The stench of sweat and fear cling to me like a second skin when I open my eyes again. Gasping for air, I find myself on all fours. My heart gallops with the same rhythm of the clang of armor and the purposeful sharpening of blades echoing through the bailey. Confusion clouds my mind as I try to piece together what just happened. One moment, I was plummeting through the sky, bracing for impact; the next, I am here, sprawled on the cold stone floor, disoriented and disheveled. Did I somehow survive the fall? I know it was a cruel illusion, but the fear of death felt incredibly real, and I know that if your mind believes you’re dead during a strong illusion, your body follows. But I am alive. And the question remains: where am I?
The answer is simple: I’m back in the inner bailey where I was moments ago. But now, the once-empty space teems with armored men and women. <mark>Martyshmen</mark> fill the towers, accessible by winding staircases that offer views over the wards. Sentries stand guard on the battlements and the ground trembles beneath the weight of marching soldiers and their mounts. The granite keeps at the heart of <mark>Jahanwatch</mark> pulse with frenetic vibrancy.
Suddenly, it dawns on me—I’m IN! A surge of pure elation courses through me, unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I’m about to break into a celebratory dance when a young <mark>Martyshyar</mark> appears out of thin air, clutching a parchment like it’s a holy relic.
“<mark>Arien</mark> of <mark>Firelands</mark>?” he drones, more interested in crossing a name than meeting a potential future <mark>Martyshyar</mark>.
“That’s me!” I chirp, trying to contain my excitement. “Is this actually <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>? Inside and everything? Or am I dead and dreaming?” I try not to pinch myself for good measure.
He gives me a look that suggests I have sprouted a second head. “Do I look like a dream weaver to you? And yes, this is <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>, in all its non-dreamy glory.”
“Where are the rest of the contenders?” I blurt out, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m inside <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>.
“You’re the first,” he says, his tone as dry as desert sands, as if he’s informing me about the chance of rain rather than the most significant achievement of my life. “Now, food and water are over there. You’ll have to wait here till sundown. Put this on and never take it off, or you will be eliminated from the trials and lose your wake only to be carried out of <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>.” He slaps something around my wrist and sashays off, looking as thrilled as a cat at bath time.
It’s a black leather bracelet holding the <mark>Martysh</mark> coin in the middle. The coin is a twin to the one warming my neck, a gift from my long-lost sorceress guardian. I blink back the sudden wave of emotion and touch the bracelet as my heart does a bittersweet dance. Determined to maintain my composure, I quickly head towards the food table, seeking solace in a much-needed meal.
My stomach immediately decides to voice its displeasure, growling louder than a disgruntled dragon with a toothache. I make a beeline for the food table. And what a feast it is! Mountains of bread, slabs of cheese thicker than my <mark>spellbook</mark>, and enough fruit to make a maiden blush. I grab a hunk of bread, smother it in cheese, and devour it in two bites. Apple juice washes it down, a symphony of sweet, sweet relief for my parched throat.
Food does wonders for the mind. As my heart gradually calms down, I take a moment to appreciate the expansive courtyard. The sound of metal clashing suggests that there are <mark>smithshops</mark> nearby. In the center of the courtyard is a well where a woman fills a bucket before heading towards a large building with a wide chimney emitting smoke. From the open windows of the building, I can see maids and busy cooks preparing meals for the castle’s residents. On the other side, interconnected structures serve as homes for numerous horses. Several grooms care for the animals, brushing their coats and cleaning their tack.
I suddenly remember again that I am the first one inside. Just as I’m about to do a happy dance, two men materialize out of thin air right in front of me. One lands on all fours, gasping for breath, while the other, the ever-graceful <mark>Eshavan</mark>, looks like he’s been thrown out from a nightmare to reality.
He stands tall, but his usual composure is absent. His breath comes in ragged gasps, and his eyes are wide with surprise as they dart around, taking in his surroundings. I watch realization slowly appear on his face as his gaze sweeps across the courtyard. Finally, his eyes meet mine, and for the first time, they linger, holding my gaze with an intensity that is far from his usual aloofness. I consider approaching him, but hesitation holds me back. In <mark>Firelands</mark>, he was known for his unapproachable demeanor, even among his high-status peers. But, the intensity of his stare leaves me bewildered and apprehensive. Why is he looking at me with such a fierce expression?
Suddenly, I feel a bead of sweat trickle down my forehead under his intense gaze. I break eye contact and notice the same <mark>Martyshyar</mark> who greeted me earlier, now standing beside the two newcomers.
