The following Eight days go in a blur as one day bleeds into another. I follow a very strict schedule. Each day, before dawn breaks, I’d find myself in the training grounds as the chill air bites at my skin.


    <mark>Daryan</mark> usually shows up as the sun peeks over the horizon. Sleep seems to elude him as much as it does me, and these early morning sparring sessions become our shared refuge. We don’t talk much; grunts and parries fill the space between us. He demonstrates new attacks, deceptive jabs, and sneaky counters—moves I’m familiar with but desperately need to practice with an opponent.


    It’s a strange feeling, almost unsettling, to have someone spend their time and sweat for me like I’m some worthy investment when I always felt anything but. <mark>Daryan’s</mark> constant barrage of playful jabs and teasing should normally leave me wounded. But with him, it’s different. His words somehow carve away my insecurities instead of deepening them. It’s as if he sees the weaknesses I try so desperately to hide, and instead of judging, he challenges me to rise above them.


    I’ve never known this kind of association, this… acceptance. And despite the <mark>pre-dawn</mark> wake-ups and the ache in my muscles that lingers for the rest of the day, I find myself looking forward to our training sessions, craving the warmth of his attention, even though we don’t talk much.


    Every morning, he invites me to have breakfast with him and the <mark>Izadeonians</mark>. Every morning, I politely decline. As much as I yearn for the warmth of their easy companionship, I don’t want to antagonize the <mark>Ahiras</mark> any further. They are the closest thing I have to allies despite their icy behavior. The <mark>Izadeonians</mark>, with all their good nature, are still competition. At least the <mark>Ahiras</mark> aren’t here to win.


    Instead, I spend most of the mornings walking around <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>. Knowing the battlefield is half the victory, and this place is truly massive. It surpasses the size of a village and even a market town – its expanse rivals that of a small town. The maze-like corridors seem to shift and twist, leading you on a bewildering chase. Hidden rooms lurk behind concealed doors, and there are staircases that seem to ascend endlessly. I find myself lost in this labyrinth every single day.


    At the heart of <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>, the inner bailey we first arrived at, a multitude of structures encircle us. The most awe-inspiring of these is the central keep, a fortress within a fortress, complete with its own towers and battlements. This heavily guarded stronghold is the residence of the highest-ranking members of <mark>Martysh</mark>, including <mark>Martyshbod</mark> <mark>Faelar</mark> herself. Access to this inner sanctum of power is strictly prohibited, adding to the mystery that surrounds it.


    Apart from the central keep, the inner courtyard is surrounded by other important structures: the great library, which is connected to a small tower housing workshops, laboratories, and an observatory; the kitchens and storage areas; a Chapel of the Nine Sisters; and the servants’ quarters.


    Two outer courtyards flank the western and southern walls of the inner bailey, each a bustling center of activity of their own. The western courtyard houses functional structures such as stables and workshops for blacksmiths, carpenters, and other artisans. A heavily guarded section of this courtyard, nestled between the western courtyard and the inner bailey, is known as the <mark>Martyshyar</mark> Wing. This is where the roughly five hundred <mark>Martyshyars</mark> work, conduct meetings, perform experiments, and store classified documents and artifacts accessible only to <mark>Martyshyars</mark>. Even <mark>Martyshmen</mark> cannot enter this wing and are restricted to guarding the entrances, ensuring the highest level of secrecy and security.


    The southern ward is where the training grounds are located. It is encircled by the armory and barracks that accommodate the castle’s garrison and lower-ranking <mark>Martyshmen</mark>. A small watchtower is nestled between the southern and inner wards. Our rooms are within this tower, a series of compact chambers built around the spiral staircase leading to the top.


    The rest of the <mark>Martysh</mark> army, including the cavalry and cadets, is stationed in <mark>Shemiran</mark>, the town nestled in the valley below. Both <mark>Shemiran</mark> and the entire <mark>Albir</mark> mountain range are neutral territories—a slice of land belonging solely to <mark>Martysh</mark> and the Union it serves, unclaimed by any province.


