A flash of light pierces the gloom as a shimmering form materializes between <mark>Daryan’s</mark> wristband and mine. It dances in the air like a swirling wisp of light, slowly taking the shape of a small, molten-gold <mark>Seemorg</mark>.
The creature unfurls its shimmering wings and gracefully soars above our heads. The small golden phantom, no bigger than a sparrow, circles us in a mesmerizing dance of light and wings.
For a fleeting moment, the world around us melts away as we’re captivated by the enchanting dance of the golden phantom of the <mark>Seemorg</mark>. Then, with a final, graceful swoop, it darts away, leaving a trail of light in its wake.
<mark>Daryan</mark>, snapping out of his trance, grabs my hand and pulls me along. Pure instinct propels us forward as we sprint after the glowing <mark>Seemorg</mark>. Its path leads us down the grand staircase and into the depths of the keep.
As we race through the keep, I spot <mark>Samira</mark> and <mark>Olanna</mark>. They seem to have noticed what happened to us and immediately mirror our earlier actions. They clasp their arms tightly.
<mark>Daryan</mark> seems fueled by hot blood and a newfound sense of purpose as he drags me down the stairs towards the crypts. We clatter down the steps as the ancient stones echo with the frantic pounding of our boots. My lungs burn, my head spins, and all I can do is pray that my feet don’t twist and send us plummeting into the abyss.
The golden shimmer of the phantom dances on the rough walls of the crypt stairs, turning the shadows into a dizzying mirage. We reach the bottom and stumble into a long, dimly lit hallway. Flickering torches cast eerie shadows on the damp stone walls. As we descend deeper into the crypt’s depths, the air is cold and thick with the scent of mildew and forgotten secrets. The darkness feels oppressive, almost hungry to claim us.
Another sharp turn and the passageway opens up into a massive chamber. Towering pillars, carved from some ominous black stone, rise from the darkness like skeletal giants. In the center of the chamber, a massive stone pedestal is barely visible in the dim light. The <mark>Seemorg</mark>, like a fleeting streak of gold, arcs through the air before landing gracefully on the pedestal. There, it solidifies, transforming from a creature of pure light into two gleaming golden stones.
No need to guess if those shiny rocks are our golden ticket. We both feel it in our gut, a primal certainty that resonates deep in our bones, as deep as the chill emanating from the crypt’s walls. I surge forward, ignoring the burning in my lungs from our mad rush.
One step. That’s all it takes before something slams into me, sending me sprawling onto the cold, hard floor like a sack of potatoes. Pain explodes through my body, momentarily eclipsed by the crushing weight on top of me, followed by the sickening clatter of metal on stone. My vision swims, and my mind is a chaotic blur of shadows and pain until a voice, thick with worry, cuts through my haze.
“Gods, <mark>Arien</mark>, are you hurt?” <mark>Daryan</mark> pulls himself off me, revealing that he was the one responsible for my sudden crash landing. A stray arrow lies innocently beside the wall on our right. Color drains from my face as I glance to the left, toward the direction from which the arrow must have come.
“There’s no one there! Who…” My voice trails off.
“This place is enchanted. I didn’t see the arrow but heard it coming straight for your head. It was like it appeared out of thin air.”
I gasp, and the realization of my near-death experience sends shivers down my spine.
“Stay low,” <mark>Daryan</mark> mutters, rising cautiously onto his knees. He draws his sword in a smooth, fluid motion. The polished metal glints ominously in the flickering torchlight as silence, thick and unsettling, follows his movement. Slowly, he rises to his full height.
I hold my breath, half expecting another unanticipated arrow to target him. But nothing happens. <mark>Daryan</mark> cautiously advances his sword as if challenging the unseen assailant to a duel. Still, nothing. But when he takes a single, hesitant step toward the pedestal, a whistling sound pierces the silence.
Another arrow, this time from our right, hurtles toward him with deadly accuracy. <mark>Daryan</mark>, with lightning reflexes, spins and deflects the projectile with a resounding clang, mere inches from his back.
