Date: March 14, 541 years after the Fall of Zanra the Treacherous.
Ulviya woke before dawn. Through the window‑hollow, the first, tentative rays of sunlight were just appearing, but the town was already alive—somewhere in the distance the night watch called to one another, the wind rustled the leaves, lulling those who still slept. She rose, washed with water from the jug, pulled on her tunic, and went out.
Hope, the little sprout on the windowsill, stayed behind, waiting for her return.
She reached the lower training ground when the sun was only beginning to rise above the trees. The ground was empty; only the weapon racks stood in neat rows, and the targets stood in their places, silent and still. Ulviya sat at the edge, placed her hands on her knees, and waited.
Klii came first. The lioness moved soundlessly, her serpentine tail gliding over the ground without raising dust. She stopped before Ulviya and looked at her for a long time without speaking.
"Are you ready?" she asked finally.
"Yes," Ulviya answered, though she was not sure.
"Good." Klii nodded. "Step into the center."
The others came later. Disaak—massive, with a bear's body and a long, scaly tail covered in bony protrusions. Ilnos—lithe, spotted, with long fingers perfectly adapted for archery. Viniya—ash‑gray, with eyes burning with cold yellow fire. Urdash—huge, bristling, with curved tusks. And Corvin—small, scaly, with a long prehensile tail and yellow, vertical‑pupiled eyes.
They settled around the edge of the ground, and Klii began.
"We will start with warm‑up," she said. "Ulviya, follow me."
She showed simple movements—bends, twists of the torso, arm circles, leg swings. Ulviya copied, feeling her still‑sleepy body begin to warm. It was easy. Even pleasant.
"Faster," said Klii, and the tempo increased.
Ulviya moved faster, feeling her muscles start to burn. She lost the rhythm, but Klii did not stop, and Ulviya, gritting her teeth, continued.
"Good," Klii said when the warm‑up ended. "Now exercises."
She led Ulviya to the edge of the ground, where low posts were sunk into the earth.
"Squats," Klii said. "Deep. Back straight. Fifty times."
Ulviya lowered into a squat. The first twenty came easily; then her legs began to tremble, her breathing became ragged. She clenched her teeth and kept going. Forty, forty‑five, fifty. When she straightened, her knees shook, but she held her ground.
"Good." Klii nodded. "Now lunges. One hundred on each leg."
Ulviya took a deep breath and began. Lunge forward, return. Lunge, return. Left leg, right leg. Muscles burned, sweat stung her eyes, but she did not stop. Forty, fifty, sixty. By seventy she was faltering, her movements clumsy, but she continued. Ninety, ninety‑five, one hundred.
She straightened, feeling her legs tremble, but she held.
"Now the plank," said Klii. "On one arm. Hold as long as you can."
Ulviya lowered onto her right arm, extended her body in a straight line. At first it was bearable; then her abdominal muscles and shoulder began to burn, her arm shook. She held on, counting heartbeats. One, two, three… at twenty her arm gave way, and she collapsed into the dust.
"Get up," Klii said.
Ulviya rose, brushed herself off, and resumed the position. This time she lasted longer—thirty heartbeats. Then forty. Then she fell again.
"Enough," Klii said when Ulviya had gotten up for the fifth time, breathing hard. "Now run. There and back. Run."
She pointed to a path leading into the forest. Ulviya ran. The forest flashed past; roots and stones tried to trip her. She stumbled, fell, got up, and ran on. Her lungs burned, her legs turned to lead, but she did not stop.
When she returned, Klii stood in the same place.
"Slow," she said. "But you did not stop. That is good."
She led Ulviya to the weapon rack.
"Choose," she said.
Ulviya looked at the swords, spears, axes, daggers. All of them required two hands. Or skill she did not have. Her eyes fell on a pair of gloves—heavy, leather, with metal plates sewn onto the knuckles.
"These," she said, lifting one from its hook.
Klii nodded.
"Put it on."
Ulviya pulled the glove onto her right hand. The metal plates settled over her knuckles, tight and heavy. She made a fist, feeling the glove tighten with her fingers.
"Now we test your punch," said Klii. "Hit the bag. One hundred times."
Ulviya approached the sandbag hanging from a crossbar. She drew back her arm. The punch was slow, clumsy. The bag swayed, but not much.
"Bad," Klii said. "The power does not come from the arm. It comes from the legs. From the back. Watch."
She stepped behind Ulviya, placed her paws on her shoulders.
"Relax. Step forward. Feel your foot pressing into the ground? Now shift your weight. The power goes into the knee, the hip, the back. And now into the arm. Strike."
Ulviya struck. This time the blow was stronger, more solid. The bag jerked, sand thudding dully.
"Again."
She struck again and again. Each time Klii corrected, guided. The punch grew stronger, more confident. By the fiftieth, Ulviya felt her arm going numb, the glove chafing her skin, but she did not stop. By the eightieth, every punch came with pain, but she continued.
"One hundred," Klii said when Ulviya lowered her fist for the last time. "Now sparring."
She stepped back a few paces and took a stance.