    Behind <mark>Jahanwatch</mark> stands a massive arena. Its walls, made from the same gray stone as the fortress, rise high and cast a perpetual shadow over the blood-stained sand below. Guarded entrances connect the castle to the arena, so I’ve only observed it from the watchtower. It looks like a coliseum carved into the backside of the mountain, with spectator stands formed from jagged rock shelves cut into the mountainside, offering a view of the central, sandy pit.


    After hours of pacing the castle’s cobblestone paths, my stomach would growl in protest around midday. I’d then sneak into the kitchens for a quick bite, dodging any lingering glares from the <mark>Ahiras</mark>, before heading to my next destination: the library.


    Unlike the Fire Temple’s library, this one is filled with knowledge about <mark>Martysh</mark>. Its shelves are heavy with countless books detailing <mark>Martysh’s</mark> history, meticulously chronicling every battle, conflict, and triumph. The Union’s chronicles are also well-documented, revealing the workings of the alliance that holds the continent together. However, the details of the trials remain shrouded in secrecy. The secrets of past trials seem locked away in some undisclosed location, leaving me to rely on my imagination to predict the challenges ahead.


    By early afternoon, I’m practically glued to the training grounds, honing my archery skills until my arms ache and my fingers blister. The occasional envious glances from my fellow contenders fuel my determination as I effortlessly send arrow after arrow soaring toward the mark. To keep things interesting, I switch between archery, dagger practice, and good old-fashioned fisticuffs, jabbing and dodging with a training dummy as if it were my grumpy mentor in Fire Temple, <mark>Ahira</mark> Brutus.


    But the training grounds offer more than just a chance to improve my combat skills. It’s also the perfect place to observe and analyze my competition. Seventy-three contenders are still standing in the games, with <mark>Izadeon</mark>, <mark>Maravan</mark>, <mark>Hamden</mark>, <mark>Kish</mark>, <mark>Jamshah</mark>, and <mark>Aramis</mark> boasting a full roster of nine. <mark>Eyria</mark> and <mark>Firelands</mark> each lost two to the <mark>Seemorg’s</mark> challenge, and to my delight, four Southern <mark>Myrans</mark> didn’t make it inside. The muscle-bound oaf, whose name is <mark>Morteez</mark>, and the remaining two Southern <mark>Myrans</mark>, who look as brutish as <mark>Morteez</mark>, are now clinging to the <mark>Aramis</mark> contingent, desperately trying to compensate for their dwindling numbers.


    By the time eight suns bleed into darkness, I’m certain that if blades are the measure, I’m at the bottom of the pack. Archery and a well-placed dagger are all I can claim with any confidence. Unless this is a contest of who can swing a sword like a frenzied windmill, a swift defeat seems inevitable if raw strength is all that matters in the next trial. My stomach does a nervous dance as I bury my nose in an old scroll, distracting myself by reading about <mark>Martysh’s</mark> history, hoping that ancient wisdom will magically transform me into a sword-wielding prodigy. The book reads:


    ^{Martysh’s formative years were heavily influenced by the events that led to the formation of the Union, particularly the devastating Great War. This war followed numerous smaller conflicts and the rise and fall of many kingdoms over millennia.}


    ^{Prior to the Great War, the continent was divided into three major kingdoms: Jamshed, Aramis, and Izadeon. Internal conflicts weakened Aramis and Izadeon, ultimately leading to Hamden and Maravan declaring independence from Izadeon and Eyria declaring independence from Aramis. The Great War was unprecedented, as, unlike past disputes that were mainly between men, sorcerers played a significant role in the conflict.}


    ^{Historically, sorcerers existed among men, but their acceptance varied across different regions and periods. In some places, children born with magical abilities were feared and ostracized, and their powers were seen as a curse. In response, sorcerer tribes emerged, offering exiled sorcerers protection and a sense of community. However, they were still hunted, and influential figures would pay handsomely for their capture.}


    ^{The situation worsened when the Faith of the Nine Sisters turned against sorcery, leading to widespread persecution and violence, particularly in the eastern regions. The Temple’s attacks forced many sorcerer tribes to flee to the West in search of safety. One significant tribe, however, sought refuge in the far east, at the remote, barren hinterlands of the Doozak mountains in the east of Izadeon, a region previously unoccupied due to its harsh conditions and dangerous wild creatures.}


