Gray!
Of all the colors in the world, <mark>Martysh</mark> had to choose gray for our outfits! I grumble at my reflection in the mirror, tugging at the coarse tunic that falls to my mid-thigh. The tunic’s simple design and muted color suggest a focus on utility rather than ornamentation. It isn’t uncomfortable, exactly. The leggings are snug and feel a little rough against my skin after what seems like endless washes, but they allow for free movement. Even the tunic, while close-fitting, is not restrictive. If the sun gets too hot during training, I can easily roll up the sleeves.
Over the tunic, I wear a worn dark brown leather vest I found in the only closet in the room beside the gray tunic and pants. The vest is sleeveless and so well-worn that it also almost looks gray, suggesting frequent use. It fits close to my torso, providing a degree of protection without hindering mobility. I touch the long leather bands I found in the closet and wrapped around my waist and forearms.
It is not glamorous, the attire. No fancy embroidery or flowing sleeves. But it is sturdy, and that’s what matters. These clothes are made for action, not for getting caught in a monster’s claws. Honestly, after a lifetime of those high-necked, long-sleeved <mark>kirtles</mark> at Fire Temple, I welcome the practicality.
But gray? That, I absolutely hate! I have already endured nine years of gray. That was the official color of the Fire Temple Academy’s garb. Everyone wore it during training hours. However, the other kids donned vibrant colors in the girls’ communal area after Academy hours. When I arrived at Fire Temple from Myra, I had nothing but the rags on my back, so I had no other clothes besides what the Academy provided.
It wasn’t that I envied the golden or blue dresses the other girls wore (well, maybe I did a little). I just hated the way wearing the same gray garb all the time marked me as different—poor, an orphan, as if everyone needed another reminder!
I especially used to dread the winter feast, the big celebration at the end of the school year. It was the one occasion when everyone could shed their drab gray uniforms and wear something colorful. While other kids laughed and dined with their families, getting ready to leave for winter break, I would sit alone in a gloomy corner, dressed in my usual gloomy gray.
No, gray is definitely not my favorite color!
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Why am I letting this color, these memories bother me? That was a life I left behind. This gray is different. This is <mark>Martysh</mark> gray! It is the attire of a warrior, not a lonely orphan. This is the color that I chose! This is MY gray.
I take a long look at my reflection, taking a moment to really look at myself in my new warrior attire, gray and all. My eyes sweep across my features. I don’t think I am ugly, but I’m not exactly turning heads either. My eyes are probably my best feature, even if they’re a painful reminder of my absent mother. They’re big and black, almond-shaped with thick lashes - all <mark>Gajari</mark>. I don’t mind my thick eyebrows and black hair, either. I like that my hair is thick and shiny, with a natural wave to it.
But other than that, I’m quite average in everything else. Average height, average nose, average mouth. Maybe a little on the thin side, with no curves to speak of. Not that I ever cared much. I’ve always been too busy worrying about my anxiety and my personality to get hung up on my looks.
I take another deep breath and step out of my small quarters. It’s the first morning after the trials started. Restless dreams kept me wide awake before the first rooster crowed. I walk from the watchtower, where our quarters are located, to the kitchen, where I quickly snatch an apple from a very confused cook, who is probably still wondering why a crazed woman is stealing fruit at the crack of dawn. I then make a beeline for a secluded spot on the training grounds and start practicing.
Soon, somewhere on the hillside of <mark>Albir</mark> mountains, a flock of birds starts chirping together. Whistles squeak and gurgles wavering in intensity but with no clear pattern hang in the crisp morning air like a hidden orchestra. Beneath the rising sun, I look at my reflection in the steel clutched in my hand. Except, the steel isn’t quite mirroring anything impressive at the moment.
I swing the sword again with all the grace of a drunken rabbit. The air whooshes, more from effort than anything resembling a proper cut, and the blade clangs harmlessly off the training dummy, sending a shower of sawdust raining down on my untidy hair.
“Even a snail with a limp could survive that attack,” a voice <mark>drawles</mark> from behind me.
Startled, I whirl around to find <mark>Daryan</mark>. A smirk plays on his lips as he observes my valiant but ultimately pathetic display of swordsmanship.