“Stay put, <mark>Arien</mark>. It only attacks when we move towards the pedestal,” he mutters, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. “I’ll move; you stay here and keep an eye out.”
“But what if it attacks from all sides? That last arrow nearly took your head off! I can help.”
<mark>Daryan</mark> hesitates for a moment, considering my words. He knows I’m no helpless damsel, and we’re in this together. Finally, he nods. “Draw your blade,”
Rising to my feet, I unsheathe my sword. The cold metal is a reassuring weight in my hand as <mark>Daryan</mark> positions us back-to-back. Then, he draws a long dagger from his belt while his gaze sweeps the chamber for any hint of danger. The air crackles with tension, and the only sound is the soft rasp of our breaths and the distant dripping of water from the crypt’s ceiling.
“We’ll take this one step at a time,” he instructs.
He’s a two-weapon warrior now, a sword in one hand, a dagger in the other, ready to dance with the invisible archer. “You watch our back. I’ll handle the rest.”
I want to argue, to insist on a fairer division of labor. But I remember that I’m a slouch with a blade, and his confidence screams of years of training and a natural talent that I can only dream of. So, I swallow my pride, acknowledging the cold, hard truth: he’s the better swordsman, and right now, we need his skills more than my stubbornness.
And we embark on our death march. The moment his foot touches the ground, a hiss slices through the air. I don’t see the arrow, but the sharp clang of metal on metal tells me everything I need to know. <mark>Daryan</mark> has deflected the invisible projectile with the ease of a seasoned warrior.
Another step. This time, the arrow materializes from behind, aimed squarely at my unsuspecting chest. Panic floods my veins, but my body reacts on instinct. My sword, a trembling extension of my will, barely intercepts the arrow, altering its course but not its momentum, and it careens off the wall.
“Good back there?” <mark>Daryan’s</mark> voice pulls me back from the brink of terror.
“Yes,” I croak, trying to catch my breath. “That was a close one. I’ll react faster next time, I promise.”
“You will,” he replies with a confidence that seems almost reckless. It’s strange, this sudden belief he has in me, a stranger he barely knows. But I’ll take it, clinging to his confidence like a life raft in a stormy sea.
We inch forward, another step into the unknown. Two more arrows whistle through the air, one from each side. <mark>Daryan</mark>, a blur of steel and reflexes, deflects them both with a grunt.
Each step feels like we’re tempting fate, dancing on the edge of a knife. The arrows keep coming, a relentless onslaught that forces us into a desperate dance of defense. As we get closer to the pedestal, the attacks grow fiercer and more complex. When three arrows fly at us, <mark>Daryan</mark> blocks two, and I manage one.
Before we take another step, I manage to gasp out, “What if they come from both your sides and the front? How will you block three?”
“I can handle two with one blade,” he declares with a steady voice. “You focus on protecting our backs. I’ll take care of the rest.”
There’s an uncompromising strength in his voice, the confidence of a warrior who knows his limits and his capabilities. And just as I predicted, three arrows sizzle past me, and I hear the clang of metal on metal as he deflects them all.
“Damn, that was a close shave,” he chuckles, a hint of excitement lacing his voice. This deadly game seems to have awakened something primal in him.
Me? I’m shaking like a leaf in a storm, terrified he can feel my fear through our touching backs. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice. We press on, and our perilous journey is a series of heart-stopping close calls. Another step, and it’s a triple threat: arrows raining down from left, front, and behind. We both manage to deflect them. Another step, and it’s a symphony of whistling death from right, left, and behind. <mark>Daryan</mark> somehow blocks two arrows with a single sword swing.
“How are you even doing that?”
“Timing and reflexes, my friend,” he replies with a cocky voice. “Maybe three more steps to go,” he adds as if sensing my impending panic attack. But the heavens have other plans. The next two steps unleash a four-pronged attack, arrows flying at us from every direction as I block the one from behind, and <mark>Daryan</mark> deflects the other three. This is getting barbaric!
