《The Ninth Element》


 Chapter One

    ¡°By order of the most esteemed council of <mark>Firelands</mark>, your presence is requested!¡± <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Mansen</mark> declares dramatically as he gestures towards the imposing door of the <mark>Firelands</mark>¡¯ council chamber with such a flourish that one might think he is summoning forth a three-headed dog, not a young sorceress, to a gathering of ancient sorcerers.


    Time to remember how to breathe!


    In, out, in, out¡­


    I feel like I¡¯m about to be examined on the intricacies of siege weaponry, but realizing that the only lesson I¡¯ve prepared for involves lutes and songs about rainbows. To put it simply, I find myself ill-prepared. This audience, this moment, I¡¯ve both dreamed of and dreaded it for years. And finally, here I am, ready to face the <mark>Firelands</mark>¡¯ council to reveal my grand life plan. It is a rare chance for someone of my lowly status, and the gravity of the moment hit me like a falling anvil. Lips pressed together in a silent plea for composure, I battle the urge to bolt.


    Deep breaths, <mark>Arien</mark>. You got this¡­ Probably¡­ Maybe¡­


    I open the massive oaken door and enter a round, gleaming white room that serves as the sacred meeting place where some of the continent¡¯s most powerful leaders, <mark>Firelands</mark>¡¯ council, gather to deliberate matters of state and destiny.


    Being a young, low-level sorceress with the social standing of a dung beetle, it¡¯s my first time stepping into this chamber. I¡¯m only here because I earned my fourth ring of sorcery nine days ago, the first among my age group, which granted me the honor of attending the council meeting with a promise of a wish granted. Immediately, the room¡¯s grandeur engulfs me, but instead of soothing my nerves, it intensifies my growing unease, sending my heart into a furious sprint.


    I have to squint my eyes against the blinding whiteness of the chamber, which is surrounded by massive windows. The chamber feels ethereal, almost otherworldly. It feels like no shadows can linger here. The walls themselves are sleek and flawless, made from a unique, radiant stone that seems to shine with its own inner glow.


    The floor is a mosaic of white marble tiles arranged in concentric half-circles that lead to a majestic half-circle table carved from the finest white marble. Each council member¡¯s seat is a throne of its own, carved directly from the marble where the nine members of the <mark>Firelands</mark>¡¯ council sit, all clad in white¡ªthe color of nine-ringed <mark>Ahiras</mark>. The only splash of color in this white scene is a grand tapestry depicting the founding of <mark>Firelands</mark> on the wall behind the council members.


    Positioned at the central seat of the table, <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emenshah</mark>, the head of <mark>Firelands</mark>¡¯ council, wears a genial smile. His snowy beard and hair frame a pair of twinkling blue eyes, wise as an owl and twice as cheerful. I have never seen him without his signature calm smile, which is as rare in <mark>Firelands</mark> as a sunny day in <mark>Eyria</mark>. We <mark>Ahiras</mark> aren¡¯t precisely known for our sunny dispositions; we prefer to save our facial muscles for scowling at those we deem unworthy.


    Speaking of lesser beings, the other eight council members are giving me the stink-eye. They are lined up like grumpy pigeons on a <mark>fencepost</mark> along the curved table, four on each side of <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emenshah</mark>. Hard to say what¡¯s got their feathers ruffled more: the fact that none of them had a clue about me until nine days ago, or that the youngest <mark>Ahira</mark> to earn a fourth ring since <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emenshah</mark> himself is a nobody orphan and ¨C gasp! ¨C a girl. The horror!


    ¡°<mark>Arien</mark>,¡± <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emenshah</mark> greets me as if we¡¯re old chums sharing an ale. As if this isn¡¯t the first time he has ever uttered my name. ¡°It feels like just yesterday you arrived at <mark>Firelands</mark> as a young, uneducated pupil. Many doubted your ability even to complete the first year, let alone the entire nine years of training, and earn your three rings of sorcery. And yet, here you stand before us, the first <mark>Ahira</mark> of your age to achieve a fourth ring, a mere two winters after finishing the Academy.¡±A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    I¡¯m surprised he even knows me, let alone remembering a scrawny kid who arrived here eleven years ago. Unlike the other high-ranking <mark>Ahiras</mark>, there¡¯s a hint of warmth, perhaps even admiration, in his voice. He¡¯s never spoken to me directly, but I¡¯ve always sensed a kindness about him, far from the icy demeanor of other senior <mark>Ahiras</mark>. He doesn¡¯t seem bothered that a young sorceress has achieved the same glory as him to earn the fourth ring of sorcery at the ripe old age of only twenty.


    ¡°It is an honor to be in the council¡¯s presence,¡± I declare dramatically, bowing my head so low that I almost trip over my own feet. I might as well butter them up before dropping the shocking news. ¡°Indeed, when I arrived here eleven years ago, I was naive and uneducated. <mark>Firelands</mark> gave me a home, safety, and an education, allowing me to stand here today.¡±


    There¡¯s a kernel of truth to my gratitude. <mark>Firelands</mark> offered me sanctuary and education, especially compared to the precarious existence I knew before. While the isolation and strict rules weren¡¯t exactly thrilling, at least I didn¡¯t have to fight rats for crumbs under the stairs as I did back in <mark>Myrielfort</mark>, where I grew up.