“Is that supposed to be an insult?” I exclaim as I try to plant the sword in the ground with a grand gesture, only to almost topple over myself. Wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead, I marvel at the sting of exertion and the tinge of embarrassment. Ah, the glamorous life of a would-be warrior!
“Frankly, it was more of a compliment, considering you clearly haven’t been acquainted with a sword since… well, ever.” <mark>Daryan</mark> raises an eyebrow as he strolls towards the weapon rack. It is overflowing with enough pointy, sharp, and generally dangerous-looking objects to outfit a small army.
Dawn has barely peeked over the horizon, and the training ground is blessedly empty. Which is precisely why I am here – to avoid public humiliation for my lackluster sword skills.
“Your form isn’t entirely terrible,” <mark>Daryan</mark> comments casually, inspecting me with the critical eye of a sculptor assessing a chunky clay pot. “It’s your aim that needs a bit of… refinement.”
Now, I’m really not in the mood for smug commentary, especially from someone who looks like he’s been cradling a sword since he could walk.
“Thanks for that incredibly insightful observation,” I mutter, wrestling with the sword that seems determined to remain permanently embedded in the earth.
<mark>Daryan</mark>, however, remains unfazed, possessing the <mark>unshakeable</mark> confidence of a man who wouldn’t bat an eyelash if a <mark>Seemorg</mark> decided to take a nap on his side.
“You’re most welcome,” he chirps, plucking a sword from the rack that looks more like an <mark>oversized</mark> needle than a weapon of war. “Most people think swordplay is all about brute force, but it’s an art. Movement, footwork, redirection, the occasional well-timed jab – that’s what separates the warriors from the, shall we say, ‘enthusiastically stabbing’ crowd.”
He twirls the slender sword with elegance and offers it to me, “Shall we dance?”
I hesitate. Is he… sincere? Hesitantly, I reach out and take the weapon. It feels like a feather compared to the cumbersome club I’d been wrestling with moments ago.
“Now, let’s see what you can do with a blade that doesn’t require the strength of an ox,” he deadpans.
I don’t move. A paranoid thought slithers into my mind. What if he attacks me? Here, alone, before the world has woken up. His broad frame and well-muscled arms hint at years of wielding a sword, not to mention that we are technically competitors—the only name currently above his on the <mark>leaderboard</mark> is mine.
“What’s the matter? Afraid of a little friendly dance?” he teases with an impish glint in his eyes. “Or are you worried your sword skills are about as sharp as a butter knife?”
I draw myself up, attempting to maintain some semblance of dignity despite the fact that my inner voice is screaming, “RUN!”
“I was rather hoping for some solitary practice. Besides, I prefer my sparring partners to be less… insulting.”
“And that is precisely why you’re no good,” he retorts with a bluntness that is both refreshing and utterly infuriating. “If you want to poke holes in inanimate objects, might I suggest embroidery? Swordplay is a dance, not a solo performance. You need a partner. Someone to point out your flaws, your questionable footwork, and your uncanny ability to miss a target the size of a barn door.”
“I’ll have you know, I’ve been practicing for years!” I huff.
“Years spent perfecting the art of enthusiastic flailing, perhaps?” he counters, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
“And what’s it to you, anyway?” I grumble, feeling my cheeks flush.
“Well, for starters, I, too, am here to train. And as I so eloquently mentioned, swordplay isn’t a solo sport. Unless you’d like to duel that dead dummy, I seem to be your only option. Secondly, I believe I owe you a favor for that last trial. Consider this a life-saving lesson in saving your life should you ever be forced to use a sword in these trials.”
I consider his offer. I have indeed spent countless hours honing my skills on lifeless dummies, but facing a real opponent is a different beast altogether. This could be the chance to test my abilities against a living, breathing adversary. I can’t afford to pass up such a valuable opportunity.
I grip the thin sword with newfound determination, ready to show that I’m not just a bookworm with a gift for talking to dead walls. <mark>Daryan</mark> rotates the sword in his hand like it’s a feather and stands in front of me with a smirk. He then gestures to me to attack, and that, I do.
With a battle cry that could rival a <mark>housecat</mark>, I launch a ferocious attack, my sword whistling through the air. <mark>Daryan</mark>, with an expression that strikes a balance between amusement and boredom, doesn’t even bother raising his blade. Instead, he sidesteps casually, causing the sword to whistle past his ear. A cloud of dust erupts where my sword would have connected if I had any concept of aim.