“One more,” he rasps, but his voice is barely audible over the pounding of my heart.
We take that final step, and all the nine <mark>hells</mark> break loose. Countless arrows fly toward us like angry wasps, a chaotic flurry of deadly projectiles. I freeze, certain that this is the end. But then, a strong arm yanks me down, and <mark>Daryan</mark>, in a move straight out of a hero’s chronicles, tackles me to the ground, shielding me with his body.
A symphony of metal clashes erupts above us, where our heads were only a moment ago. The chamber itself seems to shudder under the onslaught, the echoes bouncing off the walls like a chorus of doom. I hear the clatter of arrowheads raining down on the stone floor and <mark>Daryan’s</mark> back as his body protects me from the deadly hail. And then… silence!
“Are you alright?” I gasp, my voice choked with fear. Did those arrows pierce his back? Is he alive? He remains motionless for a few heart-stopping moments, and then, with a groan, he pushes himself off me and slowly rises to his feet.
“Are you hurt?” I repeat, still sprawled on the cold stone.
“Fine,” he grumbles, wincing as he shifts. “Stay down.”
<mark>Daryan’s</mark> tunic looks torn, and hints of red blood begin to spoil the fabric. But none of that stops him from gingerly reaching for the glowing stones as he scans the room like a hawk, ready to dodge any surprise attacks. He pockets the stones, and when he is satisfied that no arrow is coming, he offers me a hand up.
Taking a shaky breath, I grab his hand, and he effortlessly pulls me to my feet. We stand back-to-back, a two-person army again, facing the unknown. Slowly, cautiously, we retreat, our eyes darting around, searching for any sign of danger. But this time, no arrows come our way. Finally, we reach the chamber’s edge and relief floods inside me like a cool wave. <mark>Daryan</mark>, not wasting a second, grabs my hand again, and we sprint out of the crypt, leaving the darkness and its secrets behind.
Up the stairs, we fly and burst through the keep’s doors. The cool night air hits us like a refreshing splash of water, and we tear across the courtyard. Our destination, the long table, is in sight. <mark>Ashavan</mark> and <mark>Maleed</mark> stand beside it, their own golden stones already gleaming in the moonlight. We made it, but we weren’t the first.
Fury boils in me at the memory of their betrayal. I yearn to surge forward, to claim the second-place prize that dangles tantalizingly within reach. But <mark>Daryan</mark> suddenly intervenes with his hand firmly on my arm.
“Hold on, <mark>Arien</mark>. I have to warn the others first.” With a swiftness that belied his injuries, he delved beneath his tunic, producing a small, unassuming white seashell dangling from a weathered cord. Three sharp blasts echo through the courtyard, a jarring cacophony that pierces the night’s silence. My ears ring with the unexpected assault coming from an object that small.
“I’ll be back soon,” <mark>Daryan</mark> promises as his gaze sweeps the courtyard.
My heart aches for that table. It’s only a few steps away, the embodiment of second place and the glory of victory. <mark>Daryan</mark>, poised to run away, must have noticed my desperate glance at the long table. He hesitates. When he speaks, his voice is thick. “I’m sorry, <mark>Arien</mark>, but I have to…”Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
As much as my fingers itch to place those stones on the table, I know <mark>Daryan’s</mark> loyalty to his fellowship outweighs my personal ambition. With a heavy heart, I nod and watch him run toward the library, leaving me alone with my turbulent thoughts.
Just as his silhouette merges with the night, the two <mark>Jamshedian</mark> women, <mark>Samira</mark> and <mark>Olanna</mark>, emerge from the kitchens. My stomach plummets as I behold the sight that shatters my hopes: <mark>Samira</mark> is clutching two gleaming gold stones.
As they run toward the table, with a practiced flick of her wrist, <mark>Olanna</mark> unleashes a unique whistle. It’s a series of low, melodic chirps reverberating through the courtyard, like a language of its own. With an unbroken sprint, she races towards the table, her companion at her side. With a flourish, they deposit their stones, securing their second place in the trial.
