Date: March 13, 541 years after the Fall of Zanra the Treacherous.
Ulviya woke long before dawn. The town was still asleep—only the night watch called to one another in the distance, and the wind rustled the leaves, lulling those who had not yet stirred. But she could not lie still. Something inside her, awakened yesterday in Bagurai's greenhouse, would not let her rest.
She stepped outside. The air was cool, damp, smelling of wet bark and fallen leaves. Ulviya took a deep breath and headed toward the owl's home, knowing he would already be awake. Bagurai never seemed to sleep.
The door was open, and she entered without knocking. Inside, magical lamps burned—soft, steady light that did not hurt the eyes. Bagurai sat at the long table, bent over a scroll, his pen moving swiftly across the paper, leaving lines of tiny, neat text.
"You are early," he said without looking up.
"Couldn't sleep," Ulviya answered honestly. "May I look around?"
"Look." He waved a wing toward the greenhouse. "There is always something to do. Keya is probably already there."
Ulviya went deeper into the house, through the corridor of herbaria, and pushed open the door to the greenhouse. Warmth and humidity struck her face, and she closed her eyes for a moment, adjusting to the twilight. Inside it was quiet; only somewhere water dripped, and occasionally the glowing crystals in the walls crackled softly.
Keya sat in her usual spot—on the high stool at the seed table. Seeing Ulviya, the bird chirped a greeting.
"Am I disturbing you?" Ulviya asked.
Keya shook her head and gestured for Ulviya to sit beside her. Ulviya settled onto a low bench and watched. Keya's fingers, slender and quick, sorted seeds into piles. Some were large with hard shells, others tiny, almost weightless. Still others were odd, covered in spines or down.
"Why do you sort them?" Ulviya asked.
Keya chirped, and Bagurai's voice came from the next room:
"She says each seed requires special handling. Some need heat, some cold. Some germinate only after passing through a bird's stomach, others after a fire. Keya studies how to wake them to life."
Ulviya looked at the seeds, and it seemed to her that she could feel them. Not as she had felt the plants in the forest, but differently—more deeply, as if behind the hard shell she sensed a sleeping life, waiting its time.
"May I try?" she asked.
Keya looked at her in surprise, then nodded and pushed a small heap of seeds toward her. Ulviya took one, the simplest, like an acorn, and closed her eyes. She breathed, feeling her spirit—her small, weak power—reach toward the seed. Not forcing, not commanding—simply being near. Breathing in the same rhythm.
She did not know how long passed. Perhaps a minute, perhaps an hour. But suddenly she felt it—beneath her fingers the shell became slightly warmer, slightly softer. And inside, deep within, something stirred.
Ulviya opened her eyes. On her palm lay the seed. The same as before. But she knew—it had changed. She had felt it.
Keya tilted her head, and in her small, bright eyes something like respect flickered. She chirped, and Bagurai, now standing in the doorway, translated:
"She says you did in one hour what would have taken her days. Do not rush. Talent without knowledge is a wild garden—beautiful but useless. Knowledge without talent is a withered forest. You must join them."
Ulviya nodded. She put the seed back on the table and looked at her hands. At one hand. And at the stump that seemed also to reach for something she could not explain.
"I will learn," she said. "Everything you will teach me."
The day passed in work. Keya showed her how to prepare specimens for the herbarium, how to separate seeds from pulp, how to dry leaves so they retained their properties. Irkit came later, brought strange instruments, and explained how to use them. Ulviya listened, trying to remember every word, every movement. Her head spun, but she did not stop.
Toward evening, when the sun was already setting, Bagurai looked into the greenhouse.
"Enough for today," he said. "You have one more task."
"What?" Ulviya asked.
"Klii asked that you come to the evening training session. Not to participate—just to watch. To get accustomed."
Ulviya felt everything inside her tighten. The morning confidence, so solid, suddenly cracked. But she nodded.
"All right. I will go."
The lower training ground in the evening looked different. The sun had set, and instead of it, magical spheres floated above the ground, casting a cold, bluish light that made the shadows sharp and unnatural. Klii's fighters were already there. All five, as yesterday, but today they were not fighting each other. Each worked alone, practicing movements Ulviya could not remember—they were too fast, too complex.
Klii stood in the center, her serpentine tail lazily twitching. She noticed Ulviya, nodded, and continued watching.
Ulviya sat at the edge of the ground, drew up her legs, and watched. The bear practiced axe strikes—each swing heavy, crushing, making the air hum. The cheetah moved in a circle, his bow singing, arrows flying into targets that appeared from nowhere. The wolf‑woman worked with daggers, her movements so fast Ulviya could not follow. The boar smashed stone blocks with his hammer, fragments flying in all directions, but none touched him. The lizard vanished and reappeared, vanished and reappeared, and Ulviya could not understand how he did it.
"Do you think they were born that way?" Klii's voice came from very close, and Ulviya started. The lioness stood behind her, her yellow eyes in the magical light like two burning coals.
"I don't know," Ulviya answered honestly.
"Irkit," Klii nodded toward the lizard. "Three years ago he could not cross a room without bumping into something. His tail was his enemy. Now he is quieter than a shadow. Keya"—she gestured to the bird, who had come down from a tree and now sat at the edge of the ground, watching—"two years ago she was afraid to fly. She fell from a branch as a chick and thought she would never take to the air. Now she flies better than anyone."
"And you?" Ulviya asked. "Were you always like this?"
Klii grinned. There was no bitterness in her grin, but something Ulviya could not read.
"I was the worst of all," she said. "I could not control my tail. It had a life of its own, hitting everything around me, frightening people. They feared me. Then I came here. And Chelaya said to me: 'Your fear is not weakness. It is a compass. Go where it points, and you will find what you seek.'"
"And did you find it?" Ulviya asked.
"I found myself." Klii laid a paw on Ulviya's shoulder. Heavy, warm. "And you will find yourself. Not like them. In your own way. But you will."
She withdrew her paw and returned to the center of the ground. Ulviya watched her go, feeling something inside her—where her spirit dwelt—begin to shift. Not growing—not yet. But something moving, finding its place.
That night she did not sleep again. She sat on the windowsill, looking at the town living its life. Fires burned somewhere, someone laughed, someone sang. And she thought. About Klii's words. About the seed that had stirred under her fingers.
She took the small pot Bagurai had given her—with soil and the seed she had held that morning—and placed it on the windowsill. She closed her eyes. She did not force it to grow. She simply breathed. Breathed in the same rhythm with it. Felt the soil beneath her fingers grow warm, felt inside the seed, where life slept, something begin to move.
She did not know how much time passed. Perhaps an hour. Perhaps the whole night. But when she opened her eyes, a tiny, pale‑green sprout was pushing up from the soil. It was thin, fragile, almost weightless. But it was there.
Ulviya looked at it, and tears came to her eyes. Not from pain. Not from self‑pity. From something else she had no name for.
She touched the sprout with her finger, and it seemed to reach toward her. As if it recognized her. As if it had been waiting.
"I will call you Hope," she whispered. "Little Hope."
And for the first time in a long while, she fell asleep peacefully, feeling beside her, on the windowsill, something new was growing. Something she had made herself. Something that would stay with her always.