Date: March 16, 541 years after the Fall of Zanra the Treacherous.
Klii let her go early. Ulviya did not know why—maybe she noticed that today her body obeyed less well than yesterday, or maybe she simply decided that rest was as important as work. In any case, by the time the sun had risen high enough to shorten the shadows, Ulviya was walking through the town, not knowing where to go, but feeling that she needed to see this place. Really see it.
She did not hurry. For the first time in days, she had neither training nor lessons with Bagurai, nor any need to rush anywhere. Only herself and the town. And she wanted to remember every detail.
She took a path that wound between the trunks, leading her deeper than the lower training ground. Here, in the town's depths, the tree‑homes grew farther apart, and open spaces flooded with sunlight appeared between them.
She walked on, and the town revealed itself to her anew. There was none of the bustle typical of human cities. The inhabitants did not rush, did not jostle, did not shout. They moved at their own rhythm, slow and measured, and that rhythm was felt in everything—in the swaying branches in the wind, in the flow of water in the streams, in the way light fell on the ground in golden patches.
The path led her to a place she would have missed if not for the smell. It was thin, barely perceptible, but Ulviya caught it even through the familiar scent of pine and flowers. The smell was bitter, astringent, but with something soothing in it—like sitting by a fire after a long day, watching the flames.
She followed the scent and came to a small grove. The trees here were old, their roots intertwined so tightly they formed natural arches, and between them, on soft moss, grew flowers—not bright, modest, but Ulviya could feel that each had been planted with purpose. In the center of the grove, on a flat stone, sat an old panda. She was so old that her black‑and‑white fur had faded to gray, and her eyes looked somewhere far away, through the trunks and leaves.
Before her, on the stone, stood a pot with a plant—small, with thin stems and tiny white flowers. Ulviya did not know what plant it was, but she felt warmth from it—not physical, a different warmth, deep as memory.
"The Garden of Memory," said the panda without turning. "Here we plant those who have gone."
Ulviya wanted to leave, not to intrude, but the panda turned her head, and her faded, yet still lively eyes looked at the girl.
"You feel them, do you not?" she asked. "Not everyone can."
"I do not know," Ulviya answered honestly. "I just… the smell."
"Smell is a language that cannot lie." The panda smiled, and in her smile there was something ancient, weary, but kind. "My son loved bitter herbs. He said they reminded him of the forest. I planted this for him. And now, when I smell it, he is beside me again."
She fell silent, and Ulviya understood the conversation was over. She bowed—awkwardly, in the human way—but the panda seemed to understand. She nodded and gazed again into the distance, where sunlight played between the trunks.
Ulviya left the Garden of Memory, feeling something inside her quiet. Not pain, no. Longing? Or something she had no name for.
Farther on, the path brought her to a huge tree, its trunk so wide that a whole house could fit inside. But it was not a house. Inside the tree, in a carved‑out chamber, work was in full swing. Ulviya peered in and stopped.
It was a workshop. But not one—dozens. On different levels connected by stairs and walkways, masters worked. A long‑armed creature with a spider‑like body spun a glass tube over a flame, and before her eyes it turned into an elegant bird figurine. A stocky one with a broad chest and short but immensely strong hands hammered metal, sparks flying upward and dying before reaching the ceiling. A slender woman with a fox‑like face sorted threads, her fingers moving so fast Ulviya could not follow.
"This is the House of Crafts," said a voice beside her.
Ulviya turned. Disaak stood nearby. The bear held a tool that looked like a hammer but with a long, curved handle.
"No training today?" Ulviya asked.
"Klii said we all need rest." He grinned. "I came here. Here I can think. Not about fights, not about moves. Just… make."
"What are you making?"
"Cleaning tools." He raised the hammer, and in the light falling through the window‑hollow, Ulviya saw delicate patterns emerging on its metal surface. "This was my teacher's work. He was a master. He said every strike must have a soul. I did not understand then. Now I do."
He fell silent, and Ulviya did not ask questions. She simply stood beside him, watching light fall on the metal, watching the patterns carved long ago come alive in its rays.
She left when the sun began to set. Disaak remained in the workshop, his large, warm figure slowly dissolving into the twilight.
Ulviya walked through the town, and it was different than by day. Quieter. Calmer. Lights glowed in the window‑hollows, and in their warm light the tree‑houses seemed like living creatures resting after a long day.
She came to a small square where children were playing. There were many—different, unlike each other. Some with long ears, some with tails, some with scales, but all were laughing, running, making noise, and that noise was so alive, so real, that Ulviya stopped, captivated.
In the center of the circle stood two girls. They looked alike—tall, with long necks and soft, fluffy fur that gleamed gold in the sun. Llamas, Ulviya realized. But not ordinary ones. There was such grace in their movements that they seemed to float rather than run. One held a wreath of wildflowers, and the children reached for it, laughing and trying to snatch it.
"Look, look!" someone cried, and Ulviya saw the second llama leap into a flip and land on her hands, deftly catching the wreath as it nearly fell.
The children laughed and clapped. The llamas bowed, and one of them—the one with the wreath—suddenly looked directly at Ulviya. Their eyes met, and for a moment Ulviya felt a strange, aching longing.
The llama came over to her.
She held out the wreath. The flowers were fresh, smelling of honey and sunshine. Ulviya took it, not knowing what to say. The llama smiled—a smile full of childish joy.
"Wear it," she said. "It will remind you that even from the driest earth, a flower can grow."
Ulviya stood with the wreath in her hands. She watched the children play, laugh, and felt something inside her, long frozen, begin to thaw.
She returned to her room when the moon was already high. She placed the wreath on the windowsill beside Hope and looked at the flowers for a long time. They were already wilting, but their scent was still warm, still alive.
She lay on her bed, closed her eyes. Before her still danced the children, laughing, playing. And the llamas, so graceful, so alive. And the old panda in the Garden of Memory. And Disaak, cleaning his teacher's tools.
The town was alive. Breathed. Remembered. And she was part of it. Small, weak, but part.
She fell asleep, and for the first time in a long while, she dreamed of nothing. Only silence. And light. And the scent of flowers, staying with her even as sleep closed her eyes.