The gasping man quickly scrambles to his feet. His hair is disheveled, and sweat is dripping from his brow.
“Are you <mark>Daryan</mark> of <mark>Izadeon</mark>?” The <mark>Martyshyar</mark> inquires.
“By the Nine, yes I am!” He exclaims between breaths, and a triumphant grin spreads across his face. “Which one of us arrived first?”
The <mark>Martyshyar</mark> points a bored finger at me. “She did. You two appeared simultaneously, so you share the same rank.”
The man, whose name is apparently <mark>Daryan</mark>, turns his head toward me. He’s the towering <mark>Izadeonian</mark> from earlier, the one who stood beside me during the whole talking-to-the-castle affair. I can see recognition flicker in his eyes as he strides towards me after the <mark>Martyshyar</mark> slaps the same bracelet on his wrist.
“Just the person I wanted to see.” He says as he reaches the table and hoists a whole flagon of juice like a personal goblet, chugging straight from the jar. He then wipes his mouth with his sleeve and asks, “How’d you find out?”
Hold on a moment. Didn’t he… find it out, too? That’s why he’s here, right?
“You looked like you were talking to the castle when I noticed you,” he says, noticing the surprise on my face. “You seemed gripped by panic, muttering something under your breath, and then you disappeared in the blink of an eye. I told my friends what I saw and tried talking to the castle too. Suddenly, a voice responded in my head, and the next thing I knew, I was displaced to a strange place with that… creature.”
He must have experienced the same illusion as me.
“Was it a half-wolf, half-eagle creature?” I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.
“Nine <mark>hells</mark>, yes! The <mark>Seemorg</mark>. Guardian of the <mark>Albir</mark> Mountains,” He expresses before stuffing a mountain of meat into his mouth.
Now, I’m not usually one for idle chatter, especially with strangers who look like they could lift a small cottage for sport. But this man has a certain charm, a twinkle in his eye that says, I might be a muscle-bound warrior, but I’m also playful. Also, the whole talking to a giant bird-dog affair has me itching for answers.
“So, how did you get past it?” I blurt out.
He gives me a confused look. “Like you did, I suppose. Fought the living daylights out of it!”
My jaw nearly hit the floor. This man is built like a wall, but that creature was five times his size. Did he really wrestle it into submission? I can’t help but stare at him with an open mouth. When he sees my expression, he asks, “Why the face? You didn’t fight it?”
I shake my head, trying to imagine the scene of a muscle-bound warrior wrestling a mythical beast.
“Then how did you pass?”
“I’m not sure. We just… talked.”
Now, it is his turn to look surprised. “Talked? Could that thing actually talk?” He sputters, bread momentarily forgotten.
I nod.
“Huh…” He grunts a one-word reply, which is not particularly insightful, and slathers cheese on his bread like he’s trying to plaster a wall. Next comes a mountain of various meats and cheese piled higher and higher.
Despite my mind screaming to walk away from a man who admits to wrestling with a feathery nightmare as if it’s an everyday occurrence while building a culinary monstrosity, I blurt out another question. “So, did you win the fight?”
“Nah,” he mutters around a mouthful of bread-meat-cheese avalanche. “Too strong, that feathered friend. At least it wasn’t trying to peck my eyes out. It was just batting away my attacks like a grumpy goose. Shoved me around a bit; last shove sent me tumbling straight here.” He shrugs, then stuffs the rest of the monstrosity in his mouth in one go.
As he munches, I take him in. I can tell three things about him. He is <mark>Izadeonian</mark>—that part is clear. He is a nobleman and is affiliated with the army.
He is not merely tall; he is like a pillar sculpted by the wind. There is a wild, untamed aura about him, the rugged charm of someone who spends more time under the open sky than within gilded halls. His tousled, dark brown hair curls in a way that seems more influenced by the wind than a comb. His pair of deep, dark blue eyes hold a quiet intelligence framed by long lashes. A strong jawline and a lopsided grin reveal a charming dimple on his right cheek. The cleft in his chin, a perfect counterpoint, deepens the allure of his face.
He is charmingly attractive. Unlike <mark>Eshavan’s</mark> chiseled perfection, his features are rugged and genuine, not intimidating. They’re steady and reassuring. Laugh lines crinkle around his eyes, and a faint scar traces his cheekbone, adding character to his face. His smile holds the promise of easy laughter, contrasting with his eyes, which are the color of a storm brewing on the horizon. Mischief dances in their depths, but there’s a warmth simmering beneath, too.
