Date: October 30, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonorable.
The tower fell silent. The glowing lines on the walls pulsed slowly, barely perceptibly, and in their soft, even radiance, everything seemed frozen, as if time itself had decided to take a pause. Ulvia slept in her cell, curled up on her hide. Rosh dozed against the wall, his fingers even in sleep folded in a faint, barely visible pattern—a habit he couldn't break. Sobra lay at the entrance, his head on his paws, his silver stripes pulsing dully in time with his breathing.
Datuk was not asleep.
He sat on his bed, leaning his back against the cold wall, staring at the ceiling. His thoughts were heavy, but not anxious—rather, focused. Tomorrow morning, he was supposed to leave for his week. The last of them. Sobra had already gone. Rosh had already gone. Ulvia had already gone. Only he remained.
*What am I waiting for?* Datuk thought. *Morning? Goodbyes? Tears?*
He imagined them standing at the exit, slapping him on the shoulder, wishing him luck. Ulvia—with her warm smile. Rosh—with his eternal silent nod. Sobra—with his nose nudging his shoulder. And he suddenly felt sick. Not of them—of himself. That he, Datuk, a dwarf, a warrior, a Pillar, would stand there and listen to all that "come back" and "be careful."
*They won't get the chance,* he decided.
Datuk rose. Silently, as only he could—his steel-shod boots made no sound as he stepped onto the glowing lines. He went to the table where a scrap of parchment and a charcoal stick lay—Ulvia sometimes made training notes. The dwarf bent down and scrawled a few lines in his crooked but legible handwriting.
---
*"I'm sick of gathering dust here, and I couldn't stand your weepy goodbyes either, so I left early. Signed, Datuk.*
*P.S. You say goodbye like little girls with their friends."*
In the corner of the page, he crudely drew an axe—the blade crooked, the handle too long. It was ugly, but recognizable.
Datuk put the letter in a conspicuous place, adjusted the axe on his back, and headed for the exit. At the threshold, he stopped and looked back. Sobra was asleep, his sides rising and falling steadily. Rosh didn't even stir. Ulvia whispered something in her sleep.
"Don't miss me," Datuk said quietly and stepped into the white light.
---
Morning in the tower came silently. The glowing lines on the ceiling grew brighter, and Ulvia opened her eyes. She stretched, feeling the familiar heaviness in her muscles, and sat up. The silence was strange. Too quiet.
She walked out onto the central platform. Rosh was already standing by the track, warming up his fingers. Sobra sat at the exit, his amber eyes open, staring at the door with a strange expression.
"Datuk?" Ulvia asked, looking around.
"Don't know," Rosh replied. "I woke up, and he was already gone."
Ulvia went to the table where the scrap of parchment lay. She picked it up and read it. Her face showed an expression that could be called neither surprise nor anger—rather, weary understanding.
"What does it say?" Rosh asked.
Ulvia handed him the letter. Rosh read it, and his face remained impassive—as always. But the corners of his lips twitched slightly.
*"Little girls with their friends,"* he quoted.
"That's about us," Ulvia said, and there was a hint of a smile in her voice.
Sobra, who had been sitting by the exit watching them intently, suddenly made a sound. It wasn't a growl. It wasn't a snort. It was a laugh.
The bear was laughing. His huge body shook, and short, sharp sounds—"hr-hr-hr"—escaped his mouth, like a cough, but clearly indicating amusement. His amber eyes narrowed, and the silver stripes on his fur flickered faster.
"He's laughing," Rosh said.
"I see," Ulvia replied.
Sobra nudged the parchment with his nose, then Ulvia, then Rosh—and again dissolved into silent laughter. He was clearly enjoying the situation. Datuk had left, leaving a mocking note, and they were standing here reading it like the very "little girls."
"Alright," Ulvia folded the parchment and tucked it into her pocket. "Let's go train. He'll be back in a week. Alive."
"Or not," Rosh said.
"He'll be back," Ulvia repeated. "He's too stubborn to die."
Sobra, finally calming down, snorted and trotted to his track. Ulvia and Rosh exchanged glances.
"He drew an axe," Rosh said.
"Crooked," Ulvia added.
"Yes."
They went to train. And somewhere out there, in the white wasteland, Datuk, without knowing it, had already found what he was looking for.
---
Datuk walked and grinned.
He imagined their faces. Ulvia reading the letter. Rosh with his stone face. Sobra… Sobra was probably laughing. Datuk was sure of it. The bear always understood his jokes.
"Ha!" he exhaled into the void. *"Little girls with their friends."* Well said. I'm proud of myself.
He walked quickly, without looking back. White wastelands replaced each other, but he wasn't looking for easy paths. Ulvia had gone east. Sobra—south. Rosh—west. Datuk decided to go north. Where the white sand turned grey, and the air grew colder and denser.
*No point in following the beaten path,* he thought. *I am Datuk. I'll make my own path.*
He had been walking for several hours when shapes appeared ahead. Not cliffs. Not wasteland. Houses.
Datuk slowed. A settlement. Inside the Tree. Rosh had talked about rabbits, but these houses were different—low, squat, built of dark, almost black stone. Smoke curled above them, and the air smelled of something spicy, burnt.
*Interesting,* Datuk thought and moved forward.
---
From the gates, carved into the stone wall, came guards. There were four of them. Their skin was reddish, as if burned, and on their heads… they had no eyes.
Datuk frowned but didn't draw his axe. He waited.
The guards approached, and he noticed that their hands—palms—were facing forward. And on their palms… eyes. Living, black, they looked at him with cold, assessing attention.
"Who are you?" asked one. His voice was low, grating, like stones rubbing together.
"A warrior," Datuk replied. "Looking for worthy opponents. Send out your best fighters. I haven't had a good warm-up in a while."
The guards exchanged glances. Their eyes on their palms blinked—in unison, like one creature.
Before the guards could answer, she emerged from the gates.
A girl. Short, thin, with the same reddish skin as the others. She had no eyes on her palms—instead, on her face, where eyes should be, were two deep hollows. She was blind. Or maybe not.
"I am the strongest warrior," she said. Her voice was quiet, almost soundless, but there was steel in it.
Datuk looked at her. Her thin arms, her fragile shoulders, her eyeless face. He barely felt any power from her.
"You?" he repeated, disappointment in his voice.
"Me," the girl answered. "My name is Namida. And I am the best warrior of our tribe."
Datuk wanted to laugh in her face. But something stopped him. Not fear—perhaps pity or curiosity. In this girl, in her still figure, in her blind eye sockets, was something he couldn't understand.