    ¡°Your remarkable achievements speak to your natural talent and tireless work ethic. Although you came to the Fire Temple Academy without the advantage of early training that many others had, you never gave up. In <mark>Firelands</mark>, merit, not lineage, distinguishes <mark>Ahiras</mark>, and you exemplify this truth.¡±


    I am experiencing a blend of conflicting emotions at the same time. Part of me appreciates the crusty compliment and the nod to all the sweat and burnt fingertips I¡¯ve sacrificed. The other, more cynical part wants to roll my eyes so hard they¡¯d escape my skull and find better work elsewhere.


    In <mark>Firelands</mark>, one¡¯s magical ability is supposed to be the only factor determining rank, making lineage seem unimportant. Yet, those born into nobility enjoy a significant advantage, with resources and opportunities that far surpass what commoners like me can access. They have specialized tutors and access to rare <mark>sorcerous</mark> artifacts, allowing them to hone their skills while the rest of us are left to struggle for scraps.


    However, arguing with the council is a losing proposition. So I do what any sane person would do in this situation ¨C I bob my head like an extremely enthusiastic pigeon and mumble something about being honored.


    ¡°<mark>Arien</mark>, you now have the opportunity to request a reward for your diligent efforts. I¡¯m sure you are aware of all the options available to you. Knowing your talent and wit, I trust that you have carefully considered them and have chosen the best course for you. Rest assured that it will be granted. Tell us, child, what do you wish from us?¡±


    Despite practicing my little speech a thousand times, my heart thunders. I take a few deep breaths, trying to steady my breathing and avoid squeezing myself into the floor.


    Because that¡¯s all that matters here. Strength, composure, and stoicism are the pillars of <mark>Firelands</mark>¡¯ society. From the moment we arrive here at the tender age of nine, we are molded into unbreakable sorcerers, trained to conceal any vulnerability. In our world, where sorcerers are a minority, emotions are a liability we cannot afford. Kindness and compassion are often seen as weaknesses, and we are taught to suppress them lest we become targets in a world that fears our power.


    <mark>Firelands</mark> is the smallest province on the <mark>Asyrion</mark> continent, inhabited and governed solely by sorcerers. We call ourselves <mark>Ahiras</mark>. Despite being at peace with the other eight provinces that form the Union, populated by non-sorcerers, we are vastly outnumbered, with thousands of men for every sorcerer.


    Children across the continent who manifest <mark>sorcerous</mark> abilities, typically between the ages of three and eight, are sent to <mark>Firelands</mark> upon reaching nine years of age. This marks the beginning of nine years of training at Fire Temple Academy, where we strive to earn a sorcery ring every three years by passing rigorous examinations. Upon reaching eighteen, those who have successfully earned all three rings complete their formal training. Subsequently, the council determines our future path and how we will serve <mark>Firelands</mark>.


    For sorceresses, our options are, well, limited. Sorcery is rare in boys, as one in a thousand children is born as a sorcerer. Girls? Even rarer. Much, much rarer. There are hundreds of sorcerers for one sorceress. So, after nine glorious years of schooling, guess where they stuck me? Back in the Fire Temple, a place I¡¯d already spent nine years as a trainee, to toil away in the alchemy hall, probably by <mark>Ahira</mark> Brutus¡¯ recommendation, the grumpy old coot who is my mentor.


    The silence stretches for a long moment, and I can feel the heavy gaze of the councilmen on me. I take a final deep inhale and open my mouth.


    ¡°I wish to be the <mark>Firelands</mark>¡¯ prospect to join <mark>Martysh</mark>.¡±

 Chapter Two

    The room falls into a stunned silence. If I weren¡¯t about to combust from anxiety, I would find the sight of these stoic sorcerers losing their composure laughable. Honestly, a flock of ancient sorcerers collectively experiencing an emotional meltdown? It¡¯s almost enough to make me giggle if my heart weren¡¯t trying to escape my chest.


    <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Sunar</mark>, the second senior councilman sitting beside <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emenshah</mark>, looks like he¡¯s about to say something profound: mouth opens, mouth closes, but his words are nowhere to be found. The man always reminds me of a giant frog with bulging eyes and an intense stare. Now, it¡¯s as if he¡¯s on the verge of croaking out some sage reprimand, but the sheer absurdity of my request has left him speechless. He¡¯s trying hard to keep it together, but that pulsating vein on his forehead is a dead giveaway. Any second now, I half expect a long, slimy tongue to shoot out and snag me like an annoying fly.


    Meanwhile, <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emenshah</mark> remains the lone island of calm in this sea of sputtering outrage, though a flicker of concern briefly shadows his usual serene expression.


    ¡°You want <mark>Firelands</mark>¡¯ support to join <mark>Martysh</mark>.¡± It¡¯s not a question, just a statement, as if he¡¯s trying to break the awkward spell that¡¯s taken over the room.


    ¡°I do,¡± I reply.


