Sunlight paints his face with a golden glow, illuminating his fair hair that cascades like a golden waterfall. His eyes are a vibrant and captivating green, evoking the lushness of a moss-covered forest after a spring rain, flecked with golden sunlight filtering through the leaves. He is handsome in the way a lion is—deadly and perfectly formed. Every line of his chiseled jaw speaks of resolve and a steely determination, instantly commanding respect and admiration. He has a natural elegance in every stride, exuding an air of authority and power, leaving a lasting impression on everyone around him.
The <mark>Kishi</mark> girl beside me notices my gaze lingering on <mark>Eshavan</mark>. “I have to admit,” she whispers, “when I saw you <mark>Firelanders</mark> arrive at the inn yesterday, I was surprised to see a fourth-ringed girl. But nothing shocked me more than seeing him in your group. Why is he here?” She nods discreetly towards <mark>Eshavan</mark>.
I glance at her, unsure how to respond. Conversations with strangers are unfamiliar territory for me, and I can’t help but wonder if she is trying to pry information from me about the <mark>Ahiras</mark>. Choosing silence, I keep my eyes fixed on the rugged mountain path.
“What’s wrong? An Islander is beneath an <mark>Ahira’s</mark> notice?” she remarks with a sarcastic smirk. Her words sting, and I realize she’s mistaken my social awkwardness for <mark>Ahira’s</mark> arrogance.
Heat rises to my cheeks as I stammer, “No, it’s not that. I just…”
The <mark>Kishi</mark> girl simply nods. Her expression is a blend of regretting to talk to me and exasperation at my awkwardness. I can practically hear her thoughts: Great, another dreadful <mark>Ahira</mark>.
I bite my lip, anxiety gnawing at me. We’re all clueless about these trials, but one thing is for certain: I need allies. The <mark>Ahiras</mark> have made it abundantly clear that they won’t be lifting a finger to help me, so I better not scare off potential allies with my awkwardness.
The truth is, I’m not just awkward; I’m a socially stunted disaster, thanks to a lifetime of solitude and no practice in socializing. I grew up surrounded by boys, and the few girls at Fire Temple weren’t exactly lining up to be my best friends.
As a result, I’ve always been more comfortable with books than people, and the thought of interacting with so many strangers fills me with dread. But I can’t let her know that. So, I take a deep breath and try to devise a plausible excuse.
“I was thinking about the trials. I’m unsure what to expect and feel a little nervous.”
The <mark>Kishi</mark> girl raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “Nervous? You must be the first <mark>Ahira</mark> ever to have uttered such words.”
I let out a chuckle, realizing there is no point in pretending. “I suppose I’m not your usual <mark>Ahira</mark>. And to answer your question, I don’t know. Why he is here, that is.” I pause, then make a feeble attempt at making conversation, “How do you know him?”
“Is there anyone on the continent who doesn’t know him?” she chuckles. “I was just a child when the news of the High Lord of <mark>Aramis’s</mark> son being a sorcerer reached even the distant islands of <mark>Kish</mark>. The story was the talk of the taverns for moons.”
Even though it happened before I was born, I, too, have heard the tales of those years whispered in the halls of Fire Temple Academy. The revelation that <mark>Eshavan</mark>, the sole heir of High Lord <mark>Ardalan</mark> <mark>Eriel</mark>, ruler of <mark>Aramis</mark>, possessed <mark>sorcerous</mark> abilities sent <mark>shockwaves</mark> throughout the Union. It was unprecedented, a High Lord’s child born with sorcery, and it ignited a fierce debate: did <mark>Eshavan</mark> belong in <mark>Aramis</mark> or <mark>Firelands</mark>, the land of sorcerers?
“My father told me that High Lord <mark>Eriel</mark> summoned all the other High Lords to <mark>Shemiran</mark> for a crisis council. They remained there for turns, locked in heated debate. High Lord <mark>Eriel</mark> argued that, according to the ancient laws, a High Lord’s son, regardless of <mark>sorcerous</mark> abilities, was destined to rule his province and should not be sent to <mark>Firelands</mark>.”