    ^{The Great War was sparked by sorcerers’ reckless experiments with dark magic. Behind the Doozak Mountains, sorcerers used alteration sorcery and created an army of monstrous, altered beasts that ravaged the continent, leaving destruction and despair in its wake. Izadeon, Maravan, and Hamden fell under the control of this army of monsters, led by altered, dark sorcerers who called themselves Ahimans. This led to widespread enslavement and suffering of mankind.}


    ^{However, despite the Ahimans’ initial victories, the human resistance, aided by a small number of courageous sorcerers who allied themselves with mankind against the Ahimans, managed to halt their advance, resulting in a grueling six-year stalemate in the Albir mountains region.}


    ^{Desperate to turn the tide of the war, Arish Ariel, the King of Aramis, offered land and protection to the rest of the sorcerers who had not yet joined the men’s army in exchange for their aid against Ahimans.}


    ^{With the support of these newfound allies, the resistance slowly pushed back the Ahimans and their demon army, liberating the eastern territories one by one, with Izadeon being the last to regain its freedom.}


    ^{After the war, Aramis fulfilled its promise, granting land to the sorcerers and establishing Firelands as their sanctuary. However, the Eastern army, still reeling from the horrors of the war and harboring deep-seated mistrust towards sorcerers, refused to acknowledge the war’s end, believing that the threat of the Ahimans still loomed.}


    So far, I’ve been almost bored since the book has the same narrative that we’re taught in <mark>Firelands</mark>’, but what comes next captures my attention. From this point on, it takes a different turn. It challenges the prevailing belief in <mark>Firelands</mark> that prejudice and religious bigotry were the primary reasons for the eastern provinces’ objection to the establishment of <mark>Firelands</mark>, proposing an alternative viewpoint.


    The book directly contradicts the teachings of <mark>Firelands</mark> by claiming that <mark>Izadeon</mark> felt threatened by the remaining <mark>Ahimans</mark> and monsters lurking behind the <mark>Doozak</mark> mountains. According to the book, <mark>Izadeon</mark> urged the Western alliance to eliminate this threat before granting land to the sorcerers, fearing a repetition of the <mark>Ahiman</mark> ambush and its devastating consequences. The book reads:


    ^{Wary of potential dangers, the Western armies chose not to venture beyond the Doozak mountains. Izadeon instigated a conflict against the West, which was quickly quelled due to the Eastern kingdoms’ military weakness. After conquering Maravan, Hamden, and Izadeon, Arish Ariel faced the question of expansion of Aramis Kingdom or returning the territories to reestablish the old Izadeon Kingdom.}Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    ^{At that point, Aramis was still at war with Eyria, who had declared independence, while Maravan and Hamden fiercely objected to be under Izadeon’s rule again. Arish Ariel knew that holding on to the eastern lands would only prolong the war, as they would never agree to become a part of Aramis.}


    ^{The king of Jamshed, Jamaal Jafar, proposed an alternative. The formation of a Union. Weary of endless war and the burden it would place on future generations, Arish Ariel agreed. To address the concerns of eastern provinces, Martysh was established, with several stations in the Doozak mountains to defend against potential ambush from the Ahimans and the altered monsters. Martysh expanded across the Union, and thanks to Arish Ariel and Jamaal Jafar’s wisdom, the continent has enjoyed an unprecedented three centuries of peace ever since.}


    Pippin, startling me from my musings on the complexities of history and diversion of narratives, chirps in my ear, “There you are! Been looking everywhere for you!”


    I haven’t seen him in the training yard once. Like how he was in <mark>Firelands</mark>, he prefers the musty scent of old parchments any day. He plops a hefty tome on the table with a flourish.


    “Look what I found! Chronicles of the sorcerer’s tribes, and guess what? Details are wildly different from what they teach us in the <mark>Firelands</mark>!”


    He is pushing thirty-five yet possesses the curiosity of a pimply teenager. Every day, Pippin unearths some minor inconsistency between <mark>Firelands</mark>’ teachings and <mark>Martysh’s</mark> records, presenting them to me with the wide-eyed wonder of a child.


    But before he can share the earth-shattering discoveries of the day, his eyes land on the book that I’m reading, and his brow furrows. “Oh, you’re reading that piece of historical fiction?” he scoffs as if he’s just caught me enjoying a lovesick bard’s poetry.


