sense," she said, turning the device over in her fingers, examining it from all sides. "But I didn't think he would give you something like this. And he even hid it. What an old paranoid."
Sobra didn't understand who she was talking about. Shaman Krogan? Or someone else he couldn't even guess at? He didn't know. But he felt—she was telling the truth.
The girl sighed. In that quiet, barely audible sound, there was something like weariness.
"Alright," she said, looking at Sobra. "There's nothing for you here yet. You're not ready. Your friends aren't ready. This place demands more than you can offer right now."
She stepped closer—or perhaps didn't step, but simply appeared beside him, for her movements were too smooth to be called steps.
"You can take your compass back," she extended her hand, and the device flew on its own to the back of Sobra's neck, settling comfortably between his shoulder blades. "Though it's relatively useless now. All it could do was lead you to the Tree. And once inside, it could lead you to me. But its power will soon fade. Especially since it's already opened a portal."
Sobra listened, his heart beating steadily, calmly. He didn't understand all her words. But he felt—she was telling the truth. And he felt—she was not an enemy.
"It's time for you to return," the girl said, a softness in her voice that Sobra hadn't expected. "Your friends are waiting. And don't worry—you haven't lost anything. You learned what you needed to learn. And that is already a lot."
She waved her hand—a short, elegant gesture. Her white robes rippled, and her silvery hair billowed behind her.
And in that same instant, the floor beneath Sobra's paws vanished.
---
He didn't even have time to cry out. The transparent surface, so solid and reliable a second ago, simply dissolved into the air. Sobra, losing his footing, plummeted downward.
Wind whistled in his ears. His fur whipped wildly. The white world below rushed toward him. He saw deserts, hills, rocky ridges—all unfamiliar, alien, not the ones he had walked before.
*I'm falling,* he thought. And in that thought, in that realization, there was no fear. Only surprise. And, for some reason, calm.
He looked up. Far, far above, at the edge of the vanished floor, stood the girl in white robes. She was watching him. Her white eyes—empty and deep—glowed in the darkness like two tiny stars.
She did not wave goodbye. She said nothing. She simply stood and watched, and in her gaze was something Sobra couldn't understand. Perhaps hope. Perhaps farewell. Perhaps a promise.
And then she vanished. Along with the transparent floor, along with the white space, along with that strange, unreal reality he had entered.
Only the wind remained. Only the fall. Only the white world rushing up from below.
Sobra closed his eyes.
*I'll come back,* he thought. *I promised. I'll come back.*
The wind whistled in his ears. Somewhere down there, the ground awaited. Or water. Or something else. He didn't know. But he knew—he would survive. He had to survive.
He opened his eyes. The white world drew nearer. He could now make out individual cliffs, individual sand dunes, individual silvery lakes.
*I'm flying,* Sobra thought. And in that thought, in that moment, there was nothing but pure, primal wonder.
He was flying. And somewhere down there, a landing awaited him.
Hard. Painful. And if he didn't think of something—fatal.