Even though it’s apparent that he is noble-born, he looks more like he wrestles bears for fun than spends his days sipping fancy wine. Judging by how he’s chugging drinks, he wouldn’t say no to a good flagon of ale either. Despite his imposing stature and rugged appearance, his demeanor is surprisingly gentle and approachable.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
“I haven’t seen many of you,” He mumbles through a mouthful of food, catching me staring. “A Sorceress.” He clarifies, eyeing me.
“There aren’t many of us,” I respond.
He nods thoughtfully, his eyes still on me. “Not like blacksmiths or bakers, that’s for sure. Only seen one other, really. High Lord <mark>Marikham’s</mark> second son’s wife, the haughty one.”
“Jade?” I blurt out.
“That’s the one,” he confirms. “Know her?”
“She was a few years ahead of me at the Academy,”
I’m not exactly keen to share that she was a noble and a senior <mark>Ahira</mark>, so she wouldn’t have recognized me if I tripped over her <mark>spellbook</mark>.
“So you must be… young,” His eyes flicker down to the four rings adorning my fingers before returning to my face. There is a hint of something akin to respect in them, a look I’m not accustomed to receiving. Feeling flustered, I look away and nervously bite my lip. This giant man, who is unexpectedly observant, is making me feel flustered, even though he isn’t trying to.
“By chance, is that your brooding lover?” the <mark>Izadeonian</mark> rumbles.
I sputter, nearly choking on my apple juice. “W-what?”
“Seems mighty interested in our conversation. The brooding one over there. He is glaring at me like I just stole his favorite <mark>axe</mark>.”
I look around, bewildered, and finally spot <mark>Eshavan’s</mark> stony face a few paces away. If death stares could kill, I’d be a pile of ash on the ground.
What’s up with him? Does he think I’m spilling <mark>Fireland</mark> secrets to this <mark>oversized</mark> <mark>Izadeonian</mark>? Before I can stammer out a reply, another figure strides into view, looking incredibly calm <mark>amidst</mark> the chaos.
“<mark>Corbyn</mark>!” <mark>Daryan</mark> exclaims loudly, a goofy grin spreading across his face as he pulls the newcomer into a full hug. The other guy, <mark>Corbyn</mark>, however, shoves him back with a grunt, which only widens <mark>Daryan’s</mark> grin even further.
“Took you long enough, mate. I was worried you didn’t understand my hunch about talking to the castle walls. It sucked me right in as soon as I gave it a go.”
“We put the pieces together when you said you saw someone talking to the castle,” <mark>Corbyn</mark> mutters.
Just then, another <mark>Izadeonian</mark> appears.
“<mark>Bryn</mark>!” <mark>Daryan</mark> roars, clapping him on the shoulder with enough force to fall a horse. The three fall into a friendly conversation, explaining their experiences with the <mark>Seemorg</mark>. Seems like <mark>Corbyn</mark> had a lengthy chatter, too, while <mark>Bryn</mark> went the more traditional route of fight first, talk later.
As they talk <mark>amongst</mark> themselves, I am startled when I notice <mark>Eshavan</mark> looming beside me like a storm cloud. He grabs a cup and downs some water in one go, his jaw clenched tight. I look cautiously at him, unsure if I should make conversation. As he opens his mouth, seemingly to address me, another figure materializes – <mark>Maleed</mark>.
Panting hard, he makes a beeline for us, but before he can sputter out a word, <mark>Eshavan</mark> cuts him off, “What about the others?”
<mark>Maleed</mark> stammers, “It was me, <mark>Kameel</mark>, <mark>Alizan</mark>, <mark>Elranz</mark> and Pippin. We found our way back with a nifty rope we braided out of leaves and twigs, but you were gone! We overheard whispers about you disappearing with others, and someone mentioned talking to the castle walls. So, we tried it, and suddenly, I found myself face-to-face with a bizarre creature. I attempted to reason with it, but …”
Before he can finish his epic tale, <mark>Eshavan’s</mark> voice cuts through the air like a whip, “And you didn’t bother to tell the others?”
<mark>Maleed</mark> shrinks back like a kicked pup. “As soon as I talked to the castle about getting in, everything went dark. <mark>Manoj</mark> and Dana were off, deep in the woods.”
<mark>Eshavan’s</mark> face could rival <mark>Jahanwatch</mark> for sheer impassivity. Clearly, if everyone who stood before that rock vanished into thin air, no one would be left to tell the tale for those who missed the affair. Unless, of course, they stumbled upon the brilliant idea of conversing with inanimate objects like myself.