    I look at him, genuinely surprised. “Fiction? It’s a history book.”


    “History written by victors, more like it! Convenient how it paints the sorcerers as the villains, the ones who started the whole damn war. Makes men look all noble and righteous, doesn’t it?”


    I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to point out that the book doesn’t explicitly blame sorcerers. It merely recounts the events and the horrors unleashed by <mark>Ahimans</mark>. Besides, <mark>Ahimans</mark> aren’t exactly shining jewels of <mark>Ahira</mark> society, are they? But before I can articulate my thoughts, he launches into a full-fledged tirade.


    “It talks of the crimes of the Faith as if those zealots were battling a plague instead of killing innocent children! A bigoted fool does what he believes is right, and suddenly, it’s all right to drown a child because he’s a sorcerer?! Makes an <mark>Ahiman</mark> look downright cuddly in comparison!”


    I can’t hold my tongue any longer. “Pippin, the author’s an <mark>Martyshman</mark>, remember? Not exactly known for their torch-wielding, sorcerer-hunting tendencies.”


    “Then why not give the Faith a good roasting? He makes them sound like a choir of angels, singing hymns while their dungeons echo with the screams of sorcerer children.”


    “It’s a history book, not a mournful ballad for personal vendettas,” I start, then sigh as he ignores me and cuts me off.


    “They have the gall to blame the <mark>Ahimans</mark> on us?! As if sorcerers just woke up one day and said, ‘You know what would be fun? Turning ourselves into demons with a penchant for world domination!’. The truth is, men were the ones who threw the first punch!”


    Pippin’s rant leaves me speechless. Here he is, a <mark>Firelander</mark> through and through, spouting heresy that would make even the most rebellious sorcerer blush.


    “Wait,” I finally manage to say, lowering my voice. “I get it; the book has a few blind spots, in your opinion. But are you seriously suggesting the <mark>Ahiman</mark> altering experiments were a good idea?”


    What Pippin is suggesting is practically sacrilege in the <mark>Firelands</mark>. Altering sorcery, which <mark>Ahiman</mark> used to turn large-sized animals into flesh-eating monsters with high intelligence, is widely denounced and strictly forbidden in <mark>Firelands</mark>. To make matters worse, <mark>Ahiman</mark> altered themselves, too. They used alteration magic to give themselves higher magical abilities and long lives. One <mark>Ahiman</mark> has stronger <mark>sorcerous</mark> powers than three <mark>Ahiras</mark>. And they can live for hundreds of years. No one knows how many of them are still alive since the great war, but it’s widely assumed that many live in hiding on the continent or still reside behind the <mark>Doozak</mark> mountains.


    Pippin shrugs nonchalantly. “They were facing slaughter, <mark>Arien</mark>. What choice did they have? You fight fire with fire, and sometimes, that means getting your hands dirty. The sorcerers were just trying to find a way to fight back, to carve out a place for themselves in a world that hated them!”


    I stare at him, genuinely baffled. Is he serious? Defending the <mark>Ahimans</mark>, the founders of the Great War, the demons who altered monsters and themselves with dark magic and nearly destroyed the continent? It’s like praising a wildfire for its warmth. Generations have been raised on tales of those monstrous abominations and power-hungry <mark>Ahimans</mark>, their names whispered with a shudder. But here is Pippin, defending their actions.


    “Pippin,” I say slowly, “are you suggesting that turning wild creatures into abominations was a reasonable response to discrimination against sorcerers?”


    He waves a dismissive hand. “Desperate times, desperate measures. Besides, look at us now, living our best lives in <mark>Firelands</mark> after our kind has suffered for millennia. It’s all thanks to Ahriman’s… sacrifice.” He winks as if we’re sharing a secret joke, but the humor falls flat. He wouldn’t dare voice such sentiments back in <mark>Firelands</mark>, not unless he fancied to be stripped of all his rings. Here, in the neutral ground of <mark>Martysh</mark>, perhaps he feels a strange sense of liberation. Or maybe, just maybe, he is wagering on us both being booted from the competition and the memory of this conversation swept clean.


