Date: October 5, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
A month and a half in the tower had changed them.
Not outwardly — overgrown, weathered, in worn-out clothes that had long since become rags, they looked the same as on the first day. But something elusive had changed in their movements, in how they stood, how they breathed, how they looked at the glowing lines beneath their feet.
The ease with which they now glided along the tracks, the confidence with which the energy flowed evenly in their legs without bursts, without stalling, spoke of the fact that a month and a half of torment had not been in vain. They no longer fell. Well, almost never.
Ulvia stood on her track — the middle one of the five, not the shortest, not the longest. Her eyes were closed, her breathing even, deep. For a month and a half, she had repeated the same thing: step, gather energy, exhale, step.
Her left hand, the living vine, pulsed with her heart, and the silver veins on it had become brighter, thicker, more noticeable even in the tower's twilight. She felt the energy rise from her feet to her knees, from her knees to her thighs, and not linger there but flow back into the ground, creating a continuous stream.
It was like breathing — only with the legs.
She did ten laps. Twenty. Thirty. Not once did she break. On the fortieth lap, she opened her eyes and stopped. Enough for today. She needed to save strength for tomorrow.
Rosh trained on the neighboring track — the smallest, the most difficult, because the radius was too narrow for his long legs.
His fingers no longer traced his habitual vectors — he had learned to do without them, at least at this stage. His movements were economical, precise, and as he walked, it seemed he did not touch the floor but glided above it like a shadow.
Thirty laps. Forty. He stopped when Ulvia finished and silently nodded to her. Without words. They understood each other anyway. After a month and a half of shared torment, words were almost unnecessary.
Sobra ran on the outer circle — the largest, the longest.
His paws stepped softly, silently, and the silver stripes on his fur pulsed in time with his movements. The bear no longer stumbled, no longer lost control. For a month and a half, he had learned to feel energy not with his mind — with his body, his intuition, that ancient animal instinct that humans had long lost.
And now that instinct worked for him, not against him. He ran lightly, almost playfully, and his amber eyes, usually so serious, now shone with something like pleasure.
Datuk… Datuk surprised them all.
The dwarf did not run the circles. He stood in the center of the platform, feet wide apart, knees slightly bent, and this was more difficult than running. The energy that needed to be gathered in his feet and immediately released, not allowed to rise above his knees, required constant, almost meditative concentration.
A mistake in dosage — and the energy either rose upward, disrupting balance, or stagnated, making his legs immovable as stone blocks.
Datuk had stood like this for an hour. His face was red, sweat beaded on his forehead, veins stood out on his neck, but he did not move. He only breathed — deeply, evenly, and in this breathing, in this stillness, there was something of ancient rocks that do not notice time because it does not exist for them.
Ulvia watched him and could not believe her eyes. Datuk, rough, stubborn, always rushing into battle, stood like a statue, and in his pose, there was not a trace of tension. Only calm. Only confidence.
She remembered how he suffered in the first days — stumbling after two steps, swearing, punching the floor, cursing the old man, cursing the tower, cursing his own clumsiness. And now he stood and barely even sweated. Well, almost.
The old man watched him from the shadow of a column.
His black cloak almost blended with the twilight, only his gray hair, flowing behind him, betrayed his presence. His pale, pupil-less eyes were fixed on the dwarf, and on his lips — for the first time in a month and a half — appeared something like approval.
Not a smile — rather, the satisfaction of a master whose student had finally understood what had not yielded for years.
"Good," he said, stepping into the light. His voice was quiet, but in the silence of the tower, it sounded clear as a bell. "Very good. You have understood the main thing."
Datuk opened his eyes. There was no fatigue in them — only calm, deep confidence of a man who had stopped struggling and allowed himself simply to be.
"The main thing is not to tense," he said. "A stone does not tense. It just lies there."
"Exactly," the old man nodded, and his pale eyes momentarily grew deeper, darker. "You have taken the hardest step. You stopped fighting the energy and let it flow. The others…" he shifted his gaze to Ulvia, Rosh, and Sobra, "have also made progress. But you — the fastest."