    ¡°You are aware of the implications?¡±


    ¡°I am,¡±


    <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Sunar</mark> <mark>snarles</mark>, ¡°Your allegiance to <mark>Firelands</mark> will be relinquished. You are required to declare your loyalty to the Union.¡± He seems to have finally found his voice, ensuring that I fully comprehend the implications of my choice, just in case I missed the notice on my own life-changing decision.


    ¡°I am aware,¡± I say with the gravitas of someone making a truly monumental sacrifice. ¡°It was a difficult decision for that precise reason. But I have thought about it long and hard and made this difficult choice.¡±


    I am trying to sound as genuine as possible. But of course, I¡¯m lying through my teeth. Truthfully, it has always been an easy choice. This has been my dream since I was eleven, wandering the empty halls of Fire Temple Academy during one of those lonely winter breaks when all pupils were with their families. Year after year, I spent those solitary days plotting my escape, and this was the only way out.


    ¡°<mark>Martysh</mark> is no place for a sorceress. Our traditions and customs have long dictated that females are best suited for other roles in the service of <mark>Firelands</mark>. <mark>Martysh</mark> requires a level of physical and mental toughness better suited to others.¡± <mark>Ahira</mark> Frankel deadpans. Late in his sixth decade of life, he is the youngest member of the council, earning his ninth ring only one year ago.


    A raspy voice, drier than a week-old bread, crackles from the corner. ¡°Do you forget your place? You¡¯re barely a four-ringed <mark>Ahira</mark> and only just achieved that rank! We traditionally send only five-ringed sorcerers to <mark>Martysh</mark> trials. We wouldn¡¯t want anyone thinking poorly of <mark>Firelands</mark>¡¯ superior skills, even if we only intend to participate and not win.¡± <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Mahand</mark>, older than time itself and looking suspiciously like a well-worn rug come to life, wheezes. His beard, a tangled white forest, holds his face hostage. Every word that escapes his lips sounds like a rusty hinge protesting his existence. It is a marvel he can even speak, let alone form coherent sentences that drip with such disdain.


    ¡°I understand this is an unconventional request, but I have spent many years preparing for this moment. My talents and skills lie not in alchemy or bookkeeping but in the art of combat and strategy. I have trained relentlessly, honing my abilities to perfection. I believe I can serve <mark>Firelands</mark> best by joining <mark>Martysh</mark> and protecting our province by fighting <mark>Ahimans</mark> and protecting the peace and safety within the Union.¡± I conclude with a steady voice.


    My claim may cloak my ambition with a veneer of selflessness, but the truth lies somewhere in between. <mark>Firelands</mark>, being the smallest and most vulnerable province on the continent, has the most to gain from a stable Union, which <mark>Martysh</mark> is tasked with maintaining.


    Our continent stands apart from others ruled by monarchs, as each province has its own High Lord, with the exception of <mark>Firelands</mark>, which is governed by a council of nine-ringed <mark>Ahiras</mark>. After devastating wars against dark sorcerers, called <mark>Ahimans</mark>, and the internal conflict between eastern and western provinces, <mark>Martysh</mark> emerged as a neutral, independent force. Tasked with defending the continent from external threats, <mark>Ahimans</mark>, monstrous creatures, and potential inter-provincial conflicts, <mark>Martysh</mark> acts as a unifying peacekeeping army.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    <mark>Martysh</mark> is a two-headed order, with most of its members, <mark>Martyshmen</mark> and <mark>Martyshwomen</mark>, serving in the military wing. This wing offers stable work and enough coin for an easy life, a rare opportunity for upward mobility among commoners, and a place where many nobles send their sons to demonstrate their honor and duty.


    The second, smaller branch of <mark>Martysh</mark> is its prestigious intelligence wing, the <mark>Martyshyars</mark>. Becoming a <mark>Martyshyar</mark>, an elite operative within this intelligence wing is the ultimate aspiration of many who join <mark>Martysh</mark>. These covert agents, chosen from the most skilled and promising members of <mark>Martysh</mark>, undergo rigorous training and participate in covert missions. <mark>Martyshyars</mark> enjoy unparalleled prestige, influence, and access to influential figures, including the High Lords. This coveted position is the stuff of legends, attainable only by those who join <mark>Martysh</mark> early in life and dedicate years to honing their craft.


    Every nine years, however, <mark>Martysh</mark> holds a high-stakes competition to recruit new members for its intelligence wing from outside of <mark>Martysh</mark>. Each of the nine provinces sends nine representatives to compete in grueling trials.


    ¡°I am not asking for this opportunity out of selfishness or pride. I genuinely believe that I can make a significant contribution to <mark>Martysh</mark> and, by extension, to <mark>Firelands</mark>. I am willing to undergo the <mark>Martyshyar</mark> trials to prove my worth.¡±


    The council chamber goes so silent you could hear a feather fall if feathers were allowed in this hallowed hall of white marble and disapproving stares. (They¡¯re not. Feathers are strictly prohibited, along with laughter and any expression of joy.)


    I feel their gazes, heavy with disapproval and simmering anger. Yet, I refuse to cower, maintaining my composure as I meet <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emenshah¡¯s</mark> penetrating stare.


    He studies me with an expression so inscrutable it could rival a statue, leaving me wondering if he¡¯s contemplating my future or simply trying to remember where he left his beard comb. Finally, with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of a thousand disappointed ancestors, he leans back in his chair, shattering the tense silence.