After this point, I know they are not allowed to engage with others. I strain my ears, wondering if those low, piercing notes will reach the far end of the keep. A faint echo answers my question - a chorus of chirps erupts as the closest group relays the message to the ones further away. Clever girls. They used discreet sounds as a secret language, spreading the word without slowing down or drawing unwanted attention.
I spot <mark>Daryan</mark> huddled with <mark>Bryn</mark> and <mark>Corbyn</mark> in front of the library, the first pair of <mark>Izadeonians</mark> who have answered his call. They quickly merge their hands, and another shimmering <mark>Seemorg</mark> joins the revelry. My heart sinks as <mark>Kermandian</mark> and <mark>Eyrian</mark> pairs emerge from different buildings, drawn by the commotion. One by one, they follow suit, summoning their own magical creatures. We’ve inadvertently turned this trial into a guide for the competition.
<mark>Daryan</mark> then runs toward the end of the ward and waits for the rest of his fellowship. I watch Pippin and <mark>Kameel</mark> sprint past him, heading straight for the table. Three groups now stand before us. Anxiety gnaws at me. We still have time, but <mark>Daryan</mark> needs to hustle if we want a decent ranking. Pippin shoots me a curious look as <mark>Kameel</mark> deposits their stones and then hurries back to <mark>Ashavan</mark> like a loyal pup. And to my despair, <mark>Alizan</mark> and <mark>Elranz’s</mark> body emerges at the gate toward the southern wall, sprinting toward the table.
I hope <mark>Ashavan</mark> is finally happy and that his wounded ego from the elimination of two <mark>Ahiras</mark> in the first round is now mended. All the <mark>Firelanders</mark> are victorious and claim ranks on the <mark>leaderboard</mark>. All but me. But who’s counting the lowly sorceress, right?
This is not fair. The <mark>Jamshedians</mark> only knew about the secret because of us, and now they claim the second place while I am still waiting here with my pair far away. Of all the rotten, stinking luck! Just when I think things can’t get any worse, the gods decide to drop a giant, steaming pile of “nah” right on my head. Out of the servant’s quarters come thundering <mark>Morteez</mark> and his equally dimwitted southern <mark>Myran</mark> mate, looking like they’re about to charge into battle. And where are they headed? The table, of course!
Did that overgrown lump of muscle actually solve the puzzle? That seems impossible! That man’s brain is smaller than a pea.
<mark>Daryan</mark> is now huddled with two more <mark>Izadonians</mark>, but instead of forming their own bond and summoning the <mark>Seemorg’s</mark> phantom, they split off, sprinting back towards the western ward, presumably to inform the others first. Then, he dashes towards the table. I join his sprint. He reaches the table just ahead of me, collapsing onto it with a ragged breath as he slams down our stones.
Relief floods me in a hot wave. We haven’t achieved the glory of second place, but at least we haven’t been completely shut out. We’re the fifth group to finish, adding four to our score on the <mark>leaderboard</mark>.
I’m doubled over, breathing deeply to ease my nerves, when a shadow falls over me. Looking up, I meet <mark>Daryan’s</mark> gaze. His expression is stern, but I catch a flicker of something in his eyes. Guilt? Worry?
I can’t deny the sting of disappointment. We could have been second, but his loyalty cost us that victory. But, deep down, I understand. This is a man of duty, through and through. Maybe he chose me out of convenience; maybe it was a sense of obligation, but perhaps it was a loyalty we’d forged through our daily sparring sessions. Whatever the reason, the same instinct that led him to choose me also compelled him to prioritize his friends. They wouldn’t be among the first nine, but at least they wouldn’t be completely eliminated from the trials.
Loyalty. It’s a concept I’ve never truly grasped. From my parents to my mentor and my fellow <mark>Ahiras</mark>, it’s a gift I’ve never been given. But tonight, I saw its true essence in <mark>Daryan’s</mark> actions. And for that, I can’t fault him.
A weak smile tugs at my lips. “We made it. That’s all that matters.”
