Date: March 11, 541 years after the Fall of Zanra the Treacherous.
Morning came foggy and cool. A white veil spread over the valley, hiding the lights of the night‑time town, and only the tallest treetops showed through it, like islands in a milky sea. Ulviya woke to moisture touching her face—not rain, but the dense morning mist settling on her skin in tiny droplets.
Chelaya was already waiting. The tortoise stood at the edge of the cliff, gazing downward, and her white shell in this light seemed almost unreal—woven from the mist itself.
"It is time," she said.
They began the descent. The path Chelaya chose was narrow and stony, but the tortoise walked it with a certainty that left no doubt: this way was known to her down to the last stone. Ulviya followed, stepping where her teacher stepped, and felt the mist gradually thinning, giving way to morning light.
The lower they went, the more distinct the sounds became. At first Ulviya took them for wind in the treetops, but then she made out voices—not one or two, but many, merging into a single, living hum. Someone called out, someone laughed, somewhere metal rang, and somewhere a bird sang with a trill so pure it seemed to be born from the air itself.
"Do you hear?" Chelaya asked without turning.
"I hear," Ulviya answered. "Is that… the town?"
"That is life," Chelaya corrected. "The town is only its shape."
The mist parted suddenly, as if someone had drawn back a heavy curtain to reveal a stage. And Ulviya froze.
The Forest Dwellers' Town looked like no city she had ever seen or imagined. There were no walls, no ramparts, no paved streets. The town grew from the ground like a forest and was a forest—but a forest in which every branch, every root, every trunk served someone as a home, workshop, shop, or road.
Giant trees soared so high that their crowns vanished into the clouds. Their trunks were so wide that rooms were carved inside them, and windows—hollows in the bark—looked out, with curious faces peering through. Bridges of living branches spanned between the trees, and along them moved the inhabitants—some on two legs, some on four, and some gliding through the air, flitting from branch to branch.
Below, among the roots, streams of purest water flowed, and above them, on wooden platforms, shops were set up. Ulviya saw merchants laying out goods—herbs, fruits, fabrics, tools, books, strange instruments of glass and metal. She saw children chasing each other along the paths, their laughter so bright it seemed to rise to the sky.
"How is this…" she began, then fell silent, at a loss for words.
"How was it built?" Chelaya finished for her. "Not built. Grown. Over centuries. Every tree here knows its place. Every root knows its path. This is not a city, Ulviya. This is a garden. The oldest garden on this earth."
They stepped under the canopy of the first tree, and Ulviya felt its shadow cover her, cool and calming. The air here smelled different—not of smoke and soot, like in human towns, but of pine, flowers, and something else she had no name for. Perhaps life itself.
"Chelaya," a voice came from above, and Ulviya looked up.
On a branch overhanging the path sat a squirrel. She was larger than those Ulviya had seen in the forests near the orphanage, and wore a neat vest of soft leather; in her paws she held a ring of keys that jingled with every movement.
"You have returned," the squirrel continued, nimbly climbing down. Her eyes, black and bright, regarded Ulviya with interest. "And this, then, is the one?"
"The very one," Chelaya answered calmly. "Her name is Ulviya. She will live here. Learn."
"Does Bagurai already know?" asked the squirrel.
"He knows," Chelaya nodded. "He is waiting for us."
The squirrel gave Ulviya another quick glance, then suddenly smiled—and in that smile there was neither condescension nor pity, only genuine, lively curiosity.
"Welcome, Ulviya," she said. "I hope you will like it here. I am Spika. If you need anything, just ask. I know everything here."
She nimbly climbed back onto the branch and vanished into the thick foliage, leaving behind only the jingling of keys and a slight, barely perceptible swaying of the branches.
Ulviya watched her go, feeling a smile creep onto her lips. In this town, so alien and unlike anything she had known, there was neither coldness nor alienation. Even a squirrel with keys felt… familiar.
"Come," Chelaya said. "We are expected."
They walked through the town for a long time. Chelaya was in no hurry, and Ulviya was grateful. She wanted to remember every detail, every smell, every sound of this place that was soon to become her home.
They passed a forge where a dwarf—no, not a dwarf, someone stockier, with thick fur and short but immensely strong hands—hammered metal, sparks flying upward and dying before they reached the leaves. They passed a school where children—some beast‑like, some human, and some of kinds Ulviya could not name with a single word—sat at a long table listening to a teacher whose voice was like the babbling of a brook. They passed an herbalist's shop where scents mingled into such a complex bouquet that Ulviya's head spun, and she paused for a moment, breathing it in.
"Overwhelming, is it?" Chelaya asked.
"Too much," Ulviya admitted.
"You will get used to it," the tortoise said. "A town is like a forest. You must learn to breathe in it."
They turned onto a path that led upward, toward trees whose trunks were thicker than those at the entrance. Here it was quieter, calmer. The air smelled of books and herbs, and Ulviya felt her spirit respond to the scent with a strange, warm flutter.
Chelaya stopped before one of the trees. Its trunk was so wide that a small house could have fit inside it. A door was carved in the bark, and above it stood a shelf holding pots of unusual plants. One of them, with long silver leaves, reached toward the light, its tips faintly glowing.
"This is where Bagurai lives," said Chelaya. "Your teacher."
She knocked—three short knocks, one long. The door did not open immediately. First Ulviya heard rustling, then soft muttering, and finally he appeared in the doorway.
The owl was not tall, shorter than Ulviya, but there was such dense, age‑old strength in him that the girl instinctively straightened. Large yellow eyes behind thick‑rimmed glasses regarded her with curiosity and… approval? Or was she imagining it?
"Chelaya," the owl's voice was low, rustling, like turning pages of an old book. "You have brought her."
"As I promised." Chelaya inclined her head slightly. "Ulviya, this is Bagurai. Biologist. Scholar. The man who knows more about plants than anyone now living."
"Do not exaggerate," Bagurai grumbled, but pleasure sounded in his voice. He turned his gaze to Ulviya, and something resembling a smile appeared on his beak. "Come in, child. Do not stand on the threshold. We will have time to talk. Much time."
Ulviya stepped forward, and the door closed behind her, cutting off the noise of the town. Inside it smelled of books, dried herbs, and something else she had no name for. She glanced back at Chelaya, but the tortoise remained outside, and her voice, calm and confident, came through the wood:
"I will be near, Ulviya. When you need me."
Ulviya nodded, though Chelaya could not see it. She entered Bagurai's home, feeling one door close behind her and another open. The door to a new life. The door to knowledge. The door to what she was meant to become.
Bagurai waited in the center of the room, his yellow eyes behind thick lenses glinting in the light of magical lamps.
"Well then, Ulviya," he said, quiet anticipation in his voice. "Let us begin."