    ¡°<mark>Arien</mark>, with your exceptional abilities as a sorceress, the potential for your future is boundless. It is within your reach to grasp a position on this very council in due time,¡±


    The council chamber erupts in a cacophony of gasps and splutters as if <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emenshah</mark> had just suggested they replace their white robes with pink tunics. The notion that a sorceress, a creature of delicate weakness in their eyes, could ascend to the hallowed ranks of the council was clearly more shocking than a snowstorm in Myra.


    ¡°I also earned my fourth ring at twenty. My role could be yours one day. Wasting your magical talent for a seat in an army is a waste. Would you ask a dragon to light a campfire?¡±


    His voice is calm and steady, and for a moment, I can almost picture it: a future where I sit at that grand table, a respected member of the council, wielding respect and power. The thought is tempting and secure, especially compared to the uncertainty and danger that awaits me in <mark>Martysh</mark>.


    Doubt slithers in like an uninvited guest¡ªsubtle but chilling. It whispers promises of retreat, of returning to my chambers and letting this whole grand plan crumble under the weight of second thoughts. But I know the longer I linger, the louder it¡¯ll roar, drowning out every ounce of resolve.


    ¡°<mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emenshah</mark>,¡± I begin with a steady voice despite my inner turmoil, ¡°I value your high regard, but a position on the council is not my aspiration. My path lies elsewhere, and I have chosen it deliberately.¡± I meet his gaze, hoping he sees the sincerity in my eyes. ¡°I trust that my decision will be understood and honored, just as the wishes of those who preceded me in this council.¡±


    I stop and hold my breath, waiting for his response. <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emenshah¡¯s</mark> gaze cuts through me. His eyes, brimming with wisdom and scrutiny, seem to look straight into my soul, peeling away the carefully crafted facade I¡¯ve maintained over the years.


    A wave of insecurity washes over me as I stand here. Every doubt, every fear, every hidden longing I¡¯ve kept buried feels exposed under his intense gaze. Does he truly grasp the depths of my loneliness, the silent struggles I¡¯ve endured, the burning desire for belonging that has driven my every ambition? I feel as if I¡¯m teetering on the brink of a decision that could change the course of my life forever.


    ¡°For three centuries, it¡¯s been our tradition to honor the wishes of any <mark>Ahira</mark> who outpaces their peers in earning their rings. <mark>Arien</mark>, you¡¯ve earned this right, and we won¡¯t deny you what¡¯s rightfully yours,¡± <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emenshah</mark> finally speaks. His voice is resolute despite the visible disapproval from the other council members. ¡°Therefore, we hereby grant your wish. You shall be the <mark>Firelands</mark>¡¯ prospect for <mark>Martysh</mark>.¡±

 Chapter Three

    The wind howls a mournful song through the jagged teeth of the <mark>Albir</mark> Mountains. As it tugs at my ragged cloak, a shiver, not entirely from the cold wind, races down my spine. I run my eyes over the majestic fortress emerging from the mist. <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>! A brownstone behemoth standing defiant against the nine elements.


    It is every bit as the tales describe. Perched impossibly on the precipice, it dominates the sky like a vision from a dream. Its spires pierce the clouds, catching the sunlight and reflecting it back in a thousand golden shards. The majestic castle sprawls across the clifftop, a breathtaking painting of towers and turrets, courtyards, and keeps.


    It¡¯s not just a fortress, not a palace, but a living proof of its creators¡¯ ambition and extraordinary artistry. Atop the highest tower, a banner bearing the <mark>sigil</mark> of a wolf head wrapped around an eagle head snaps proudly in the breeze.


    The path is a relentless climb, a battle against the mountain¡¯s stubborn stone. With each upward step, my lungs burn from the thin mountain air, and my legs ache with the effort. But, with every rise in elevation, the castle emerges in greater splendor, rewarding my perseverance with its breathtaking majesty.


    <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>, the seat of <mark>Martysh</mark>, has stood here in the heart of the <mark>Albir</mark> mountains since the Union was established three centuries ago and <mark>Martysh</mark> was founded. It is indeed a place where laughter dies in the wind. Yet, here I am, drawn by a yearning I can¡¯t explain, staring at a place that beckons me with an enigmatic allure.


    ¡°What a dreadful sight,¡± Pippin growls beside me, his breathing labored by the hike.


    I stare at him, utterly bewildered. Is he seriously disparaging <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>, the architectural marvel that¡¯s been inspiring bards and terrifying enemies for centuries? Maybe his vision¡¯s blurred from all the dust he inhaled in the alchemy hall. Or perhaps he just needs food. Then I remember that he¡¯s always hungry and can¡¯t appreciate anything that is not in the form of a parchment full of spells.


    We met two years ago when I joined the Fire Temple¡¯s Alchemy hall after finishing the Academy. He, a seasoned alchemist, oversaw me, and for the past two years, we have worked tirelessly, attempting to create lighter, stronger blades for <mark>Firelands</mark>¡¯ forces. Unfortunately for him, he was selected to represent <mark>Firelands</mark> in the <mark>Martysh</mark> trials. He is eager to fail spectacularly, return to his beloved alchemy hall, and bury himself in a mountain of forgotten lore.