“Easy there,” He teases. “Trying to carve yourself a new hot spring? Because that’s about the only thing you’ll hit with that swing.”
I whirl around, cheeks burning. “Oh, I’ll hit something alright.” I lunge, aiming for his ribs, but my sword clashes pathetically against his when he makes a slight movement to counterattack my blow.
He raises an eyebrow. “You know, they say embroidery builds excellent hand-eye coordination. Maybe try that before you take on, say, a <mark>Seemorg</mark>.”
I lunge again, and he deflects it with an infuriatingly effortless smirk.
“Think of it like threading a needle, not axing a tree,” he advises.
Frustrated, I snatch the sword back. “If I can’t overpower you, how am I supposed to disarm you?”
“There’s more to combat than brute strength. It’s about finesse, precision, and control.” He takes his position opposite me once more. “Let’s try again, but focus on your form and movements this time, not how forcefully you wiled your sword.”
Taking his advice, I mirror his posture, carefully observing how he holds his sword and shifts his weight. Instead of my previous wild swings, I attempt controlled jabs and parries. <mark>Daryan</mark> deflects or blocks each move effortlessly, but he refrains from striking back, patiently guiding me through the motions.
Sweat trickles down my back. The sun seems to have a personal feud against me. <mark>Daryan</mark>, however, moves with the grace and fluidity of a willow tree swaying in the spring breeze.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
“You’ve got the fire, alright,” he says, watching me futilely try to wipe my forehead with my soaked sleeve. “Just need to work on…everything else. Unless your combat strategy involves drowning your opponent in perspiration.” He chuckles at his own joke.
I glare at him. “Very funny. I have been practicing. Just not with, you know, actual people.” I shuffle my feet. “Sorceresses aren’t trained for swordsmanship. We usually leave the stabbing to the sorcerers.”
“Well, there’s not much time to hone your skills here, considering everyone else here has been swinging blades since they could walk. Any other weapons you’re good with?”
“Archery. That’s where I would best anyone.”
He gives a curt nod, surprisingly accepting of my declaration without a single shred of evidence I’ve offered. “Good. Stick to that if there’s any trial involving ranged weaponry. Still wouldn’t hurt to learn the feel of a blade, just in case you need it.”
“Nine <mark>hells</mark>, isn’t it early for swinging steel?” A booming voice cuts across the training yard, shattering the morning’s fragile peace. I turn and see the other two <mark>Izadeonian</mark> men, <mark>Corbyn</mark> and <mark>Bryn</mark>, strolling toward us.
<mark>Daryan</mark>, with his brown hair, large eyes, and tall stature, embodies the typical rugged features of <mark>Izadeon’s</mark> mountain people. However, his companions look strikingly different from the men of the East.
The giant, <mark>Bryn</mark>, has warm, golden brown skin, hinting at part <mark>Jamshedian</mark> ancestry. Even <mark>Daryan</mark>, a formidable figure himself, looks dwarfed beside him. His frame is muscular, with broad shoulders, a deep chest, and a trim waist. His two piercing, golden eyes shine in a sharp, angular face. His face is so symmetrical and flawlessly proportioned that not even his haughty expression could detract from its attractiveness. He isn’t just imposing; he is the very idea of a mountain, with every bulging muscle honed by years of hauling heavy armor and wielding heavy weapons. His short, brown hair frames a face that seems almost inhuman in its perfection.
Beside <mark>Bryn</mark>, the other <mark>Izadeonian</mark>, <mark>Corbyn</mark>, is a stark contrast in every way. Lean and agile, his hair, pale as moonlight, cascades down his back in a single braid, each strand shimmering in the morning light. His flawless, pale skin and elegance seem out of place in this rugged training yard. He seems more suited to an <mark>Eyrian</mark> court than an eastern mountain town.
“Just settling a debt,” <mark>Daryan</mark> replies casually.
<mark>Bryn’s</mark> deep voice rumbles, “Working up a sweat builds an appetite. Let’s eat.”
<mark>Daryan</mark> nods and heads towards the weapon rack to drop his sword. Then, he surprises me with a casual invitation, “Want to join us for breakfast?”