<mark>Eshavan</mark>, who usually looks like he wouldn’t flinch if a dragon sneezed on him, is positively fuming. It looks like he could light a fire with a single glare, which is enough to make <mark>Maleed</mark> look like he is about to wet himself. I can’t help but wonder what has him so riled up. They all signed up to lose anyway. Does he find it humiliating that two of the <mark>Ahiras</mark> are out in the first trial?
As more and more hopefuls trickle into the courtyard, the sun starts its descent towards the horizon, mirroring <mark>Eshavan’s</mark> darkening mood. He hasn’t touched any food, and his expression could shatter glass. He looks around the courtyard like a predator on the hunt. Meanwhile, the <mark>Izadeonians</mark>, all nine of them who have passed the test, guzzle wine and ale by the table, their laughter reverberating across the space.
A few <mark>Jamshahis</mark> have arrived, comparing their experiences with each other. The <mark>Maravanians</mark> are shoveling food into their faces like they haven’t seen a decent meal in a fortnight. Three <mark>Eyrians</mark> are talking <mark>amongst</mark> themselves. No one from Southern Myra is still here, but the two <mark>Gajaris</mark> are.
Eavesdropping the conversations reveals that most people overheard someone talking to the castle and followed suit. Everyone encountered the <mark>Seemorg</mark>, but their experiences diverged from there. Some conversed with the creature, while others ignored it, wandering the courtyard in search of a hidden passage. <mark>Daryan</mark> and his friend <mark>Bryn</mark> were the only ones foolish enough to attempt to fight the <mark>Seemorg</mark>. It seems the creature eventually approached each person, granting them entry. So far, no one has mentioned actually riding the creature like me. Those still missing either haven’t discovered the secret of talking to the castle or are still trapped in the illusion, unable to convince the <mark>Seemorg</mark> to let them in.
As the day draws to a close, <mark>Eshavan</mark> remains unexpectedly by my side, a gesture that even <mark>Maleed</mark> finds unusual, evident by his <mark>unapproving</mark> glances. Throughout our journey, they’ve all given me the cold shoulder, leaving me to dine alone in my tent while they huddled around the campfire each night. So why is he suddenly acting as if we’re old chums? Perhaps it’s simply because we’re the only three still standing from our fellowship.
As the sun’s last rays fade, <mark>Kameel</mark>, Pippin, <mark>Alizan</mark>, and <mark>Elranz</mark> stumble through the barrier, looking weary, as if they have all just emerged from the same disorienting illusion in which the <mark>Seemorg</mark> reluctantly allowed them passage at the last hour. <mark>Eshavan</mark> releases a breath, his tense shoulders relaxing as if a weight has been lifted. By the time they stagger over, the sun has completely vanished, and several torches around the courtyard flare to life, bathing the space in an eerie glow. Almost on cue, the massive oak door of the main keep groans open.
Five figures emerge from the keep, all clad in the distinctive dark green garb of the <mark>Artehshyars</mark>, except the one in front whose wearing the black coat of the <mark>Martyshbod</mark>, the head of <mark>Martysh</mark>. The courtyard falls into a hush; every soul, from aspiring trial participants to seasoned soldiers, cooks, and <mark>stablehands</mark>, stands frozen as if time itself has paused. With measured steps, the figures approach, and my heart plunges as the leader comes into focus.
Years have etched lines on her face, a sign of countless battles fought and secrets kept. Yet, she remains unmistakably the woman who crossed my path in Myra eleven long winters ago. Like a waterfall, her <mark>Eyrian</mark> silver hair frames a face etched with determination. As she steps closer, nine golden eight-pointed stars shimmer on her black cloak - the unmistakable symbol of the <mark>Martyshbod</mark>, the revered leader of the <mark>Martysh</mark>.
I feel a tremor running through me. Could she have held such a high rank even back then? No, my memory recalls a brown cloak of an ordinary <mark>Martyshwoman</mark> adorned with only seven stars.
I hadn’t even known her name back then. She was simply <mark>Martyshwoman</mark> – a kind face, a fleeting warmth in my otherwise cold, harsh life. I knew the head of <mark>Martysh</mark> was a woman and a former <mark>Martyshyar</mark> named <mark>Faelar</mark>. But I could never have imagined she was the same woman who touched my life with her kindness. Eleven years ago, she wasn’t even yet a <mark>Martyshyar</mark>! She became a <mark>Martyshyar</mark> and then immediately the head of <mark>Martysh</mark> in only eleven years?!! How is that possible?