    I look at him, and he is the embodiment of misery, walking evidence for why scholars should not go on forced trials. His bulky frame is better suited to scrutinizing endless scrolls, not scaling mountains and dodging disgruntled mountain goats. The man could out-eat a horde of goblins and still have room for dessert. This whole parchment-free, <mark>foodless</mark> purgatory must be a nightmare for him. No wonder he¡¯s grumpy.


    ¡°<mark>Jahanwatch</mark> is truly awe-inspiring,¡± I remind him.


    ¡°It¡¯s nothing compared to Fire Temple,¡± He objects.


    Now, that is a ridiculous claim. Fire Temple, the capital of <mark>Firelands</mark>, with its cluster of castles, is undoubtedly grand. But it doesn¡¯t compare to <mark>Jahanwatch</mark> in size and ferocity.


    But I know arguing with a hungry Pippin is pointless. And judging by the looks of our fellow competitors in the <mark>Martysh</mark> trials, he¡¯s not the only one feeling the strain.


    There are eighty-one contenders, nine from each province of the <mark>Asyrion</mark> Continent: <mark>Aramis</mark>, <mark>Jamshah</mark>, <mark>Eyria</mark>, Myra, <mark>Hamden</mark>, <mark>Maravan</mark>, <mark>Kish</mark>, <mark>Izadeon</mark>, and, of course, us nine <mark>Ahiras</mark> from <mark>Firelands</mark>. Some are as awestruck as I am by the scenery, but most are battling exhaustion, well, again, just like me.


    Since dawn, we¡¯ve been scrambling up these mountain trails, led by a group of silent <mark>Martyshmen</mark> who met us at an inn near <mark>Shemiran</mark>, the Union¡¯s town nestled in the valley below. It¡¯s been nothing but wind-whipped faces and blistered soles ever since.


    The sun is now a cruel eye, staring down at our parched throats and aching limbs. Nonetheless, the sight of <mark>Jahanwatch</mark> finally coming into view is a welcome relief, although it remains distant, indicating that our ascent must continue, albeit not for long. My feet hurt, and my stomach growls with hunger, but my heart is excitedly pounding.


    <mark>Jahanwatch</mark> is more than just a castle; it is a symbol¡ªa chilling reminder to those who dare threaten the peace that holds the Union together. As if <mark>amidst</mark> the howling winds and razor-sharp peaks, defiance has taken root, its talons dug deep into the mountain¡¯s heart.


    I am finally here. Not in some dusty room in Fire Temple, but at the very seat of heroes - the heart of the continent! Here, the bravest souls are forged into steel, their courage honed for the continent¡¯s most perilous tasks. To join them is a dream once I whispered on the wind, a legend I dared not believe. Yet here I am, to answer the call and face the trials.


    ¡°Three blasted centuries of forced peace,¡± Pippin grumbles, ¡°and still we¡¯re dancing to the <mark>Martysh¡¯s</mark> tune.¡±


    Pippin¡¯s grumbling is as predictable as the sunrise, constantly repeating the same complaints ever since he volunteered for these trials¡ªa symphony of sighs and moans that could lull a dragon to sleep. Worse is how he keeps looking at me for a response as if my silence is further fueling his discontent. So, as I expected, he continues, making the same argument for the hundredth time, ¡°Why are we still bothering with these outdated trials when every year some traitor <mark>Ahiras</mark> slip through the cracks and join <mark>Martysh</mark> anyway?¡±


    But before I can answer, a bright and surprisingly cheerful voice cuts in. ¡°I know you, <mark>Ahiras</mark>, think you¡¯re the core pillar of the world, but these trials aren¡¯t just for enlisting sorcerers. They¡¯re designed to find the best and brightest from across the entire continent, giving everyone a fair shot at becoming a <mark>Martyshyar</mark>.¡± The speaker is one of the five women from <mark>Kish</mark> walking near us. ¡°And why all the <mark>Martysh</mark> hate? They¡¯re the reason we have peace, and I, for one, am grateful they¡¯ve been the ones facing those monstrous <mark>Ahimans</mark>, not us.¡±


    She¡¯s short and curvy, with braided brown hair and sun-kissed skin of the islanders. Despite her small stature, she speaks confidently, and a wide smirk splits her tanned face.


    Pippin scoffs. ¡°Peace is a double-edged sword, and <mark>Martysh</mark> wields both. But mark my words, one edge is always sharper, and it¡¯s aimed squarely at sorcerers.¡±


    The <mark>Kishi</mark> girl looks like Pippin just told her the sky is brown. ¡°Sorcerers? <mark>Martysh</mark> has been the linchpin of this continent since the Treaty of the Nine ended the Great War. Who else has kept those power-hungry High Lords in check and protected us from those lurking monsters? Certainly not the sorcerers, holed up in their white towers. It¡¯s been <mark>Martysh</mark>, and <mark>Martysh</mark> alone.¡±


    Pippin looks at me with disbelief at the audacity of the islander girl. I am staying silent like a scarecrow in a windstorm, but inside, I¡¯m screaming, ¡°Preach, sister!¡±. I offer him a noncommittal shrug and a half-smile that can either mean agreement or constipation. It¡¯s a versatile expression, really.