Pippin interjects, “The law of the land is clear. Any child with sorcery in their blood belongs to <mark>Firelands</mark>, regardless of their birthplace or lineage,”
He is bristling at the mere suggestion that <mark>Eshavan’s</mark> lineage could override his <mark>sorcerous</mark> heritage. Despite not being as overtly arrogant as some <mark>Ahiras</mark>, Pippin’s loyalty to <mark>Firelands</mark> runs deep. I don’t even know where he was born or if he has any family outside of <mark>Firelands</mark>.
“But the law also dictates that a High Lord’s firstborn son has a duty to their people,” the <mark>Kishi</mark> girl counters.
“That’s a law made by men, for men,” Pippin declares dismissively. “<mark>Ahiras</mark> don’t answer to men’s laws.”
The <mark>Kishi</mark> girl rolls her eyes and smirks at me. I maintain a neutral expression. Honestly, I couldn’t care less about the nobility drama of over two decades ago.
“<mark>Firelands</mark> winning that custody battle must be a real laurel to your crown, then. Quite amusing that <mark>Aramis</mark>, the province that founded <mark>Firelands</mark>, had its own heir claimed by them three hundred years later. Word on the street is that the eastern provinces voted in favor of <mark>Firelands</mark> out of sheer pettiness. A poke at <mark>Aramis</mark> for fighting against their past opposition to <mark>Firelands</mark>’ sovereignty.”
Pippin glares at the <mark>Kishi</mark> girl but doesn’t deign to respond, which only amplifies her amusement.
“My name is Lila,” she turns to me. “And you are?”
“<mark>Arien</mark>,”
“So, tell me! How’d you manage to land yourself a spot in this forsaken trails? You must be the only sorceress ever to join <mark>Martysh</mark>!”
“Not quite,” I reply, “though it seems most folks have forgotten that <mark>Martysh</mark> was actually founded by a sorceress herself.”
“Oh, believe me,” She retorts, “I never forget <mark>Martyshbod</mark> <mark>Mitra</mark>. The most influential figure in our history, and arguably the most overlooked. She’s the very reason I’m here.”
I nearly choke on my own spit. Back in <mark>Firelands</mark>, <mark>Martyshbod</mark> <mark>Mitra</mark> was practically a ghost story – whispered about, but never truly studied. But Fire Temple teaching barely mention anything about <mark>Martysh</mark> at all, least of all it’s founder.
“I don’t know much about her.” I admit.
“Well, you’re not alone,” Lila says. “She’s practically erased from every history book. Makes you wonder why someone who shaped the entire continent is buried in obscurity, doesn’t it? I’ve been obsessed with her for ages. What was her role in the war? Why did she even bother founding <mark>Martysh</mark>? I couldn’t find any decent answers, so… here I am!”This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
She is joking, right? She signed up for this grueling trial, risking life and limb, just to learn more about some mysterious sorceress from three centuries ago?
Pippin, who has been trudging along beside us, snorts with laughter. “Of all the ridiculous reasons to join <mark>Martysh</mark>, that has to be the most absurd one I’ve ever heard!”
Lila, unfazed by Pippin’s jab, responds casually, “More absurd than someone forcing you to come and you not even having the guts to say no?”
I have to bite my lip to keep from bursting out laughing. Pippin turns red and sputters, but Lila continues, “Besides, there are other reasons I’m here. But wanting to learn more about the most influential woman of our millennium, who barely gets any recognition, isn’t exactly a trivial pursuit.”
Pippin scoffs. “<mark>Mitra</mark> didn’t have nearly as much impact as you claim. The war was won by <mark>Erish</mark> <mark>Eriel</mark> of <mark>Aramis</mark>, and the union was founded by a suggestion from King Jamaal <mark>Jafar</mark> of <mark>Jamshah</mark>. She only established <mark>Martysh</mark> because there have always been sorcerers who chose outsiders over their own people, even back then when the most important thing a sorcerer could do was help establish <mark>Firelands</mark>.”
