Date: March 12, 541 years after the Fall of Zanra the Treacherous.
The morning began with noise. Ulviya opened her eyes and for a moment could not remember where she was. The ceiling here was not stone, as in Chelaya's cave, nor wood, as in the orphanage, but alive—woven from interlaced branches through which rare sunbeams broke. The air smelled of moss, bark, and something floral, sweet but not cloying.
She sat up, and the world around her took shape. The previous day seemed like a dream. The town, Bagurai, the room in the tree—all of it was too unusual to be real. But the familiar ache in her stump reminded her: this was no dream. She was here. And today her new life would begin.
Ulviya rose, washed with water from the clay jug by the entrance, and put on a clean tunic Chelaya had left for her. The fabric was soft, unfamiliar, and smelled of herbs. She adjusted the bandage on her stump, took a deep breath, and stepped outside.
Chelaya was waiting by the door. The tortoise stood motionless, her white shell in the morning light like porcelain.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked.
"Yes," Ulviya answered. "And you… do you sleep at all?"
"Sometimes." Chelaya tilted her head slightly, and Ulviya could not tell if she was joking or serious. "Today you will meet Klii. She awaits us at the lower training ground."
"Klii," Ulviya repeated. Yesterday Bagurai had spoken of her. The lioness. The combat teacher. Ulviya felt a flicker of fear inside her—not the paralyzing kind she remembered from the clearing with the bezuki, but a different, sharper, bracing fear. Fear of the unknown.
"Do not be afraid," Chelaya said, as if reading her thoughts. "Klii is harsh but fair. She will not pity you. And that is good."
"Good?" Ulviya asked, surprised.
"Pity makes you weak." Chelaya moved forward, and Ulviya followed. "Klii knows this. She will demand more from you than you can give. And every time you fall, she will stand beside you and watch. Not because she does not care. But because she believes you can get up on your own."
"And if I cannot?"
Chelaya stopped. She turned to Ulviya, and in her ancient eyes, so calm and deep, something like a smile flickered.
"Then she will help you up. And make you go on. Because that is her way. And because she is not pity."
They went on, and Ulviya felt the town awakening around them. Somewhere dishes clinked, someone called out, laughed, argued. A shadow flew overhead, and Ulviya glimpsed huge wings folding into a dive. A bird? Or one of the inhabitants? She could no longer tell.
Chelaya brought her to the lower training ground. It was a place where trees parted, forming a wide circular clearing packed hard as stone. Along the edges stood weapon racks—swords, spears, axes, staves, daggers, and many things Ulviya had no names for. The air here was different—not floral and sweet like in the residential quarters, but sharp, with the smell of metal, sweat, and… fear? No, not fear. Excitement.
In the center of the clearing stood Klii.
Yesterday Ulviya had glimpsed her only fleetingly. Now she looked with wide eyes. The lioness was taller than her, broader in the shoulders, with such dense, concentrated strength that Ulviya's breath caught. Fur the color of dark copper cascaded from her shoulders in thick waves, a mane framing a face in which yellow eyes burned with a steady, unyielding fire. And behind her, a serpentine tail covered in fine, gleaming scales twitched, its forked tip trembling slightly.
Klii wore no armor—only leather straps crossing her chest and hips, and vambraces on her forepaws that ended in fingers as long and sensitive as Bagurai's, but far more dangerous. At her belt hung two curved blades, and a short spear with a broad head was strapped across her back.
Nearby, at a respectful distance, stood five others. They were all different—one, stocky and broad, with a bear's head and a human body, gripped a huge axe. Another, slim and lithe, with the body of a cheetah and long, elegant arms, held a bow nearly as long as he was tall. A third, a woman with a wolf‑like face and a short, fluffy tail, fingered daggers at her belt. A fourth, massive, with a boar's head and powerful, bristling shoulders, leaned on a heavy hammer. And a fifth, the smallest, with a lizard's body and a long, prehensile tail, squatted on his haunches, sharpening a short blade against a stone.
Klii's students. Fighters. Ulviya felt her confidence, so solid that morning, begin to crack.
Chelaya approached Klii, and the lioness inclined her head—briefly, respectfully, but without subservience.
"Chelaya," Klii's voice was low, rumbling, but not loud. "You have brought her."
"As I promised." Chelaya stepped back, revealing Ulviya. "This is the one I told you about."
Klii looked. For a long time. Her yellow eyes moved over Ulviya's face, her shoulders, her single hand clenched into a fist, the stump that Ulviya instinctively pressed against her chest.
