Date: March 12, 541 years after the Fall of Zanra the Treacherous.
After the morning with Klii, Ulviya felt as if she had been wrung out and hung to dry. Her body ached—though she had not even trained, the tension that had held her while watching Klii's fighters now settled as heaviness in all her limbs. But there was no time to rest. Bagurai was expecting her after breakfast, and Ulviya, after swallowing a few spoonfuls of porridge at a small eatery on the first level, made her way toward the owl's home.
The town was different at this time of day. In the morning it had seemed vast, noisy, a little frightening. Now, with the sun higher and its rays filtering through the dense canopy, the town seemed softer, cozier. The inhabitants were not in a hurry; some sat on thresholds, basking in patches of light, others called across the street, and the children who had chased each other at dawn were now playing among the roots of a great oak, building a shelter from branches.
Ulviya walked slowly, memorizing the way. A turn at the fountain, then straight, past the herbalist's shop where the air was so thick it seemed you could drink it, then left between two trunks grown together into an arch—and there was Bagurai's home.
Today it looked different. Yesterday, when she first crossed the threshold, she had been too overwhelmed to notice details. Now she stood before the door, studying what she had missed. Above the door, on a shelf, stood pots with plants—but not ordinary ones. One had silver leaves that shimmered as if dusted with frost, though the day was warm. Another's flower resembled a tiny sun—it slowly turned to follow the light, and Ulviya noticed its petals glowed faintly from within. The third plant, the most modest, with small green leaves, would not have drawn her attention at all except for its scent—thin, barely perceptible, but so fresh that her head spun.
"That is 'night candle,'" came Bagurai's voice from above. Ulviya looked up and saw the owl perched on a branch directly over her head. In the daylight, his feathers seemed not gray but silver, with a faint blue sheen. "It blooms once every three years. Its petals store light and release it at night. Very useful for those who work with subtle matters. But I see you are not only looking at the flowers. The scent?"
"Yes," Ulviya admitted. "I felt… freshness. Like after rain."
"That is it." Bagurai hopped off the branch, his wings barely moving—he landed as lightly as a puff of down. "A rare specimen. It was given to me for a piece of work… but that is for later. Come, I will show you the main thing."
He opened the door, and Ulviya entered the world of books and scrolls once more. But today Bagurai led her deeper, into places she had not seen yesterday. They passed through the room with tall shelves, then a narrow corridor whose walls were hung with herbaria—dried plants under glass, with neat captions in such tiny script that Ulviya could only make out a few words.
"Here I keep specimens," Bagurai explained, noticing her gaze. "Every plant I have encountered in my life has a place here. But this is only a small part. The real thing begins beyond."
He opened another door, and Ulviya froze.
Before her was a greenhouse. But not the kind humans build of glass and wood. This was a room carved into the very heart of a tree, so vast that its walls vanished into greenery. Light entered through specially made openings in the bark, and these rays, refracting, fell on the plants, creating a play of shadows. The air was humid, warm, and smelled so richly that Ulviya's breath caught—thousands of scents, familiar and unknown, wove into a symphony that made her head spin.
"This is my workshop," said Bagurai, pride in his voice that he did not even try to hide. "Here I work. Here my students learn. Here," he swept a wing around, "lives what I love most in the world."
Ulviya stepped forward, her foot sinking into soft moss. She looked around. Plants were everywhere—on the walls, on the ceiling, on special stands, hanging from branches that seemed to have grown of their own accord. Some she recognized—the same ones that grew around the orphanage, but larger, brighter. Others were completely unknown. Here was a plant with leaves like tongues of flame, and it actually gave off heat—Ulviya felt the warmth even without approaching. There was a bush with berries that glowed from within, their light shifting from red to blue to green, shimmering like jewels. And in a corner, in a separate pot, stood something she first took for a stone, but looking closer, she realized it was a plant. It looked like a sleeping hedgehog—spiny, gray, motionless—and only the barely perceptible movement of the air around it betrayed that it was alive.
"That is sleeping stone," said Bagurai, coming closer. "Very rare. It feeds on the energy emitted by other plants. It barely photosynthesizes at all. I spent three years finding a way to cultivate it."
"And did you find it?" Ulviya asked.
"I did." Bagurai grinned. "It turned out it needs company. Alone it does not grow—it spends too much energy on defense. But when there are others nearby that share…" He gestured to several pots placed around it. "…it relaxes. Grows. Even flowers sometimes. Rarely, but it happens."
Ulviya looked at the sleeping stone, and for a moment she felt she understood it. She too had once been like that—closed, spiky, ready to defend herself against the whole world. And only when Chelaya came… she had begun to grow.
"You feel it," said Bagurai, and it was not a question.
"I feel it," Ulviya answered quietly.
"Good." The owl nodded. "That is the main thing. Without that feeling, you can learn all the names, all the properties, all the formulas, but you will never understand what life is. With it… with it you can do what others cannot."
He led her further, between the rows of pots, and talked, talked, talked. About plants that heal wounds and those that inflict them. About spores that can put an entire army to sleep, and fungi whose mycelium stretches for miles underground, connecting trees into a single network. About poisons that kill slowly, and antidotes that must be taken before the poison enters the blood. About how roots communicate with each other, passing signals of danger, and how leaves turn toward the light even after being cut.
Ulviya listened, her head spinning. She tried to remember, but there was too much knowledge, flowing like a river she could not stop.