His words hang in the air, and my heart skips a beat. Is he actually asking me to eat with them? A strange feeling creeps through my chest, so unfamiliar it’s almost unsettling. It’s a simple gesture, but it feels monumental—the first time I’ve ever been invited to eat with a group of people. Heat rises to my cheeks, and I silently curse my body’s betrayal.
Get a grip, <mark>Arien</mark>! It’s just breakfast, not a royal ball.
By the time I regain control of my runaway emotions, all three of them are staring at me in confusion.
“<mark>Uhh</mark>, sure,” I squeak, trying to sound casual.
<mark>Daryan</mark> grins, clearly finding my flustered state amusing. He gestures towards the keep with a nonchalant nod, and the three of them, myself trailing nervously behind, begin the trek towards the kitchen.
On our way, I’m mentally kicking myself for possibly signaling my lack of social skills with a beacon fire. Meanwhile, the triad effortlessly banter and engage in comfortable silences. Their easy camaraderie suggests a friendship that’s been through more trials than this.
We arrive at the communal kitchen, filled with the clamor of clanging pots and shouting orders. Each of us grabs a tray, and they load it with steaming porridge, hearty bread, and an assortment of fruits. I watch in stunned silence as <mark>Bryn</mark> piles his plate precariously high, a mountain of food fit for a giant. <mark>Daryan</mark> isn’t far behind, with his own selection only slightly less daunting. Meanwhile, <mark>Corbyn</mark> opts for a more measured approach, displaying a sensible portion on his plate. My own tray holds a meager two slices of bread, butter, and a lone boiled egg.
When we are seated at the communal table, <mark>Daryan</mark> inquires, “Is that all you’ll be eating?”
“I’m not much of a morning eater,” I mumble, feeling the weight of three pairs of eyes on me.
<mark>Bryn</mark> snorts. “Well, you can’t be a stick figure for these trials. You’re about as thin as a quill.”
<mark>Corbyn</mark> scolds his friend with frost in his voice. “Perhaps you should concern yourself with matters of greater import than the shape of a woman’s body,”
“Merely concerned about the well-being of our newest companion,” <mark>Bryn</mark> chuckles.
“I may look thin, but I’m stronger than I look.”
<mark>Bryn</mark> lets out a hearty snort, and <mark>Daryan’s</mark> smirk threatens to split his face. Only <mark>Corbyn</mark> remains stoic. Oh, great. This breakfast is shaping up to be a social obstacle course worthy of its own trial. I might be bad at swordplay, but battling with words is surely more daunting for me than battling with swords.
Butter becomes my only ally of choice in this battle of breakfast banter as I spread it on my bread, hoping to use it as a distraction to conceal the traitorous heat rising on my face.
“So, where are you from?” <mark>Daryan</mark> <mark>drawles</mark> through a mouthful of porridge.
“I’m an <mark>Ahira</mark>. From <mark>Firelands</mark>, obviously.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine… Where were you hatched?”
“Myra,”
“Which part of Myra?”
“Near <mark>Myriel</mark>,” I reveal a sliver of truth. The real answer is <mark>Myrielfort</mark>, High Lord <mark>Henzwort’s</mark> castle, which is nestled comfortably near <mark>Myriel</mark>, the capital of the Myra province.
“Does your family still live there?” <mark>Daryan</mark> probes, clearly enjoying countering my short responses with additional questions and watching my discomfort.
There is no graceful escape. With a sigh, I resort to my practiced lie. “No family. I’m an Orphan.” Then, I shove half the egg and a chunk of bread into my mouth at once.
All three of them stare at me with a curious expression. Before <mark>Daryan</mark> could continue his own round of questioning, <mark>Bryn</mark> asks, “What happened to your kin?”
Another stab of guilt for the forthcoming lie. “Don’t know. I grew up in an orphanage. Never knew my kin.”
I had decided long ago that lying was much less embarrassing than telling the truth. Of course, I could always share the whole truth. That I am the daughter of a serving girl to High Lady <mark>Henzwort</mark> who became involved with the High Lord, became pregnant and was then sent back to her village in the <mark>Gajari</mark> deserts with a large sum of money to keep things quiet. But guess what? She didn’t bother to take me with her. No, she disappeared with the money, leaving me, a crying infant, on the doorstep of the castle. As for my father, the High Lord of Myra, let’s say he also decided to do the noble act and abandon me, too.