The tension in his shoulders eases, and relief banishes the guilt from his face. He opens his mouth, then closes it, a simple nod replacing whatever words he’d intended to say. A genuine smile touches his eyes, and warmth floods inside me from this strange moment of understanding with a stranger.
“Well, well, well,” <mark>Maleed</mark> drawls, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Look at you two, practically glowing with… incompetence? Not only did you miss out on a decent ranking, but you also revealed the whole ‘<mark>Seemorg</mark> secret’ to the entire courtyard. Congratulations on creating more competition for yourselves in the next round.”
The warmth I felt moments ago evaporates, replaced by a cold hatred. I look at <mark>Maleed</mark> and <mark>Kameel</mark> standing close to us with a disgusting smirk on their lips. <mark>Ashavan</mark> is standing far away, talking to <mark>Alizan</mark> and <mark>Elranz</mark> as if they are informing him of a secret mission.
<mark>Daryan</mark>, however, bristles, “Shouldn’t you be thanking us? What if only a handful had made it through? You’d be stuck with the measly title of <mark>Artyshyar</mark> instead of your beloved ‘<mark>Ahira</mark>.’”
<mark>Maleed</mark> scoffs. “Don’t strain yourself worrying about us. Unlike some, we ensured just enough people survived to keep the competition interesting.”
My jaw drops. How? Did they have some secret communication method like the <mark>Jamshedians</mark>? As if on cue, two <mark>Aramisis</mark> women come sprinting towards the table.
“Looks like your loyal lapdogs spread the word,” <mark>Daryan</mark> quips, nodding towards Pippin and <mark>Kameel</mark>.
Suddenly, it all falls into place in my mind. <mark>Ashavan</mark> must have reasoned the secret early on. He likely instructed the rest of the <mark>Ahiras</mark> to find the <mark>Aramisis</mark> and <mark>Myrans</mark> and spill the beans before summoning their own golden phantom. I’ve been ignored once again!
“Yes, we <mark>strategize</mark> before we run around like headless chickens. That’s what separates <mark>Ahiras</mark> from men. Pure, unadulterated brilliance.”
<mark>Daryan</mark> smirks, “What truly sets you apart is your ego the size of an ax and your loyalty thinner than a priest’s piety. It seems you’ve overlooked your most valuable asset.” He nods towards me with a smirk. “Though, I suppose ignorance is bliss for certain… intellectually challenged individuals.”
<mark>Maleed’s</mark> face goes from smug satisfaction to a thundercloud of fury in a heartbeat. The poor fellow practically vibrates with indignation. He can’t handle the notion of me, a mere sorceress, being called an “asset,” let alone a superior one to him and his pompous, five-ringed fellows. His ego is so boosted that it’s a wonder he doesn’t just float away like an inflated pig bladder!
“Asset? She shouldn’t even be here!” <mark>Maleed</mark> sputters.
A surge of fury courses through me, hot and fierce. I want to unleash a torrent of words on him, to remind him that <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emmeline</mark> himself acknowledged my potential. Who is he to question his judgment? But years of ingrained deference to my seniors keep my tongue in check. A familiar sigh escapes my lips, a weary echo of countless unspoken grievances. It’s a sigh that has borne witness to the countless insults hurled my way, the countless times my mentor, <mark>Ahira</mark> Brutus, has dismissed my existence and achievements, and the numerous times my fellow alchemists have relegated me to the sidelines as if my presence were a mere inconvenience.
“And why shouldn’t she be here?” a voice booms, shattering the tense air. <mark>Bryn</mark>, a towering figure with a scowl that could rival a dragon’s breath, emerges from the side. Beside him, <mark>Corbyn</mark> places their stones on the table. Did they sprint back here at lightning speed? It seems like only moments ago, they summoned their <mark>Seemorg</mark>.
Lost in my simmering anger towards the <mark>Ahiras</mark>, I hadn’t even noticed the arrival of two more <mark>Aramis</mark> contestants before them.