"Do not try to memorize everything," Bagurai said, noticing her confusion. "Now you simply look and listen. Absorb. Memorizing will come later, gradually. We have much time."
"Much?" Ulviya repeated.
"As much as it takes." Bagurai stopped at a small table on which several instruments stood. One of them, the largest, resembled a magnifying glass but was far more complex. "This is a spirit lens," he explained, catching her look. "One of my students made it. It allows you to see what is hidden from the ordinary eye. Do you want to look?"
Ulviya nodded. Bagurai guided her to the table, adjusted the lens, and Ulviya put her eye to the eyepiece.
At first she understood nothing. In the field of view was an ordinary leaf that Bagurai had placed under the lens. But then she saw. The finest veins, pulsing like blood vessels. Tiny pores opening and closing in rhythm with her breathing. And something else, elusive, shimmering on the surface—as if the leaf itself breathed, glowing faintly from within with a greenish light.
"That is energy," said Bagurai. "The same energy that flows in you. In plants it is different, but the essence is the same. Life."
Ulviya pulled away from the lens. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the dimness of the greenhouse, and now ordinary light seemed too bright, too flat.
"That is… amazing," she said.
"That is only the beginning." Bagurai put the lens aside. "You will see much more when you learn to look without instruments. Your spirit will help you. My task is to give you the knowledge to understand what you see."
He led her further, to another corner of the greenhouse, where two figures sat at a long table.
The first was like a giant lizard with a human‑like body—long arms, short legs, and a head covered in fine, gleaming scales. He was writing in a thick notebook, glancing now and then at a plant before him. Beside him, on a special stand, lay a magnifying glass similar to the one Bagurai had shown, but smaller.
The second was a bird—small, with bright blue feathers and a long, curved beak. She sat on a high stool, sorting seeds into piles.
"These are my students," said Bagurai. "Their names are…" He paused, and Ulviya realized he had forgotten their names in human tongue.
"Irkit," the lizard introduced himself without looking up. "And this is Keya."
The bird chirped something, and Bagurai translated:
"She says she is pleased to meet you. Keya studies spores. She says you have a good nose. That is important for working with spores."
Ulviya did not know what to say. She just nodded, feeling her cheeks flush.
"Do not be embarrassed," said Irkit, finally looking up. His eyes were yellow, with vertical pupils, and they watched her attentively, appraisingly. "We all learn here. Bagurai is the best teacher you could find. If he took you on, you are worth something."
"I… I do not know," Ulviya admitted honestly. "I am only beginning."
"Everyone begins." Irkit grinned, and there was no mockery in it. "I, for example, spent three years unable to tell a medicinal root from a poisonous one. Until one day I mixed them up. Bagurai barely revived me. Since then I have been more careful."
"He exaggerates," Bagurai grumbled. "Reviving him was easy. Persuading him not to quit his studies was harder."
Irkit snorted but said nothing. Keya chirped something else, and this time Bagurai did not translate. He simply nodded and turned to Ulviya.
"Keya says you may come here anytime. There is always something to do. And if you wish to work with your hands—she will teach you."
Ulviya looked at her hands. At one. And at the stump that no longer hurt but never stopped reminding her of what had happened.
"I… have only one hand," she said. "Will I be able?"
Keya flew to her, perched on the edge of the table, and tilted her head, examining the stump. Then she chirped—short, sharp.
"She says she once had a student who worked with one hand," Bagurai translated. "He became the best in his field. Not in holding—but in feeling. Hands are for grasping. But to understand, you need fingers. Not only those on your hands."
Ulviya did not fully understand what he meant, but she nodded. It was strange that these two, so different, had accepted her so easily. Not pitying, not looking at her with sympathy. Simply… accepting her as she was.
"Well then," Bagurai clapped his hands, the sound muffled in the lush greenery. "Enough for today. You have had plenty of impressions. Go, rest. Tomorrow we will begin learning to distinguish medicinal plants from poisonous ones. And the day after… the day after we will see what your spirit can do with the poisonous ones."
He winked, and Ulviya could not tell if he was joking or serious. But her heart felt light. For the first time in a long time, light.
She left Bagurai's home when the sun was already sinking toward sunset. The town was living its life—some closing up shops, others just waking, preparing for the night shift. Ulviya walked slowly, feeling her spirit—her small, weak spirit—begin to reach toward the plants she passed. Toward the flowers in pots by doors. Toward the grass sprouting between roots. Toward the moss covering the walls of houses.
She felt them. Not like Chelaya. Not like Bagurai. But she felt them.
And that was enough.
She returned to her room when the sun had almost set. She sat on the bed, looking out the window‑hollow toward the west. The sky was painted crimson and gold, and the clouds drifting over the town looked like huge, fluffy beasts hurrying somewhere on their own business.
Ulviya looked at her stump. Today she had hardly thought about it. Today she had thought about roots reaching for water, leaves turning toward light. About spores flying on the wind, about seeds waiting in the earth for their time.
She thought about life. And for the first time in a long while, she did not feel separated from it.
"I will make it," she said quietly, and the words were not a question.
Through the window‑hollow she saw the first stars light up. The town grew quiet, preparing for sleep. And Ulviya, feeling her spirit—her small, weak spirit—begin slowly to grow, closed her eyes and smiled.
Tomorrow would be a new day. New knowledge. New discoveries. But today she was simply here. In this town, in this room, in this moment. And that was enough.