"You will attack," she said. "I will defend. Do not stop until I say."
Ulviya nodded. She raised her fist and stepped forward.
Strike. Klii sidestepped without even raising a paw. Ulviya turned, struck again—missed.
"Faster," Klii said.
Ulviya struck again, then again, and again. She attacked without pause, putting into each blow everything she had learned today. Klii evaded, her movements almost lazy, but Ulviya could not reach her.
"Weak step," Klii said, slipping away from another punch. "You lean too far forward. Keep your center."
Ulviya tried to correct, but lost her balance and fell to her knees.
"Get up," Klii said.
She stood. Raised her fist. Stepped forward.
"Faster."
She struck. Evaded. Struck again. Fell. Got up.
Klii moved beside her, her voice steady and calm:
"Breathe. Do not hold your breath. The blow comes on the exhale. Do not watch my paws, watch my shoulders. They will tell you where I go. Do not overextend—keep your punches short. Save your strength. You cannot strike long if you put everything into one blow."
Ulviya listened, tried, struggled. It went badly. She faltered, fell, left herself open to strikes Klii delivered—lightly, almost gently, but they still hurt, breaking her rhythm, forcing her back.
"Stop," Klii said when Ulviya, gasping, dropped to one knee. "Enough for today."
"I can still go on," Ulviya panted.
"You can," Klii nodded. "But you should not. The limit is not when you cannot do more. The limit is when each next step destroys you. You must learn to feel that line. And stop before you cross it."
She reached out a paw, helping Ulviya to her feet.
"You have done more today than I expected," Klii said. "You fell. You got up. You kept going. That is what matters. Strength will come. Skill will come. But this—the ability to get up after each fall—you either have it or you don't."
She turned and walked toward the exit from the ground.
"Tomorrow at six," she called over her shoulder. "Do not be late."
Ulviya was left alone. She sat on the ground, her back against a weapon rack, watching the sun climb higher, flooding the ground with light. Her arm hurt, her legs throbbed, her back ached. But inside, where her spirit dwelt, there was warmth. Not heat, no. But warmth. As if something that had slept until now was beginning to wake.
She looked at the glove still on her hand. The metal plates gleamed dully in the morning light.
"Tomorrow," she said softly. "Tomorrow will be a new day."
She rose, feeling her body protest every movement. She took off the glove, hung it back on its hook. Straightened her clothes and headed to Bagurai.
Study awaited. And that was good.
Bagurai met her in the greenhouse. He sat at the long table, on which stood three pots with plants, his yellow eyes behind thick lenses regarding Ulviya with interest.
"How did it go?" he asked.
"Painful," Ulviya answered honestly.
"That is good." Bagurai nodded. "Pain is the best teacher. It tells you where you are weak. And knowing where you are weak is half the way to strength."
He pushed a chair toward her and placed a mug of warm, bitter brew on the table.
"Drink. It will ease the pain and restore your strength. Then we will attend to what nature truly made you for."
Ulviya took the mug. The brew burned her throat, but the pain in her arm and legs did begin to subside.
"What will we do?" she asked.
"This." Bagurai indicated the three pots. "One of these plants is poisonous. Two are not. Your task is to tell which is which."
Ulviya looked at the plants. They looked the same. Identical. She saw no difference.
"Do not look," Bagurai said. "Feel. You are not a fighter, Ulviya. You will never be one. But you can become someone fighters will thank for still being alive. Close your eyes. Breathe. And listen."
Ulviya closed her eyes. She breathed, feeling her spirit—tired, battered, but still alive—reach toward the plants. The first was warm, calm; it smelled of earth and sun. The second was cold, slightly bitter, its smell sharp, unpleasant. The third was warm like the first, but in its warmth there was something she could not explain. An emptiness. A wrongness.
"That one," she said, pointing to the third plant without opening her eyes.
"Why?" Bagurai asked.
"It… it pretends," Ulviya said. "It wants to seem alive, but inside there is no life."
"Open your eyes."
Ulviya opened them. Bagurai looked at her, and in his yellow eyes a strange, warm fire burned.
"You are right," he said. "This is a false root. It grows where corruption has passed. It feeds on the life of others. Its poison kills slowly but surely. You feel what few can."
He removed the poisonous plant and pushed the other two toward her.
"These are yours. Tend them. Observe them. Learn. And when they bloom… we will talk about what comes next."
Ulviya took the pots. They smelled of earth and life.
"I will try my best," she said.
"I know." Bagurai nodded. "Go. Rest. Tomorrow will be a new day. And Klii will be waiting."
She returned to her room as the sun was setting. She placed the pots on the windowsill beside Hope. She looked at her plants, at the tiny sprout she had grown herself.
"We will grow together," she said quietly. "I here, you here. And someday we will be strong."
She lay on her bed, closed her eyes, and listened to the town living its life. Someone laughed, someone sang, somewhere steel rang, and somewhere, very near, Hope grew.
Tomorrow would be a new day. New falls. New pain. But she would get up. Again and again. Because she had already learned to fall. And now she had to learn to stand.