Date: October 14, 542, from the Fall of Zandra the Dishonorable.
The wind howled in his ears, tore at his fur, and stung his eyes. Sobra, plummeting headfirst, no longer knew which way was up, which way was down, where the sky ended and the ground began. The white world rushed toward him—cliffs, deserts, silvery lakes—all flickering past at such speed that his head spun.
*I'm going to crash,* he thought. There was no fear in the thought. Only cold, calm acceptance of the inevitable.
He tried to twist, to spread his paws, to slow his fall—but the air was too dense, too viscous. Every movement was a struggle. His fur whipped wildly, his silver stripes pulsed in time with his frantic heart. He felt the ground approaching.
A hundred meters. Fifty. Thirty.
*It's over,* Sobra managed to think. And in that moment, something strange happened.
He did not hit. He did not crash. He simply… stopped.
The air around him grew thick as water. His fall slowed, then ceased entirely. He hung five meters above the ground—motionless, like a fly trapped in amber, unable to move a paw, a tail, or even an ear.
One second. Two. Three.
And then the invisible force released him. Sobra crashed onto the sand.
---
The impact was hard, but not fatal. The white, loose sand cushioned his fall. Sobra rolled onto his side and lay still for a few moments, breathing heavily, staring up at the white sky.
*Alive,* he thought. *I'm alive.*
He didn't know what had happened. Perhaps the girl in white robes had softened his fall. Perhaps the Tree itself had decided he wasn't ready to die. He didn't know. But he was grateful.
He rose and shook himself. Sand cascaded from his fur. His silver stripes, having calmed, pulsed steadily. His body ached—bruised paws, a sore back—but his bones were intact. Regeneration was already beginning its work, and the pain was gradually subsiding.
Sobra looked around.
A white wasteland stretched around him—flat, featureless, without a single landmark. No cliffs, no trees, not even bushes of transparent grass. Only sand. Only sky. Only silence.
*Where am I?* he thought, his heart beating faster again.
He didn't know this place. He had never been here before. The white wastelands he had walked before were different—there had been hills, cliffs, sparse groves of silver trees. But here—nothing. Only sand stretching to the horizon.
*Where is the tower? The lake? The portal?*
He turned his head one way—emptiness. The other way—emptiness. Back the way he had come—emptiness. Only white sand, only white sky, only endless, crushing silence.
Sobra shook his head, trying to quell the rising panic. His paws trembled, and the fur on his neck stood on end. He didn't know where to go. He didn't know north from south, east from west. The compass on his neck was silent—no pulse, no warmth, just a dead weight between his shoulder blades.
*What do I do?* he thought. *What do I do?*
He closed his eyes. He remembered the elder's words: *"When you don't know where to go—go where instinct leads you. It will not fail you."*
He opened his eyes. He took a deep, steady breath. He listened to himself—not to his mind, not to his fear, but to that ancient, animal intuition that had never failed him in the forest.
*That way,* instinct said. And Sobra, obeying, took a step forward.
---
He didn't know how much time passed. An hour, maybe two. He walked, and the wasteland around him did not change—the same sand, the same sky, the same silence. But instinct led him confidently, without faltering, and he trusted it.
He was beginning to think he was walking in circles when a dot appeared on the horizon ahead. Small and white, it was approaching quickly. Sobra squinted, trying to make out what it was.
A bird.
It was small—the size of a falcon, but with longer, narrower wings. Its plumage was white, like everything in this world, but silver sparks shimmered at the tips of its feathers. It flew straight toward him, not deviating. Sobra, not knowing what to expect, froze in place.
The bird landed before him. It folded its wings and cocked its head. Its black, shiny eyes—like two tiny peas—fixed on the bear.
"You are lost," it said.
Sobra started. The bird was speaking—not with a voice, not with sound, but with something else that he heard not with his ears, but with his mind. And in that voice, in that soundless whisper, there was something that made his fur stand on end.
"I will guide you," the bird said. "Follow me."
It spread its wings and took flight, describing a wide circle in the air. Sobra, without hesitation, followed.
---
The bird did not lead him for long. After half an hour, the wasteland gave way to hills, the hills to rocky ridges, and the ridges to a narrow canyon whose walls rose so high their peaks were lost in the white haze.
The bird disappeared into the canyon, and Sobra followed.
It was darker here—darker than in other zones. The air smelled of ozone and cold metal. The canyon walls were smooth as glass, and in them, Sobra could see his own reflection—his silver stripes, his amber eyes, his fur ruffled from the fall.
The canyon widened, and Sobra emerged into a new zone.
It resembled a swamp—but white and silvery, with sparse bushes of transparent grass and small pools of still water. The air was damp and heavy. It smelled not of ozone, but of something rotten and sweetish that made Sobra's nose itch.
And then he saw them.
---
They stood at the edge of a pool—three of them. Tall, nearly twice Sobra's height, with powerful tails dragging along the ground and long snouts lined with razor-sharp teeth. Their skin was white and smooth. Bony ridges ran along their spines.
Crocodiles. But not like those in the ordinary world. These stood on two legs. Their short but powerful forelimbs gripped spears—long and slender, with tips that shimmered with a silvery light.
They turned to face Sobra. Their eyes—yellow, with vertical pupils—regarded him without fear, without surprise, without hatred. Only cold, predatory attention.
Sobra froze. His fur stood on end, and his silver stripes flared brighter. He didn't know who they were. He didn't know how many there were. He didn't know what they were capable of. But his instincts—ancient, animal—screamed: *Careful. They are dangerous.*
The bird that had led him here perched on a nearby bush. It looked at Sobra, then at the crocodiles. Spreading its wings, it took flight and vanished into the white haze.
*Thank you,* Sobra thought. *For guiding me. I'll take it from here.*
He took a step forward. The crocodiles did not move. They only watched.
Sobra took another step. Then another.
When he was ten paces away, the largest crocodile—the one in the center, holding a spear adorned with silver runes—raised its head and bared its teeth.
White fangs glinted in the light.
"You shall not pass," it said. Its voice was low and hissing, like a serpent's.
Sobra did not answer. He simply crouched low, ready for battle.
The crocodiles broke formation. Two moved to the sides, encircling him. The third—the largest—remained in place. Its spear, raised for a strike, shimmered with silver light.
Sobra tensed, and his silver stripes flared brighter.