Date: August 2, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
Night in the white world was the same as day. The same even, diffused light, the same silence, only a slight coolness reminded that somewhere out there, beyond the Tree, the sun had long since set. Ulvia did not sleep. She lay on the hide, her hands on her chest, listening to herself.
The green leaf inside her pulsed — evenly, calmly, like a second heart. It had grown into her Vessel, become part of her channels, and now energy flowed in a new way. Not a stream — a river. Wide, deep, it met no resistance, knew no barriers.
She sat up and looked at her hands. Her right — in an old, worn glove, with metal plates on the knuckles. Her left — the living vine, green, with silver veins that now reached to her shoulder, disappearing under her shirt collar. The vine was calm, but she felt it differently — not as a tool, but as part of herself. Deeper. More real.
Nearby, on a stone, lay the pouch with the white plant. Ulvia took it, unwrapped it. The sprout, cold, alien, lay in her palm, radiating frost. Before, she could hold its power for only a few seconds — the white vine would grow, cover her arm, and crumble, unable to withstand the pressure. Now, after the leap, everything could change.
She took a deep breath and called upon the plant's power.
The cold struck immediately — not the kind that numbs fingers, but a deep cold, penetrating to the very core. But now it was not hostile. It was… alien, but not dangerous. The vine on her left hand stirred, and from it, from its very center, new shoots began to grow. White, transparent, like ice, they covered her fingers, her wrist, rose to her elbow, to her shoulder.
Ulvia froze, counting the seconds. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty. The white vine did not crumble. It was cold, but stable. Twenty-five seconds. Twenty-seven. Thirty.
On the thirty-first second, the vine cracked, and small white fragments scattered on the sand.
"Thirty seconds," Ulvia whispered. "Before, it was five."
She put the plant back into the pouch and hid it in her pocket. Her heart beat evenly, but warmth spread in her chest — not from the leaf, from realization. She had become stronger. Much stronger.
---
In the morning — if one could call this even, unchanging light morning — she woke to find Datuk already at the fire, blowing on the coals.
"You look better," he said, not raising his head. "You're positively glowing. Like a holiday tree."
"Thanks," Ulvia replied, sitting up. "I feel better."
Sobra lay beside her, his head on his paws. Hearing her voice, he raised his ears and looked at her. In his amber eyes, there was no question — only calm satisfaction. Rosh already stood by the rock, his fingers tracing morning vectors — a warm-up before training.
"Let's test it," he said without turning. "Your new capabilities. All of them."
---
First, Ulvia tested her physical form.
She did squats — deep, with a straight back. A hundred times. Easy. Lunges — a hundred on each leg. Easy. Push-ups — first on her right arm, then on her left, the vine. The vine held as firmly as a human arm, and Ulvia felt the power flowing through her channels, supporting her muscles, not letting them tire.
She ran ten laps around the camp's perimeter — ten kilometers, no less. Her breathing was even, deep, and her legs didn't burn as before. She returned to the fire, and Datuk whistled.
"Faster," he noted. "Before, after that you'd be tongue on shoulder."
"Before, I was a Warrior," Ulvia replied. "Now I'm a Pillar."
"Let's see what you can do in battle," Rosh said, stepping back to a safe distance. "Attack me. At full strength."
Ulvia raised her left hand. The vine responded instantly — whips burst from her palm. Not six, as before — eight. They shot into the air, froze, aimed at Rosh. Each whip was nearly five meters long, covered in small, sharp thorns, and the silver veins on them pulsed brightly, evenly.
"Eight," Rosh said, and in his voice was approval. "Not bad. Attack."
Ulvia attacked. The whips descended on Rosh from all sides — above, below, from the flanks. They moved faster than before, more precisely, and each lived its own life. Rosh dodged, his fingers tracing vectors, but two whips still reached him — one grazed his shoulder, leaving a scratch, the other wrapped around his ankle, making him stumble. Of course, nothing would have happened if Rosh hadn't been deliberately limiting his abilities.
"Enough," he said when Ulvia lowered her hand. "Eight whips. Five meters each. Speed increased by a third, accuracy by a quarter. Your physical form has also improved. You are faster and more enduring."
"And the white plant?" Datuk asked.
Ulvia took out the pouch and unwrapped it. The sprout lay in her palm, cold, alien. She called upon its power, and the white vine grew again — covering her fingers, wrist, elbow, shoulder. Thirty seconds. She held it for thirty seconds before it crumbled.
"Thirty seconds," Rosh said. "Before, it was five. Progress is obvious. But it's still not very useful in battle — thirty seconds is too short, though it could work as a last resort."
"Then I'll keep training," Ulvia replied, putting the plant away. "By next month, maybe I'll be able to hold it for a minute."
---
They sat by the fire, snacking on dried meat and white fruits. Sobra lay beside them, his head on Datuk's lap, and the dwarf, without looking, scratched him behind the ear.
"Now we're all Pillars," Datuk said, chewing. "Four. Not a bad team."
"But we are not equal," Rosh objected. "Ulvia just advanced to a new rank. Her power hasn't stabilized yet. She needs time to get used to it. And we need more green leaves."
"How many?" Ulvia asked.
"At least three. For Sobra, for me, for Datuk. So each of us gets a similar leap. And then — the meeting with the Herald."
"Three thousand silver leaves," Datuk said, whistling. "That's another six months, if not more."
"Or less," Rosh replied. "The guardians are getting stronger, but there are more leaves in the zones. If we take twenty to thirty a day, we'll manage in about four months."
"And all that time we'll train," Ulvia added. "I'll work on the white plant and the whips. Rosh on vectors. Datuk and Sobra… hopefully won't cripple each other."
"And then — the Herald," Datuk said, and in his hoarse, rasping voice, steel rang. "This time, we won't lose."
Sobra raised his head and gave a short growl — agreement.
Rosh nodded, his fingers already tracing a plan in the sand.
"Then tomorrow we head east. According to my calculations, there's a zone with a high concentration of leaves. We'll take it, then the next, and so on until we accumulate the needed amount."
"And the Herald?" Ulvia asked. "He won't wait until we become stronger."
"He will," Rosh replied. "He is part of the Tree. He senses us as we sense the leaves. He knows we are gathering power. And he wants us to become stronger. Otherwise, why all this?"
Ulvia looked at the white horizon, where beyond the rocks and wastelands their main enemy waited. Rosh was right. The Herald did not attack — he waited. Gave them time. Tested them. Wanted to see what they were capable of when they reached their limit.
"Then we'll gather," she said. "Train. Become stronger. And when the time comes — we'll meet him."
She stood up, brushed the sand from her clothes. Her left hand, her living vine, pulsed evenly, calmly. The white plant lay in her pocket, cold, but no longer so alien. The green leaf inside her sang its quiet song.
Tomorrow, they would move forward again. New zones, new guardians, new leaves. For Sobra. For Rosh. For Datuk. And then — the battle.
But that would come later. Today — a short rest and preparation for the next stage.
Ulvia clenched her fist, and the vine on her left hand responded — not moving, not throwing out whips, just becoming slightly denser, slightly heavier. She was ready. They were all ready.
"Tomorrow," she said. "We begin the next stage."