Overwhelmed, I struggle to breathe as my hands tremble uncontrollably. <mark>Eshavan</mark> glances at me as if he has sensed my distress, but I keep my eyes fixed on the woman who unknowingly set me on this path that led me across half the continent.
Her pale blue eyes, heavy with the weight of countless secrets, sweep over us. A steely resolve has replaced the warmth I once saw in her eyes, yet there is no hint of arrogance or disdain in them either. <mark>Martyshbod</mark> <mark>Faelar’s</mark> voice, solid and determined, breaks the silence. “Welcome to <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>. You have all faced the guardian of the <mark>Albir</mark> mountains, and each of you, in your own way, has proven worthy to continue these trials. Those who faltered will awaken in the valley below tomorrow, their memories of this day erased. Their dreams of becoming <mark>Martyshyars</mark> will fade like morning mist. The same fate awaits any of you who fail to pass the trials ahead.” Her words hold a grim finality. “Failing the trials isn’t the only way to get one eliminated; breaking the rules will do it too. You are forbidden from harming any <mark>Martysh</mark> individual, company, or affiliates. You are forbidden from harming other contenders outside the trials. You must wear the bracelet that was given to you at all times. Using sorcery to gain an advantage for yourself or others during the trials is also prohibited. Any violation of these rules will result in immediate disqualification and loss of your senses. You will not awake until you’re carried out of <mark>Jahanwatch</mark> range.”
“I trust the first trial has illuminated the true nature of these challenges. This is no idle fancy, no childish game of swords and shields. The <mark>Martyshyars</mark> are the continent’s shadows, the silent blades that guard the realm’s secrets. Their wisdom guides the tireless might of <mark>Martysh</mark>. To stand beside them, to earn the mantle of <mark>Martyshyar</mark>, is a prize beyond measure. And you have to prove your worth, not only by your strength, but by your wit, your resolve, and the value held deep within your being.”
Her voice, imbued with power and grace, commands absolute silence, captivating everyone in the courtyard. The air around her seems to shimmer as if she’s not merely a woman but a manifestation of power and authority. I feel every hair on my hand raising as she continues, “More trials await, each designed to give you the advantage for the next. Use the time between trials wisely, honing your skills and gathering knowledge. Every word, every sign, every piece of information could be crucial. Only the last nine or less who conquer every challenge will emerge victorious.”
“The first nine who complete each trial will be ranked from nine to one. The others may continue, but their efforts won’t count towards the final standings. Your performance in each trial will be recorded, contributing to the added number that determines your rank. Remember, your rank will hold great significance in the days that you need it most.”
With a graceful gesture, she conjures shimmering lines of letters etched in golden light on the cold stone wall of the main keep. The remaining contenders collectively gasp as they suddenly realize that the head of <mark>Martysh</mark>, the revered <mark>Martyshbod</mark>, was once an <mark>Ahira</mark> herself. <mark>Maleed’s</mark> scowl deepens, and a blend of surprise and resentment etch his face while <mark>Kameel’s</mark> eyebrows arch in astonishment. I can’t blame them. In Fire Temple, we have never been told about the <mark>Ahiras</mark> who left <mark>Firelands</mark> for <mark>Martysh</mark>, let alone that <mark>Martysh’s</mark> head was one of them.
My eyes study the wall, and there it is, my name, etched at the top, followed by the number Nine. <mark>Daryan</mark> and <mark>Eshavan</mark> share the second row, both with an Eight in front of their names. <mark>Izadeon’s</mark> <mark>Corbyn</mark> and <mark>Bryn</mark> hold the following positions: Seven and Six, respectively. <mark>Maleed</mark> follows with Five then <mark>Samira</mark>, the first <mark>Jamshahi</mark> who arrived, with a Four. Another <mark>Jamshahi</mark>, <mark>Olanna</mark>, has a Three, and the <mark>Gajaris</mark>, their names written as <mark>Omeer</mark> and <mark>Othman</mark>, hold a Two and a One. The remaining contenders, still vying for the title of <mark>Martyshyar</mark>, have yet to make their mark on the wall.
<mark>Martyshbod</mark> <mark>Faelar’s</mark> voice, flat and devoid of any emotion, echo through the courtyard. “<mark>Martyshmen</mark> will guide you to your quarters. Rest well. The next trial awaits you in nine days.”
With that pronouncement, she turns around and strides away, leaving behind a heavy silence and a knot of emotions twisting in my heart.