But sharing this with girls in the Academy who already didn’t like me much seemed a bit wordy. Expressing that you’re an orphan is much faster and kills the conversation instantly. Well, at least so far, it has. But it seems like with <mark>Izadeonians</mark>, it has only piqued their curiosity more. Strange bunch are this lot.
“Orphanage?” <mark>Corbyn</mark> chimes in, finally breaking his silent observation. “That’s unusual for <mark>Ahiras</mark>. Most children who show sorcery stay with their families until they’re nine. But if you were orphaned, <mark>Firelands</mark> would’ve taken you in much sooner.” His pale blue eyes narrow in what can be suspicion or just plain curiosity.
“I didn’t manifest any sorcery until I was almost nine,” I blurt, another lie spilling from my lips like a rogue fireball. Damn it!
“Was one of your parents <mark>Gajari</mark>?” <mark>Corbyn</mark> presses.
The question almost forces the truth from my lips, and the word “yes” teeters on the edge of my tongue. My mother was indeed <mark>Gajari</mark>, a humble maid serving High Lady <mark>Henzwort</mark>. This makes me <mark>half-Gajari</mark>, a secret I’ve guarded fiercely. But I’ve already claimed ignorance of my lineage, so another lie must be woven.
“I’m not entirely sure. Why do you ask?”
<mark>Corbyn</mark> shrugs, his expression giving nothing away. “Just an observation. You bear some <mark>Gajari</mark> features, that’s all.”
He’s right, of course. My raven hair and dark, black eyes are typical <mark>Gajari</mark> traits, though my fairer complexion sets me apart from the desert folks. The subtle tan hints at my heritage, but it’s not enough for most to guess my <mark>Gajari</mark> blood. <mark>Corbyn’s</mark> observation is surprisingly astute.
“Like I said, I don’t know my kin.” I mumble, shrugging again, “Not everyone from Southern Myra is fair-haired.”
<mark>Corbyn’s</mark> eyes narrow further, suspicion etched across his face. Desperate to change the subject, I blurt out the first question that pops into my mind.
“How long have you known each other?” I gesture toward them with a voice that sounds too high.
“Twenty-nine blasted years,” <mark>Bryn</mark> snorts, “stuck together like glue since the day we were born.”
<mark>Daryan</mark> picks at a piece of fruit. “Our parents decided we were going to be friends before we even knew what the word meant. We never really had much say in the matter.”
I surprise myself by asking another question. “Which part of <mark>Izadeon</mark> are you from?”
“<mark>Izadmond</mark>, the capital,” <mark>Bryn</mark> responds with pride. “My father’s side of the family has lived there for generations. My mother, however, hails from <mark>Jamshed</mark>. She met my father in <mark>Madrisa</mark>, and here I am, a product of two masters from two opposite side of the continent.”
I want to ask more questions, but I stop myself. Information is valuable in this game, and I don’t want to alienate myself by prying too much. And It’s not like I’m a seasoned artisan, flitting effortlessly through conversations with a pack of men I barely know. Yet, <mark>Corbyn’s</mark> gaze, filled with distrust, remains fixed on me. I can’t blame him. From his perspective, I am an <mark>Ahira</mark>, and <mark>Ahiras</mark> and <mark>Izadeonians</mark> aren’t on the best of terms.
“<mark>Firelands</mark> typically only sends five-ringed <mark>Ahiras</mark> to these trials, not four.” He raises a skeptical eyebrow.
“Did you bribe the council with a lifetime supply of enchanted pies or something?” <mark>Bryn</mark> asks with a grin.
“Let’s just say I have my ways of persuasion,” I make a nervous laugh. But when I notice <mark>Corbyn’s</mark> <mark>unamused</mark> expression, I sigh and add, “Those who earn their rings earlier than their age group are granted a wish by the council. Mine was to come here.”
“So, you’re here to win, not just grace us with your esteemed participation?” <mark>Daryan</mark> asks.
“Yes! I’m here to win!” I exclaim, my voice far fiercer than I intended.
<mark>Daryan</mark> chuckles. That seems like his most common reaction to all my emotional <mark>outbearsts</mark>. “How about the others?”