<mark>Kameel</mark> remains silent, regarding <mark>Bryn</mark> with a dismissive sneer.
“Lost your voice? Your mouth was running a league a minute ago.” <mark>Bryn’s</mark> voice drips with sarcasm.
“How dare you address an <mark>Ahira</mark> with such disrespect!” <mark>Kameel</mark> snarls.
<mark>Bryn</mark> merely smirks. “Sorry for disappointing your inflated ego, little man. In our far-flung corner of the continent, <mark>Ahiras</mark> aren’t quite the deities they are in the West.”
“Oh, we’re well aware of your <mark>Izadeoan</mark> bigotry,” <mark>Maleed</mark> drawls. A hint of fury simmers beneath his forced composure. “No need to hail your backward ways from the rooftops.”
<mark>Kameel</mark> snorts. “Exactly! That’s why your <mark>godsforsaken</mark> province is nothing but a barbarian wasteland.”
<mark>Corbyn</mark>, silent until now, interjects, “Obnoxiousness, not Faith, is what keeps decent folks away from your lot in <mark>Izadeon</mark>.”
Even though he delivers the words with a calm grace, the barb hits its mark, judging by the way <mark>Maleed’s</mark> face turns a deeper shade of red. “That’s why it’s a run-down province that only barbarians live in instead of civilized people.”
Unfazed by the insult, <mark>Daryan</mark> retorts, “Have you ever even set foot in <mark>Izadeon</mark>, or are your opinions courtesy of your arrogant <mark>Aramis</mark> friends?”
<mark>Bryn</mark>, like a predator toying with his prey, crosses his arms. “There’s no need for you to try. You won’t be seeing its ‘desolation’ any time soon—unless, of course, you fancy a taste of <mark>Izadeon</mark> steel wielded by men far worthier than you.”
“You wouldn’t last a moment against even a three-ringed <mark>Ahira</mark>,” <mark>Kameel</mark> scoffs.
<mark>Bryn</mark> throws his head back and laughs heartily. “Perhaps when you’re booted out of this competition and I’m crowned <mark>Artyshyar</mark>, we can put that view to the test, eh?”
<mark>Corbyn</mark>, seemingly unbothered by the escalating tension, tugs on <mark>Bryn’s</mark> arm. “Don’t waste your breath on them. Look at how they treat their own,”
<mark>Kameel</mark>, unable to resist a parting shot, locks eyes with me. “Our kind? You mean her?”
My voice, barely a squeak compared to the booming insults flying around, cuts through the tense silence. “What exactly makes me so unworthy of being your ‘kind’? I came here with <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emmeline’s</mark> blessing, yet you all treat me like a <mark>throne-stealer</mark>!”
The words tumble out before I can stop them. A lifetime of ingrained respect for superiors has apparently been defeated by this burgeoning sense of injustice.
I don’t show it, but deep down, I’m mortified. Talking back to my seniors? Unthinkable! My body screams at me to grovel, to apologize profusely. But for the first time in my life, I shove those instincts aside. The urge to back down is a physical ache, but I endure it with a straight face. <mark>Daryan</mark> stands beside me, and his presence is like that of a silent anchor. And there are <mark>Bryn</mark> and <mark>Corbyn</mark>, too, these strangers, defending me against my own kind. Even though I’d only known them for a handful of days. I have never experienced something like this before. And their support is giving me a newfound courage.
Silence descends like an anvil. <mark>Kameel</mark> and <mark>Maleed</mark> gawk at me as if I’d suddenly have sprouted horns and a tail. <mark>Maleed</mark>, sputtering like a fish out of water, can’t even form a coherent sentence. Even Pippin, who earlier seemed uncomfortable with the <mark>Ahiras</mark>’ attitude, looks taken aback.
“Just you wait,” <mark>Maleed</mark> hisses, his voice laced with barely concealed threats. “When we’re back in <mark>Firelands</mark>, you’ll regret this insolence.”
“Oh, will I?” I shoot back. “We’ll all forget this little spat the moment we’re out of these trials, won’t we?”
