Date: September 16, 540, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
The clearing Ulvia had entered seemed idyllic. The golden light of the late afternoon sun pierced the crowns of the giant trees, illuminating a glade dotted with wildflowers. The few days of travel south had passed surprisingly peacefully, and in Ulvia's heart, a dangerous confidence was beginning to blossom—that all the fears Miss Elira had spoken of were exaggerated. She was already picturing herself lighting a small campfire here, eating the last flatbread from the orphanage, and sleeping under the open sky like a true traveler.
She shrugged her worn pack from her shoulders and stretched, savoring the feeling of loosening her tired muscles. It was at that very moment, when her guard was lowered by the tranquility, that a sharp, clicking sound cut through the forest's silence. It didn't resemble any bird or animal she knew. It was dry, bony, and therefore chillingly alien.
Ulvia froze, instinctively pressing her back against the nearest tree. Her eyes, accustomed to the forest's shadows, caught a flicker of movement in the foliage on the opposite side of the clearing in a fraction of a second. Something large, pale gray, and incredibly fast was flowing from branch to branch, barely rustling the leaves. Then a second appeared, a third... There were five of them.
They descended to the ground, and Ulvia could make out details that made her blood run cold. The creatures, the size of large dogs, had muscular bodies reminiscent of apes, but covered not in fur, but in a dirty-milk-colored chitinous carapace. Their limbs were long, thin, and multi-jointed like a spider's, ending in sharp, sickle-shaped claws that scraped the earth. But the most horrifying were their heads—hairless, with a pair of huge, completely black compound eyes and powerful, constantly clicking chelicerae from which thick saliva dripped.
They didn't attack immediately. They began to surround her, moving in swift, jerky bursts, their black eyes fixing on her soullessly. The air filled with their clicking, merging into a gruesome, unhurried speech full of hunger and anticipation.
Ulvia's heart hammered in her throat. She grabbed her only defense—a sturdy stick she'd picked up near the orphanage. Her hands trembled so much she could barely hold it. "Move, move!" an inner voice screamed, but her feet seemed rooted to the ground.
The first bezuk attacked. It didn't jump straight at her, but in an arc from the side. Ulvia instinctively leaped back, swinging the stick. The wood met the chitinous shell with a dull thud, causing no harm, but knocking the creature back. This clumsy success gave her a glimmer of hope.
A second bezuk attacked from the other side. She turned, swinging wildly, but a third lunged from behind. A sharp claw sank into her thigh, slicing through skin and muscle like wet parchment. Ulvia cried out in pain and shock. Warm blood immediately soaked her leg.
Paradoxically, the pain awakened a fury within her. She stopped flailing and began to strike deliberately, with a scream that blended despair, fear, and a wild will to live. She managed to hit one of the creatures on the head, and it, stunned, crawled away with a piercing shriek. But it was a Pyrrhic victory.
While she was focused on one, the largest bezuk, which had been acting as a coordinator, made its move. It didn't jump. It simply made a lightning-fast lunge, its front spider-like leg sweeping through the air, tracing a short, deadly arc.
Ulvia saw the movement, tried to yank back the hand shielding her face, but it was too late.
The sensation was less painful than shockingly unreal. A dull, wet crunch. A heavy blow that made her whole arm go numb. And a strange, inexplicable lightness.
She recoiled, staring at her left arm. There, just above the forearm, there was no deep wound. There was nothing. Her arm, almost to the shoulder, with the stick still clutched in its fingers, lay separately on the grass, the fingers twitching convulsively for a few more seconds. From the stump protruding from the sleeve of her worn jacket, a fountain of crimson blood gushed, incredibly bright against the greenery.
Her consciousness swam. The pain, real, all-consuming, crashed over her in a wave, making her choke on her own scream. The world narrowed to a white kaleidoscope of pain, the clicking, and the black, soulless eyes. She staggered back, tripped over a root, and crashed onto her back. Another bezuk, sensing easy prey, sank its fangs into her shoulder, shaking its head and tearing at her flesh.
Ulvia could fight no longer. She lay in a rapidly growing pool of her own blood, feeling the chill of death creeping from her toes towards her heart. Her vision blurred. She saw the pale shadows of the bezuks converging around her, their clicking growing louder, triumphant. They reached for her, their rightful prey.
Her last thought before darkness consumed her was not of revenge or fear. It was a strange, childish sadness for the little flower garden back at the orphanage, which would now be left without her care.
And then, at the very last moment, a figure emerged from the thicket at the edge of the clearing. It was a turtle. But not an ordinary one. Its shell was dazzlingly white, like pristine snow, and seemed made not of bone but of polished marble. Its eyes, ancient and full of boundless calm, looked upon the scene not with horror, but with deep, all-understanding sorrow. It made no sound, but the bezuks, already ready to begin their feast, suddenly froze. Their clicking ceased. They turned their soulless heads towards the newcomer, and uncertainty, bordering on superstitious fear, appeared in their postures.
Chelaya—for it was she—moved slowly, unhurriedly across the clearing, paying no heed to the predators. She approached Ulvia's unconscious body, from which life still seeped. One of the bezuks, the hungriest or the stupidest, snarled and lunged at her. The turtle didn't even glance its way. From beneath its shell, a thin, vine-like tendril slipped out and, like a living whip, struck the disturber of the peace. A sound like a whip crack rang out, and the bezuk screeched, rolling back, a deep, smoking crack appearing on its shell.
That was enough. The pack, muttering incoherently in their clicking language, began to slowly retreat into the forest, casting glances full of primal terror at the white turtle.
When the last creature had vanished into the foliage, Chelaya lowered her head towards Ulvia's face. The girl was pale as death, her breathing shallow and ragged. The pool of blood around her was already enormous. The turtle touched the stump of Ulvia's arm with the edge of its shell. The bleeding stopped almost instantly, the edges of the wound covered with a thin, web-like film.
Then Chelaya turned and slowly crawled back towards the forest. But not alone. Behind her, floating through the air like a weightless feather, drifted Ulvia's bleeding body, enveloped in a soft glow. They were heading for a cave hidden in the cliffs nearby—a place where one life was ending and another was about to begin. And in the clearing, as a silent reproach to naive dreams, there remained only a bloody stick and a small, lifeless little hand, clutching in its final effort a ghostly hope for salvation.