"Weak," Klii said, and the word struck harder than any blow. "Scrawny. Frightened. One hand."
Ulviya felt her cheeks burn. She wanted to say something, to object, but the words stuck in her throat. Klii was right. She was weak. Scrawny. Frightened. And she had only one hand.
"But Chelaya did not bring you for nothing," Klii continued, her voice growing a little quieter, calmer. "So there is something in you that I do not yet see."
She took a step forward, and Ulviya felt her feet take a step back. The lioness grinned—briefly, showing fangs.
"Afraid. That is good. Fear is not weakness if you know what to do with it. Do you know?"
"I do not know," Ulviya answered honestly. She looked directly into Klii's eyes, and it was hard, but she did not look away.
"Learn." Klii turned to her students. "Hey, you lot! See this? This is Ulviya. She will train with you. Not because she is strong. But because Chelaya asked. And we do not refuse Chelaya."
The bear fighter grunted, the cheetah smiled, showing sharp teeth, the wolf‑woman tilted her head, studying Ulviya with curiosity, the boar nodded silently, and the lizard did not even look up, continuing to sharpen his blade.
"But," Klii's voice hardened, and all five of them froze, "that does not mean I will coddle her. She will do the same as you. Fall as many times. Get up as many times. And if she breaks—then Chelaya was wrong. And Chelaya is never wrong. So," she turned back to Ulviya, and in her eyes was neither pity nor condescension, only cold, hard resolve, "prove her right."
She stepped aside, leaving Ulviya alone in the center of the circle. The five students stood motionless, watching. Chelaya stood at the edge of the clearing, her face as calm as ever.
"Today you will simply watch," said Klii. "Watch and remember. How they move. How they breathe. How they fall. Tomorrow it will be your turn."
She snapped her fingers, and the five fighters sprang into motion. This was not a training drill in the usual sense. It was a dance. Heavy, dangerous, but still a dance. Bear and boar met in the center, their weapons clashing with a crash that made Ulviya's ears ring. The cheetah leaped into the air, loosing an arrow that embedded itself in a wooden shield the wolf‑woman raised without even looking. The lizard vanished from sight, reappearing behind the bear, his short blade at the fighter's throat.
"Stop," Klii said, and all froze. She walked to the bear and poked him in the side. "Slow. You missed him. He was behind you for three seconds. Three! Are you asleep on your feet?"
The bear hung his head guiltily. Klii turned to the lizard.
"You are good. But do not go where you are expected. The boar knew you were coming. He did not turn, but he knew. You rustle. Learn to walk without sound."
The lizard nodded, his tail twitching slightly—whether from offense or agreement.
Klii turned to Ulviya.
"See? They are strong. But they make mistakes. Everyone makes mistakes. The difference between the living and the dead is who gets to correct their error. Do you understand?"
"I think so," Ulviya said quietly.
"Think," Klii smirked. "Tomorrow you will not say 'think.' Now go. Rest. Tomorrow at six. Do not be late."
Chelaya waited for her at the exit from the training ground. They walked in silence, and Ulviya felt her body still trembling—not from cold, from tension. She had seen how those fighters moved. How fast, how coordinated, how deadly. And she understood that she could never be like them. She had only one hand. One. Even if she learned to fight, she would always be slower, weaker, clumsier.
"You think you cannot," Chelaya said without turning.
"Yes," Ulviya admitted. "I think so."
"That is normal." Chelaya stopped at the tree where Ulviya lived. "But you are wrong. You can. Not like them. Differently. Klii knows it. Bagurai knows it. I know it. Only you remain to know."
She looked at Ulviya, and in her ancient eyes there was something Ulviya could not read. Perhaps hope. Perhaps certainty. Perhaps love—the kind that needs no words.
"Rest," said Chelaya. "Tomorrow will be a hard day. And the day after, harder. But you will manage."
She turned and slowly walked away, leaving Ulviya alone. Ulviya watched her go, feeling something inside her, where her spirit dwelt, begin to change. Not growing—no, not yet—but stirring, testing the soil, seeking a way to the light.
She entered her room, lay on the bed, and closed her eyes. Tomorrow at six. She would not be late.
Through her drowsiness she heard the town living its life—someone laughing, someone arguing, someone singing. And in that noise, so alien and so new, she gradually found her place. Not the center—no, she was not the center of this world. But she was a part of it. And that was enough.