Ouch. That one stung, even though it wasn’t directed at me. Lila rolls her eyes. “You know the world extends beyond <mark>Firelands</mark>, right? Not everything revolves around sorcerers.”
Pippin, ignoring her, continues his grumpy trek. Lila smirks and turns back to me. “So, back to my original question. You must be the first woman <mark>Ahira</mark> to join <mark>Martysh</mark>, considering <mark>Mitra</mark> never became an <mark>Ahira</mark> herself.”
“Not sure,” I reply. “I might be the first sorceress to participate in the trials, but not the first to join <mark>Martysh</mark>. Every year, a few <mark>Ahiras</mark> choose to join <mark>Martysh’s</mark> military wing after finishing Fire Temple Academy. I’m sure some sorceresses have been among them in three hundred years.”
I don’t mention that <mark>Firelands</mark> would have stopped them if it could, but the law of the continent does not allow provinces to prevent their residents from joining <mark>Martysh</mark>.
“How many before you have joined?”
“I’m not sure. <mark>Firelands</mark> rarely shares the names of those who choose to join <mark>Martysh</mark>.”
“So you never know. You might as well be the first since <mark>Mitra</mark> if you pass the trials!”
“I don’t think so. I know of at least one more.” I stop myself, surprised at my own uncharacteristic sharing. But then again, it is also uncharacteristic for me to be having a conversation with another person at all. Maybe I was just a secret chatterbox waiting to be unleashed. Even Pippin seems taken aback by my revelation.
“You have? Who?” he asks with a frown.
“I met one in Myra, when I was a child, before I came to <mark>Firelands</mark>,” I say quickly, taking a long swig of water from my <mark>waterskin</mark>, not keen on sharing more of my traumatic childhood.
Pippin opens his mouth to ask another question, but Lila, sensing my reluctance, cut in. “So, tell me, are you here to win?”
She is getting straight to the point. <mark>Kishis</mark> are simple, easy people, not made for cunning, and it’s an open secret that most <mark>Ahiras</mark> participate in the trials with the intention of losing, though they’d never admit it openly.
“I am,” I respond with conviction.
She nods casually. “I thought so. A girl and a fourth-ringer at that—they don’t usually send your kind to these trials. So, I gathered you weren’t just here for a leisurely stroll. What about him?” She gestures towards <mark>Eshavan</mark>.
“You won’t hear <mark>Ahiras</mark>’ secrets from us.” Pippin growls.
“I suppose that’s a no, then.” Lila shrugs, “I’ve heard he is now <mark>Firelands</mark>’ special envoy to <mark>Aramis</mark>. Surely, his High Lord father, having finally gotten him back, wouldn’t risk losing him again, this time to <mark>Martysh</mark>.” She pauses, her brow furrowing in thought. “But then, why send him here at all? Here we are, a gaggle of hopefuls clawing and scratching for victory, and the most prized <mark>Ahira</mark> of <mark>Firelands</mark> just strolling in, destined to lose?”
Her words echo the questions that have been swirling in my mind since we left <mark>Firelands</mark>. <mark>Eshavan</mark>, a five-ringer only at the age of twenty-five, the pride of <mark>Aramis</mark> and <mark>Firelands</mark> alike, being in our fellowship is an enigma wrapped in a riddle. Why would he be here, sweating it out with the rest of us, when his path is obviously destined for greatness in <mark>Firelands</mark> and <mark>Aramis</mark>?
To reduce risk, <mark>Firelands</mark> typically sends common-born, five-ringed sorcerers, mostly from their army, to the trials, ensuring their safe return or, in the unlikely event of their demise, a less significant loss for <mark>Firelands</mark>.