I hesitate. Is he trying to pry information out of me? A pang of guilt hits me. Should I even be sharing a meal with them? <mark>Izadeonians</mark> aren’t exactly known for their fondness for <mark>Ahiras</mark>.
“I… I’m not sure,” I admit honestly. The <mark>Ahiras</mark> have been secretive throughout the journey, and <mark>Ashavan’s</mark> sudden addition only adds to the confusion. What are they planning? I’m entirely in the dark. All I know is that they’re not here to help me win.
“You know,” <mark>Daryan</mark> says, “I thought <mark>Ahiras</mark> only reserve their special trade of prickly for men. But seems like they can be mean to their own just as well.” He gestured towards a table across the room.
I whip my head around, and my eyes land on the <mark>Ahiras</mark>. I hadn’t even noticed them entering the hall. There, perched like a pair of brooding gargoyles, are <mark>Maleed</mark> and <mark>Kameel</mark>, staring at me with deep frowns. Pippin, bless his nervous soul, darts his gaze between his food, me, and <mark>Ashavan</mark>, who sits chewing his breakfast with a stony silence. But that silence… oh, it looks like the kind of silence that speaks magnitudes. All the years I’ve seen him at the Fire Temple, <mark>Ashavan</mark> had been the picture of stoic calm. Now, he looks like a predator trying very hard to appear like a priest. He radiates a frosty aura, even more than usual, like a simmering volcano beneath a thin layer of snow.
Panic claws at my throat. Is he mad I am fraternizing with the competition? Do they think I am spilling <mark>Ahiras</mark>’ secrets over porridge and prunes? It’s obvious that my breakfast companions do not amuse them. The urge to bolt from the table is strong, but making a scene in front of the <mark>Izadeons</mark> isn’t precisely the most dignified plan.
“Uh…” I stammer, the word sticking in my dry throat. “They’re not… mean to me.”
It’s a pathetic lie, even to my own ears.
<mark>Bryn</mark> snorts. “They treat you like a stray dog at a feast. They barely talk to you.”
I feel a wave of guilt as I steal a glance at the <mark>Ahiras</mark>’ table. “Traitor,” a voice hisses in my head. I can’t sit here and make fun of my own kind with strangers. I clear my throat and say, “Well, the truth is, they’re all five-ringed, while I’m a four. Different ranks don’t usually associate in <mark>Firelands</mark>. And I’m also a sorceress. There are guidelines about interactions between sorcerers and sorceresses.”
<mark>Daryan’s</mark> eyebrows shoot up. “Guidelines?”
“We can’t fraternize much unless it’s necessary.”
“What kind of backward nonsense is that? Even in our corner of the continent, where religious fervor runs high, we don’t have such archaic traditions.” <mark>Bryn</mark> asserts.
“There are reasons. There are very few of us, <mark>sorceressses</mark>. In my year, there were only two other girls compared to hundreds of boys. And for two whole years after, no girls came to the Academy. The rules are meant to protect us from unwanted advancements.”
<mark>Corbyn’s</mark> brow furrows. “Unwanted advancements?”
“So, men and women aren’t allowed to interact?” <mark>Daryan</mark> asks.
“Not unless there is a reason for it,” I explain. “Like working together on a task or something of that nature.”
“Backward and outdated, that’s what it is!” <mark>Bryn</mark> declares.
“Sounds like a relic from a bygone era,” <mark>Daryan</mark> adds.
I’d never really questioned these rules before. My entire life had been surrounded by other sorcerers, constantly told that distance was the key to my safety.
“Speaking of oddities, his presence here still baffles me. The <mark>Aramis</mark> boy.” <mark>Corbyn</mark> remarks, casting a curious glance towards the <mark>Ahiras</mark>’ table.
“He’s not aiming for the win, is he?” <mark>Bryn</mark> inquires. “Wouldn’t that spark a war between the Union and <mark>Aramis</mark>? High Lord <mark>Ardalan</mark> can’t stand losing his heir again, right?”
“I honestly have no idea,” I admit.
My unease is growing. I sneak another peek at the <mark>Ahiras</mark>’ table, and my heart sinks when my eyes meet <mark>Ashavan’s</mark> icy gaze.
“I think I’ve, uh, had enough breakfast,” I stammer, rising from the bench. “I’ll see you all later.”
And with that, I flee the dining hall.