<mark>Daryan</mark> chuckles, and <mark>Maleed’s</mark> face turns a shade of red that could rival a volcanic eruption. The poor guy looks ready to explode, his hand twitching with the urge to unleash a curse on me. But, alas, the trials forbid any use of sorcery, and even outside the trials, harming a fellow contender is not allowed. Defeated, he <mark>gritts</mark> his teeth and lowers his hand.
“Wise choice, lad,” <mark>Daryan</mark> rumbles, but a hint of menace is loud in his voice. It is a playful taunt, but beneath it, I sense a surprising protectiveness directed towards me.
<mark>Maleed</mark>, finally regaining his composure, ignores <mark>Daryan</mark> and addresses me directly. “<mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emmeline</mark> is an honorable leader. Duty compels him to respect the wishes of those who earned their rings first. But even he shouldn’t have granted such a foolish request. A wish that tarnishes the <mark>Firelands</mark>’ reputation is a wish best left unfulfilled.”
“You shouldn’t have pressured him like that,” <mark>Kameel</mark> adds. “You should have known your place, girl. Asking to be here when you’re unfit for it is a disgrace. Seeking permission to win? Bah! We don’t send four-ringed novices to embarrass the rest of us with their lack of skill. Let alone a…” He trails off, unable to utter the word “sorceress.”
<mark>Daryan</mark> interrupts. “And yet, this very sorceress bested you in the last trial and nearly outpaced you in this one.”
<mark>Maleed</mark>, ignoring <mark>Daryan’s</mark> challenge, glares at me. “You are a disgrace. Not only do you forget your place, but you conspire with lesser beings— even worse, <mark>Izadeonian</mark> scum! And have you forgotten your lessons on modesty? A true <mark>Ahira</mark> doesn’t throw herself at men!”
I clench my fists, anger coursing through me. But before I can react, <mark>Bryn</mark> snarls and takes a menacing step forward. “Throw herself at men?”
<mark>Daryan</mark> and <mark>Corbyn</mark> mirror his movement. The three of them, a united front, are ready to unleash their fury, rules be damned.
“Enough!” A thick voice booms across the courtyard, silencing everyone. I don’t know when <mark>Ashavan</mark> approached our quarrel and how much of it he had heard. But he looks furious, and his voice drips with a terrifying threat.
I flinch, expecting his anger to be directed at the <mark>Izadeonians</mark>. However, to my surprise, his glare is a frozen spear pointed straight at <mark>Maleed</mark>, who looks utterly mortified.
<mark>Maleed</mark>, shriveled under <mark>Ashavan’s</mark> gaze, mumbles, “But, she…”
“Shut your mouth,” <mark>Ashavan</mark> growls and the raw threat in his voice chills me to the bone. It is not merely anger; it is a promise of punishment so swift and brutal that it would make a seasoned butcher flinch. <mark>Maleed</mark>, under <mark>Ashavan’s</mark> withering gaze, falls silent.
At that moment, <mark>Daryan</mark> gestures to <mark>Bryn</mark>, <mark>Corbyn</mark>, and then me, inviting us to follow. “Let’s leave. These scums don’t worth our breath.”
It feels as though, in that chaotic instant, I have become one of them. I look toward the <mark>Ahiras</mark>, my mind battling between two worlds. The <mark>Ahiras</mark>, with their suffocating arrogance, are familiar. It is what I’ve always known and accepted as normal. On the other hand, the untamed might of the <mark>Izadeonians</mark>, as strange and unfamiliar as it is, crackles with a thrilling sense of possibilities.
With a surprising clarity, I meet <mark>Daryan’s</mark> gaze and resolutely nod. The die is cast! I turn my back on the frowning <mark>Firelanders</mark>, their disapproval fading into a whisper. My heart pounds with the fierce thrill of rebellion as I follow the <mark>Izadeonians</mark>. They might not be my people, but at this moment, they are the only ones who have offered me acceptance and a chance to forge my own path. And for the first time in my life, I am ready to seize it.