    Pippin, bless his eternally grumpy heart, takes this as a cue to launch into another one of his rants, ¡°<mark>Martysh</mark> demands <mark>Firelands</mark> to send lambs to the slaughter. But we don¡¯t raise sheep for the Union¡¯s feast.¡±


    The <mark>Kishi</mark> girl rolls her eyes and, without missing a beat, claps back, ¡°More like stubborn mules refusing to pull their weight for the common good. I have news for you: the Union¡¯s feast is a shared provision, and <mark>Firelands</mark> keeps showing up empty-handed.¡±


    I am trying my best to stifle a laugh, but it¡¯s a losing battle. This girl has gotten Pippin sputtering like a leaky cauldron. Who knew the trials could be this entertaining?


    With a huff of annoyance, she dismisses us and strides away. Even though I haven¡¯t said a word, her disapproving glare suggests that she has lumped me in with Pippin, branding us as arrogant <mark>Ahiras</mark> who don¡¯t appreciate <mark>Martysh¡¯s</mark> virtues.


    I can¡¯t really blame her. Pippin¡¯s views are common in <mark>Firelands</mark>; we are a proud, possessive bunch, and the thought of giving one of our own to the Union is about as appealing as mold on bread. <mark>Firelands</mark> is loath to send its sorcerers to join <mark>Martysh</mark>, as it depletes our already limited numbers.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    <mark>Firelands</mark>, though obligated to participate in <mark>Martyshyar</mark> trials, often views these trials with a degree of ambivalence. Rarely do some <mark>Ahiras</mark> like me genuinely aspire to become <mark>Martyshyars</mark> and join the <mark>Firelands</mark> fellowship, but the rest, like Pippin, who are selected by the council against their will, see the trials as disrupting their duties within <mark>Firelands</mark>. Consequently, they will subtly sabotage their own chances, as swearing allegiance to any entity beyond <mark>Firelands</mark> is considered a betrayal of their core values.


    ¡°Well, this isn¡¯t so bad,¡± one of the <mark>Myrans</mark> sneers, pointing at the fortress. He¡¯s a fellow the size of a small ox, with piggish features and hair like a bleached turnip. Most of their crew, who appear to be from southern Myra, strut ahead, noses held high if the very mountain air stinks of commoners and offends their delicate sensibilities.


    I recognize their type¡ªthose southern Myra nobles who always think they¡¯re a cut above the rest, especially the <mark>Gajaris</mark>, the desert folk from northern Myra. Only two <mark>Gajaris</mark> are among the <mark>Myrans</mark>, trailing behind the southern nobles as if their presence is barely tolerated.


    ¡°It¡¯s remarkably similar to the paintings of it I¡¯ve seen in <mark>Madrisa</mark>,¡± a woman from <mark>Aramis</mark> observes. She is so beautiful that it is almost painful to look at her. Four of the <mark>Aramis</mark> delegation are women, their hair a wonder of golden hues, ranging from light orange to pale yellow. All four are so breathtakingly gorgeous that I almost want to hide under a rock instead of walking beside them. Though taller than me, they lack the hardened bearing of soldiers. It¡¯s a relief to see I¡¯m not the only one who hasn¡¯t spent their life training for war. Judging by their flowing, elaborately embroidered robes, they are scholars from <mark>Madrisa</mark>, the continent¡¯s equivalent of Fire Temple Academy, only for non-sorcerers.


    I squint, trying to make out every detail of the castle. Its numerous towers and spires pierce the sky, reaching for the heavens. Are those figures patrolling the battlements or mere illusions cast by the sunlight? High above, a majestic eagle with dark plumage circles a distant tower.


    The vibrant greenery blanketing the slopes softens the fortress¡¯s imposing front. Towering pines with sunlight-drenched needles ascend the lower slopes, giving way to dense, emerald firs as the terrain rises. Unexpectedly, vibrant wildflowers dot the seemingly barren peaks, adding bursts of color to the verdant landscape.


    ¡°Any chance of a hint now that we¡¯re practically sniffing the castle gates?¡± the <mark>Myran</mark> oaf booms at the stoic <mark>Martyshman</mark> beside him.


    The Southern <mark>Myrans</mark> have been chattering incessantly with the dozen <mark>Martyshmen</mark> escorting us on horseback, hoping to glean information about the upcoming trial. The <mark>Martyshmen</mark>, however, remained tight-lipped since dawn, offering only the barest of instructions:


    Leave your belongings and weapons behind.


    Keep only the clothes you¡¯re wearing and accessories on you.


    Climb up the mountains behind us.


    ¡°You¡¯ll have about as much luck prying information out of them as a weasel trying to milk a stone.¡± One of the <mark>Maravanians</mark> smirks, a dark-haired man who is obviously not a fan of the <mark>Myrans</mark>¡¯ constant chatter with <mark>Martyshmen</mark>. The comment sparks a wave of agreement from the <mark>Hamdenians</mark> and a few chuckles from the <mark>Kish</mark> contingent.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t a weasel the <mark>sigil</mark> of House Markham?¡± <mark>Pigface</mark> shoots back. Big men don¡¯t like being compared to small, squirmy rodents, even metaphorically.