    I open my mouth to retort, but he cuts me off with a chuckle. “Calm down, <mark>Arien</mark>. It’s just a thought experiment. Don’t go reporting me to the council, or I’ll be scrubbing cauldrons for the rest of my days.”


    Before I can respond, a voice like ice water cuts through the air. “Such thought experiments would earn you a swift boot out of the <mark>Firelands</mark> and all five of your precious rings with it.”


    Both Pippin and I whip our heads around like startled cats to find <mark>Eshavan</mark> looming over us with a disapproving glare. Pippin practically jumps out of his skin, his face turning a shade of red that would make a beet jealous. “W-wait, it’s not what it sounds like!” he stammers, “I wasn’t advocating for dark sorcery, just, you know, hypothetically exploring the complexities of morally gray decisions made under duress…”


    “They were evil decisions born based on evil intentions. No room for justifications there.” <mark>Eshavan</mark> deadpans.


    It looks like Pippin is deflating in front of my eyes as he squeaks out a series of apologies. Now, under normal circumstances, seeing a thirty-five-year-old alchemist turn into a nervous wreck in front of a twenty-five-year-old <mark>Ahira</mark> would be comedy gold. But the tension in the air is too thick for me to enjoy the moment.


    Pippin, the poor soul, has always been a bit of a quivering leaf around <mark>Eshavan</mark>, even back when <mark>Eshavan</mark> was just a four-ringed whelp, technically beneath him in the alchemy hall’s order.


    Imagine young me from a year and a half ago, fresh-faced and clueless, brewing potions in the Fire Temple’s alchemy hall. Pippin’s supposed to be overseeing me, but half the time, he had his nose stuck in some dusty scroll, muttering about salamander scales and beetle eggs. Suddenly, enters <mark>Eshavan</mark>, back from a three-year term as a Fire Eye - <mark>Fireland’s</mark> own intelligence order - starting to work under Pippin as an alchemist.


    Talk about a fall from grace! Everyone wondered how someone who was a Fire Eye, the most south-after role an <mark>Ahira</mark> can get after the Academy, suddenly scrubs cauldrons in the alchemy hall. The whispers said he’d been aiming for his fifth ring and needed a year of study away from the road. But something didn’t feel right. The golden boy of <mark>Firelands</mark>, suddenly slumming it with us lowly alchemists, brewing potions and trying not to blow himself?


    As strange as it was, it was also entertaining to watch Pippin, the man who should have been holding the whip, practically turning to goldfish every time <mark>Eshavan</mark> so much as glanced his way. Poor Pippin, he never stood a chance. It was like watching a mouse try to boss around a viper. Hilarious, really, if you weren’t the mouse.


    “Have you been skipping meals?” <mark>Eshavan</mark> asks me out of nowhere. His voice is as warm as a frozen fish. Now, this is a real <mark>head-scratcher</mark>. He hasn’t spoken a word to me the entire journey from the <mark>Firelands</mark>. What’s with suddenly playing the concerned caretaker?


    “Uh, yes,” I stammer, completely flustered. “Just grabbing food on the run.”


    He stares at me for a moment, long enough for my anxiety to build a small castle in my stomach. Just as I brace myself for another icy remark, he spins on his heel and walks away.


    “I can never get used to him,” Pippin mutters as <mark>Eshavan’s</mark> retreating figure disappears around a bookshelf. “Scared the living daylights out of me back then and still does.”


    “Why is he even here?” I hiss, the question tumbling out for what feels like the hundredth time.


    He shrugs, “Still no clue. He’s been playing the silent game since the first trial. All he’s said is we need to win the next one.”


    “Has he offered any hints about when you’re supposed to… lose?” I ask, trying to keep my voice low.


    “Nah, secretive as a crypt, that one.”


    A shared look of weary understanding passes between us. <mark>Eshavan</mark> and I had spent a full year working together in the Fire Temple’s alchemy hall before he got called back to <mark>Aramis</mark>. We talked whenever we had a joint task, but his commentary was always short and curt. We spent hours upon hours brewing potions in dead silence between us. I’d always assumed it was me, being a sorceress and <mark>Fireland</mark> customs frowning upon inter-gender fraternizing. But even Pippin, his superior, barely got a whisper out of the man.