Ulvia was not surprised. Datuk had always been stubborn. And when he understood something, he understood it deeply, to the very root, leaving no room for doubt.
She approached him and slapped him on the shoulder. Her palm met a shoulder hard as stone — the dwarf didn't even sway.
"Good job," she said. "Now don't relax."
"I'm not relaxing," the dwarf replied, but his voice held a smirk.
Sobra, finishing his lap, approached them and nudged Datuk's shoulder with his nose. The bear made a short, approving sound — not a growl, not a snort, something in between, and in that sound was something like pride.
Rosh remained on his track but turned to the old man, awaiting continuation.
The old man raised his hand, calling for silence.
The glowing lines on the floor froze, their pulsing slowed, becoming almost imperceptible, and in the ensuing silence, only their breathing was audible — four different rhythms that gradually merged into one.
"You have made a significant step toward mastering the energy control technique," the old man said. "But training in the tower is only half the work. Theory without practice is dead. You must use your abilities not only on the tracks but in real battle."
He pointed to the exit of the tower — to where, beyond the white walls, the zones, guardians, and leaves waited. There, outside, life still seethed, which they had left a month and a half ago. Or did it? Time flowed differently here.
"From today, you will take turns," the old man continued. "While three of you train here, one will go beyond the tower. Gather leaves. Fight guardians. Apply what you have learned in real combat conditions. Each — one week. Then switch."
"A week?" Rosh repeated, and in his cold, even voice, for the first time in a long time, something like doubt sounded. "And if we fail?"
"Fail — you won't return," the old man calmly replied. His pale eyes did not waver. "The Tree does not forgive weakness. But you have not stood still; you have become faster. More precise. More dangerous. Now you need to prove this not to me, but to yourselves."
Datuk clenched his fist. Knuckles cracked.
Sobra flattened his ears — not from fear, from focus.
Rosh froze, his fingers twitching slightly, but the vectors did not appear — he restrained himself.
Ulvia looked at the exit, and in her chest, where the green leaf pulsed, a familiar, forgotten feeling ignited. Excitement. Thirst for battle. Desire to test herself.
"Who goes first?" she asked, her voice firm, without a shadow of doubt.
The old man looked at her. In his pale, almost transparent eyes, something like a smirk flickered. Or approval.
"You," he said. "You were the first to receive the green leaf. You should be the first to test your strength in practice. Your transition to the Pillar rank was sharp, abrupt. You have not yet had time to get used to your new power, to probe its limits. A week alone — without the group, without support — will help you understand what you are now capable of."
Ulvia nodded. She had expected no other answer.
Inside her, where the green leaf pulsed, warmth spread — not heat, not fire, but an even, steady warmth, like morning sun. She felt ready. Not one hundred percent — no one is ever one hundred percent ready — but enough to take the first step.
"When do I leave?" she asked.
"Tomorrow at dawn," the old man replied. "Today, rest. Gather your thoughts. Tomorrow… tomorrow your week begins."
He turned and slowly walked into the depths of the tower, where an opening was discernible in the twilight. His black cloak billowed behind him, and in a moment, he disappeared into the darkness.
The group remained on the platform. The glowing lines beneath their feet pulsed evenly, calmly, and in this pulsing, in this silence, there was something that made them speak in whispers.
"Sure you won't disgrace yourself without Sobra and me?" Datuk asked with a smile, looking at Ulvia.
"Sure," she replied, chuckling and lifting the corners of her lips.
Sobra approached her, nudged her shoulder with his nose. Warm, rough, he smelled of forest and snow — smells that had never been here, in the tower. Ulvia stroked his head.
"I'll be back," she said. "In a week. With leaves."
Rosh was silent. Only his mismatched eyes — green and brown — looked at her, and in their depths, in that cold, calm assessment, was something like a farewell.
He did not say "good luck." He did not say "take care." He simply nodded.
Ulvia walked to her cell, lay on the hide, and closed her eyes.