    ¡°Seems your knowledge of heraldry is as impressive as your ability to keep your mouth shut during a climb.¡± The <mark>Maravanian</mark> retorts smoothly.


    <mark>Myran</mark> Man¡¯s face flushes with anger. He starts to retort, but the <mark>Martyshman</mark> beside him, silent until now, lets out a low growl, effectively silencing him.


    ¡°<mark>Martysh</mark> folks can¡¯t discuss the trial. The lot of them are oath-bound. Don¡¯t bother asking; it¡¯s a waste of breath. No one knows anything about past trials.¡± the <mark>Kishi</mark> girl who was arguing with Pippin interjects. ¡°Believe me; I have a brother who returned from these trials. Defeated.¡±


    That comment whips everyone¡¯s heads around toward the <mark>Kishi</mark> girl.


    ¡°Well, then spill it, islander!¡± a Southern <mark>Myran</mark> fellow barks impatiently. ¡°What juicy secrets did your brothers share?¡±


    ¡°Not much, really,¡± she chirps. ¡°His last memory was leaving the inn we left this morning, then waking up back there days later. No clue how he even got to <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>, let alone what part of the trials got him the boot.¡±


    This isn¡¯t surprising. It¡¯s common knowledge that failing any part of the trials results in instant elimination followed by a memory wipe, leaving your mind as blank as a fresh slate. That¡¯s how <mark>Martysh</mark> has kept the trials secret for centuries. There is no way to prepare, and no one knows what awaits them inside those ancient walls. Will it be tests of strength, intelligence, or something far more sinister? It¡¯s anyone¡¯s guess.


    ¡°At least your brother made it back alive,¡± grumbles another <mark>Kishi</mark> man, ¡°Young <mark>Jorren</mark> from our village wasn¡¯t so lucky. They only returned his body a moon after the trials began.¡±


    A somber silence descends on the group, broken only by the crunch of gravel underfoot. The reminder of our possible death tosses a shadow over our initial excitement.


    The Southern <mark>Myran</mark> bellows, ¡°You lot are a bunch of spineless cowards! I¡¯ll show you all how it¡¯s done when we get there!¡±


    The <mark>Kishi</mark> man replies with a smirk, ¡°Ah, the sweet scent of <mark>Myran</mark> ego. It¡¯s like a particularly pungent cheese, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    The <mark>Myran</mark>, clearly missing the subtle art of insult, growls, ¡°Perhaps you¡¯d like a taste of it yourself. I¡¯ll happily oblige.¡±


    The <mark>Kishi</mark> girl, surprisingly feisty for her size, chimes in again, ¡°<mark>Myrans</mark> and their boundless arrogance! Remember, this path is treacherous, littered with the bones of those who dared to boast too loudly.¡±


    Unfazed, the <mark>Myran</mark> puffs out his chest. ¡°Spare me the dramatics. The truth is, strong men forge history, while the weak are naught but footnotes.¡± He glares at the <mark>Kishi</mark> fellowship as if they are insignificant gnats buzzing around his head.


    Before the inevitable retort could commence, a <mark>Hamdenian</mark>, a fellow with a face only a mother could love and a star-shaped amulet of faith as big as his fist around his neck, interrupts with the wisdom of a dense owl, ¡°The gods laugh at the plans of men. Fate, not ambition, often decides our destiny.¡±


    Even his fellow <mark>Hamdenians</mark> seem to stifle chuckles, thinking he¡¯s wandered into the conversation from a different <mark>storyline</mark>.


    The <mark>Myran</mark> oaf, clearly confused, roars, ¡°Then why in the Nine <mark>Hells</mark> are you here? Testing your luck against the gods?¡±


    Unfazed, the <mark>Hamdenian</mark> replies with a pious air, ¡°Gods tell us to play the game of fate with cunning and courage, lest we be cast aside like broken playthings.¡±


    <mark>Kishi</mark> girl flashes him a grin, ¡°Though I reckon even the gods wouldn¡¯t mind a little wager every now and then.¡±


    She sends a playful wink in my direction. I can¡¯t help but admire her. She is like a splash of color in a world of grays. Compared to her, I am as exciting as a pot of cold porridge.


    I breathe in the pine-scented air, a refreshing change from the dust and grime of the road. We left Fire Temple nearly fifty days ago and have not taken a single rest day since, giving me little opportunity to pause and appreciate the beautiful scenery along the way.


    I count the number of women again. Among the eighty-one participants, there are seventeen women, myself included¡ªfive hail from <mark>Jamshad</mark>, four from <mark>Hamden</mark> and <mark>Aramis</mark>, and three from <mark>Kish</mark>. I would like to think that gives me a chance if the trials require body strength. But then I glance back at the <mark>Jamshahi</mark> women.


    Towering and muscular, they exude an air of quiet strength. Their dark skin gleams like polished ebony, and their long, thick braids sway rhythmically with each stride. Compared to them, I feel like a fragile sparrow. They are a fearsome combination of beauty and power.