    “Do you think… maybe he actually wants to win?” I venture.


    Pippin’s eyebrows reach for the heavens. “Win? Nine <mark>hells</mark>, no! That’s about as likely as <mark>Ahira</mark> Brutus reciting love poems. Why’d you think that?”


    “Well. He didn’t seem thrilled when two of our Fellowship got booted in the first round.”


    “Oh, that,” Pippin dismisses with a wave of his hand. “That was just him maintaining the front, you know? We can’t have <mark>Firelands</mark> looking like a lot of bumbling fools compared to those smug <mark>Izadeonians</mark> and <mark>Maravanians</mark> with their full crew still in the game.”


    Ah, yes, the ever-present <mark>Ahira</mark> arrogance, even in its bookish form that is Pippin.


    “But has he even hinted that he or you might, you know, lend a helping hand to ensure my victory?”


    Pippin’s face softens, a flicker of sympathy crossing his features. “I’m afraid not, <mark>Arien</mark>. He’s never been outright hostile towards you, mind you, never a harsh word or a snide remark like the others. But he hasn’t issued any orders to assist you either. Believe me, I wish I could help, but orders are orders. <mark>Eshavan’s</mark> our assigned leader, and I can’t just…” His voice trails off, and a pang of guilt is evident in his eyes.


    “I understand,” I say, mustering a weak smile. Deep down, I know Pippin is not lying. Cowardly, perhaps, but if it were him and me, I have no doubt he would bend the rules as far as he could without incurring the wrath of our stoic leader.


    Pippin scratches his beard thoughtfully and sighs. “Right then, I better leave you to your scrolls,” he mutters, rising from his chair. Then he pauses: “One last thing, <mark>Arien</mark>. Be wary of those <mark>Izadeonians</mark>.”


    My cheeks flush scarlet. “I haven’t the slightest association with them,”


    “Aye, well, I believe you. But sharing bread with them doesn’t scream ‘loyal <mark>Firelander</mark>’ now, does it? You know those zealots despise our kind – the Nine Sisters’ worship still runs strong in those backward provinces. Remember what happened to the last Advising <mark>Ahira</mark>?”


    He doesn’t need to elaborate. We all know the grim tale—thirteen years ago, the Advising <mark>Ahira</mark> to High Lord <mark>Demar</mark> <mark>Dartheon</mark>, <mark>Izadeon’s</mark> ruler, was found dead on the outskirts of <mark>Izadmond</mark>. The reason for his death was never revealed, but since then, <mark>Firelands</mark> has refused to fill the position, which is one of the most important in a High Lord’s inner circle of governance.


    “I’m not close with them,” I mumble, anxiety prickling my skin. “One of them just helps me with my swordsmanship, and then… well, I ended up sharing a meal with them.”


    Pippin’s lips purse. “Aye. But keep your distance, <mark>Arien</mark>. They’re likely just sniffing around you for scraps of information about the rest of us.”


    A wave of disappointment fills my gut. Even though I know Pippin is likely right, that shared meal and my daily training with <mark>Daryan</mark> feel like a warm ray of sunshine in my otherwise chilly existence. I force a nod with a heavy heart, and Pippin gives a curt one before disappearing down the hallway. Left alone, I try to focus on the book, but the familiar sting of loneliness settles in my heart like a stubborn stain.


    The thick tome drones on for pages about the war’s aftermath, vividly painting the grim reality of <mark>Izadeon</mark> as a never-ending, monster-infested land. It’s all doom and gloom: lurking beasts in the hills, surprise village raids under the cover of night, and a populace perpetually on edge, suspicious of an imminent attack from the neighboring <mark>Doozak</mark> Mountains. As I finally close the book, I can’t help but think about <mark>Daryan</mark>, <mark>Corbyn</mark>, and <mark>Bryn</mark>. Despite being a sorceress, they haven’t mistreated me. This makes me wonder if perhaps those eastern provinces had a valid point all those years ago. Were they truly the villains in this story, or were they simply victims of circumstance, forever scarred by the horrors of war?


    Just as I’m drowning in a sea of doubt about everything I’ve ever learned in <mark>Firelands</mark>, a shadow looms over me, and when I look up, I find the master of silent judgment and icy glares standing before me.