Date: August 1, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The white world knew neither dawns nor sunsets. Only an even, diffused light pouring from everywhere, and a silence unbroken even by the wind. Time was measured differently here — in battles, treks, short halts to catch one's breath and count the leaves.
Three months. One hundred days in this silent hell.
The group had changed. Not outwardly — overgrown, weathered, in worn-out clothes that had long since turned to rags. Something else had changed. That coordination which comes only after hundreds of joint battles. That confidence of knowing a comrade will have your back without even thinking. That silence where words are unnecessary.
The guardians in the white zones were becoming stronger. If before they were mostly Neophytes — dangerous but predictable — now Pillars appeared more and more often on their path. Weak, inexperienced, but still Pillars. Their carapaces were thicker, their swords faster, and the leaves they guarded were more numerous. But the group hadn't stood still either.
---
A stone platform in a hollow between two ridges had long since become their training ground. There was enough space for sparring, and the white sand softened falls.
Datuk and Sobra were already facing each other.
The dwarf held his axe with both hands, his face focused, but in the corners of his lips lurked the familiar wild smirk. Sobra stood opposite, his silver stripes pulsing with his breath, and in his amber eyes burned a fire.
"Let's begin," Datuk said and lunged forward.
The axe traced an arc, aiming for the bear's shoulder. Sobra ducked, letting the blade pass over his head, and at the same moment his heavy, clawed paw struck the dwarf in the torso. Datuk grunted, flew back a couple of meters, but immediately sprang up, spitting out sand.
"Weak, furry!"
He charged again. Blows rained down — chopping, thrusting, circular. Sobra dodged, counterattacked, and after a few minutes both were covered in fresh wounds. Datuk's split eyebrow bled, a deep scratch reddened on his shoulder. Sobra's side, where the axe had left its mark, was already covered with a pink crust — his regeneration worked quickly, but not instantly.
They didn't stop. Even when their strength was exhausted, even when every breath came with difficulty. They sought the limit. And when they found it, they pushed it further.
---
Rosh trained aside, on a flat patch of sand.
He stood with his arms extended forward, his fingers frozen in a complex pattern. Around him, in the air, pulsed thin, almost invisible lines — vectors. Over three months, he had learned to work with them faster, more precisely, but progress was slow.
Fifteen vectors. Exactly fifteen. Before, he could barely hold twelve; now fifteen — and that was his limit. His fingers trembled when he tried to add a sixteenth, and the lines tangled and dissipated before they could form.
Weights hung on his wrists and ankles — pieces of white stone that Datuk had hewn from the rock. Each weighed no less than ten kilograms, totaling forty kilograms that Rosh carried on himself constantly, even in his sleep.
"Fifteen," he said, and the lines froze in the air, forming a complex spatial network.
He held them for exactly six seconds before the vectors began to break apart. Rosh lowered his hands, breathing heavily, and rubbed his numb wrists.
"Not enough," he muttered. "Need twenty. To cover all directions."
He raised his hands again. Fifteen vectors. Six seconds. They fell apart. Again. Again. Sweat poured down his face, his fingers cramped, but he didn't stop.
---
Ulvia sat on a stone, her left hand laid out before her.
The vine, living, green, with silver veins, lay calmly, curled into a tight ball. Over three months, she had learned to create up to six whips at once — one more than before. Each whip reached three meters in length and was covered in small, sharp thorns.
She raised her hand. Whips burst from her palm. One, two, three, four, five. The sixth appeared with difficulty, trembling, threatening to retract. Ulvia gritted her teeth, forcing it to remain.
Six whips froze in the air, aimed in different directions. She held them for exactly eight seconds before the sixth crumbled.
"Six," she said. "Not enough."
She retracted the whips and looked at a small bundle lying nearby on the stone. Inside, in a special pouch she had woven from her own vines, she kept a plant.
She had found it a month ago, in a zone they called the "Ice Field." It stood on a pedestal, like all leaves, but this was not a leaf. It was a sprout — thin, as tall as her palm, with two small, unopened leaves. It was white. Not silver like the leaves — white as snow, as ice, as death itself. And it radiated cold. Not the kind that makes fingers numb — a different kind, deep, penetrating to the very core.
Ulvia carefully unwrapped the pouch. The plant lay in her palm, and cold immediately ran up her arm, making the vine shrink. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself not to throw it away.
"Come on," she whispered. "Work."
She tried to call upon the plant's power, as she called upon the vine's. At first, nothing happened. Only cold, only resistance, only silence. Then, somewhere on the edge of consciousness, she felt a response. Weak, barely perceptible.
The vine on her left hand stirred. New shoots began to grow from it — white, transparent, like ice. They covered her fingers, her wrist, rose to her elbow. Ulvia raised her hand. The white vine, cold, alien, froze in the air. It was not like the green one. Not flexible, not alive — rather, frozen, like an icicle.
Three seconds. Four. On the fifth, the vine cracked and crumbled into white dust.
"Five seconds," Ulvia said, wiping the sweat from her forehead. "A month ago it was one second. Progress is there, but it's still useless in battle."
She put the plant back into the pouch, hid it in her pocket. The vine on her left hand, calming down, became just green again, with silver veins.
---
By evening, the group sat by the fire, sorting leaves.
Datuk poured his out onto a stone. Rosh did the same. Ulvia added hers. Sobra simply pointed his paw at the pile he had brought in his teeth. The silver leaves pulsed, shimmered, their soft, warm light merging into a single radiance.
"Count them," Datuk said, nodding at Rosh.
Rosh counted. One. Two. Three. He raised his head.
"A thousand. Exactly."
Silence fell over the camp. Only the leaves sang softly, only their light grew brighter.
"A thousand," Ulvia repeated. "Well, maybe this time something will change?"
Ulvia took her leaves and poured them into the center. Datuk did the same. Rosh did the same. Sobra carefully, with his teeth, moved his pile on top.
A thousand silver leaves lay on the stone. Their light grew brighter, hotter, and the air around began to tremble.
"Step back," Ulvia said, taking a step back. "Just in case."
They retreated. Datuk stood next to Sobra, placing a hand on his scruff. Rosh froze three steps away, his fingers already tracing a protective pattern. Ulvia stood in the center, watching the glowing pile.
The leaves stirred. First barely perceptibly, then more strongly — they began to move, as if alive, converging toward the center, drawn to each other. The light became unbearable, and Ulvia squeezed her eyes shut, covering her face with her hand.
Then the silence shattered.