Pippin mentioned that <mark>Eshavan</mark> was a late complement to the fellowship, handpicked by <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emenshah</mark> himself to lead the rest of us. Yet, none of the <mark>Ahiras</mark>, <mark>Eshavan</mark> included, seem particularly interested in winning the trials, except for me, obviously. Something seems wrong. It all reeks of rotten fish, and my gut churns with its stench.
My inner thoughts, fascinating as they are, are rudely interrupted when we reach a gaping chasm separating us from the majestic fortress. A sheer cliff face plunges into the depths below, where a waterfall cascades down, like a glistening white ribbon against the dark rock. The river winds through the valley, its surface mirroring the sunlight. A wide bridge, seemingly carved from the mountain itself, connects the castle to where we are standing. It’s our only way forward, a path to a place that feels both impossibly distant and yet feels so tantalizingly close.
As we cross the bridge, I only see a towering, impenetrable stone wall ahead of us. This colossal barrier rises at the end of the path, with the castle walls perched atop it. Could the gates be concealed behind this wall? Or perhaps they lie on the opposite side of the castle? If so, why did the <mark>Martyshmen</mark> lead us on this arduous journey to this seemingly dead end?
The <mark>Martyshmen</mark> signal for us to halt when we cross the bridge, and just as I’m pondering our next move, three horsemen emerge from thin air at the path’s end! One moment, the path terminates abruptly at a sheer rock wall; the next, it’s as if someone has torn a hole in the fabric of reality, and out pops a triad on horseback.
Sorcery,
Without a doubt! It seems the castle does not need a conventional gate on this side—sorcery serves as a far more impressive entrance, though disconcerting for the likes of us.
As the figures approach, their forms sharpen into focus. All three are cloaked in long, dark green <mark>Martyshyar</mark> coats, each bearing a striking emblem: a golden wolf entwined with an eagle emblazoned on their chests. Their leader is distinguished by eight golden, eight-pointed stars meticulously embroidered around his collar, marking him as an eight-starred <mark>Martyshyar</mark>. He radiates an air of authority as his icy gaze sweeps over us.
With a gesture, he dismisses the <mark>Martyshmen</mark> who have accompanied us thus far. With grim nods, they spur their horses into a swift trot, disappearing into the rock face beneath the castle. Vanished, as fleeting as a whisper carried away by the wind.
Now, here we stand, eighty-one competitors on shaky legs and the three <mark>Martyshyars</mark> on their high horses. The eight-starred <mark>Martyshyar</mark> dismounts with a creak of leather and a grimace that could ice a lake, then steps forward. His gaze sweeps over us once more. And this time, he speaks!
“The rules are simple, but the path to becoming a <mark>Martyshyar</mark> is not. You will face a series of trials, each designed to test your strength, cunning, and resolve. The first trial commences now, a challenge to determine your worthiness even to set foot upon the threshold of the sacred <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>. Mark well, this is a solitary endeavor. The order of your entry to <mark>Jahanwatch</mark> matters. The faster you find a way in, the higher your standing. If you fail to discover the entrance before sunset, your <mark>Martyshyar</mark> dreams will vanish, and you will find yourself waking up back at the inn down in the valley with no memory of this place or the trials.”
A thousand questions prick at my mind like a swarm of angry bees. Should we scale the sheer rock face and climb, or perhaps there’s a hidden path around the mountain—a secret gate veiled in shadow? The silence stretches thick and heavy, and I swallow the questions burning on my tongue. If the <mark>Martyshyar</mark> had a hint to offer, he would have.
The <mark>Martyshyar</mark> then turns to the nine of us from <mark>Firelands</mark> and announces, “Any use of sorcery during the trials, whether for personal gain, survival, or influencing the outcome for yourself or others, is strictly forbidden. You are to compete on equal terms with the other participants. Any violation will result in immediate disqualification, and you will lose your wake within a few moments only to find yourself awakening at the inn in the valley on the morrow, with your memories of the trials erased.”
With that final pronouncement, he mounts his horse, and the three <mark>Martyshyars</mark> trot back and vanish into the rock face, leaving us to our own element.
And just like that, the first trial begins!