    The delegations from <mark>Izadeon</mark>, <mark>Eyria</mark>, Myra, and <mark>Maravan</mark> are entirely male. Thankfully, not all of them have the swagger of seasoned warriors. The <mark>Kishis</mark>, <mark>Maravanis</mark>, and <mark>Hamdenis</mark> boast a few slender scholars who seem more comfortable with books than blades. But as any seasoned observer knows, appearances can be deceiving.


    Then I remind myself again that numerous past trial winners have come from backgrounds very different from the battlefield. This goes to show that these trials assess more than just sheer physical prowess.


    A <mark>Hamdeni</mark> woman speaks with a voice tinged with admiration. ¡°Three hundred years, and they still manage to keep the details of this whole competition secret. I heard last time the trials lasted for six moons, and only three emerged victorious!¡±


    A man from <mark>Maravan</mark>, his face marked by the harsh lines of a life spent in the unforgiving storms of his homeland, adds, ¡°And nine years before that, it was over in a mere twenty days. Only one made it through,¡±


    ¡°Thirty lives were lost that year,¡± the <mark>Kishi</mark> girl adds, ¡°They call it the Red Trials¡ªbloodiest damn year <mark>Martysh</mark> ever saw.¡±


    The Red Trials. A chilling tale whispered among those who dare to dream of becoming <mark>Martyshyars</mark>. We all know that trials can be perilous and that death is a constant, lurking shadow. But thirty casualties? That wasn¡¯t a competition; it was a massacre. The families of the fallen had clamored for answers, but <mark>Martysh</mark> remained silent like a fortress of secrets.


    ¡°Maybe they made them fight blindfolded, riding those fancy flying crows of theirs. Now that would be a sight to see!¡± the <mark>Myran</mark> oaf mocks, sparking a ripple of laughter through the other southern <mark>Myrans</mark>, the sound harsh and guttural.


    I glance ahead at my fellow <mark>Ahiras</mark>, marching forward like emotionless statues, and my anxiety spikes. These are supposed to be my allies, yet their cold indifference feels like a betrayal. The journey here has been nothing but a frosty affair. My fellow <mark>Ahiras</mark> have treated me like a bland mushroom¡ªignored and inedible, barely acknowledging my existence in the fellowship.


    Pippin, the only one who speaks to me, says they resent my participation in the trials. As the youngest <mark>Ahira</mark> and the only sorceress ever selected, I¡¯m seen as an insult to their traditions. Even <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emenshah¡¯s</mark> support hasn¡¯t softened their hostility. It¡¯s painfully clear they won¡¯t be offering any help to me to win these trials. Once again, I¡¯m on my own.


    They march with the practiced arrogance of <mark>Ahiras</mark>, their eyes fixed on <mark>Jahanwatch</mark> as it owes them a <mark>wagonload</mark> of gold. No flicker of awe, no hint of nervous sweat ¨C just the same steely-eyed stares they¡¯d likely been practicing in the mirror since they were knee-high to a grasshopper¡ªemotionless gits.


    And then, there he is, towering before them like a mist sculpted into a man: <mark>Eshavan</mark>!

 Chapter Four

    Sunlight paints his face with a golden glow, illuminating his fair hair that cascades like a golden waterfall. His eyes are a vibrant and captivating green, evoking the lushness of a moss-covered forest after a spring rain, flecked with golden sunlight filtering through the leaves. He is handsome in the way a lion is¡ªdeadly and perfectly formed. Every line of his chiseled jaw speaks of resolve and a steely determination, instantly commanding respect and admiration. He has a natural elegance in every stride, exuding an air of authority and power, leaving a lasting impression on everyone around him.


    The <mark>Kishi</mark> girl beside me notices my gaze lingering on <mark>Eshavan</mark>. ¡°I have to admit,¡± she whispers, ¡°when I saw you <mark>Firelanders</mark> arrive at the inn yesterday, I was surprised to see a fourth-ringed girl. But nothing shocked me more than seeing him in your group. Why is he here?¡± She nods discreetly towards <mark>Eshavan</mark>.


    I glance at her, unsure how to respond. Conversations with strangers are unfamiliar territory for me, and I can¡¯t help but wonder if she is trying to pry information from me about the <mark>Ahiras</mark>. Choosing silence, I keep my eyes fixed on the rugged mountain path.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong? An Islander is beneath an <mark>Ahira¡¯s</mark> notice?¡± she remarks with a sarcastic smirk. Her words sting, and I realize she¡¯s mistaken my social awkwardness for <mark>Ahira¡¯s</mark> arrogance.


    Heat rises to my cheeks as I stammer, ¡°No, it¡¯s not that. I just¡­¡±


    The <mark>Kishi</mark> girl simply nods. Her expression is a blend of regretting to talk to me and exasperation at my awkwardness. I can practically hear her thoughts: Great, another dreadful <mark>Ahira</mark>.


    I bite my lip, anxiety gnawing at me. We¡¯re all clueless about these trials, but one thing is for certain: I need allies. The <mark>Ahiras</mark> have made it abundantly clear that they won¡¯t be lifting a finger to help me, so I better not scare off potential allies with my awkwardness.


    The truth is, I¡¯m not just awkward; I¡¯m a socially stunted disaster, thanks to a lifetime of solitude and no practice in socializing. I grew up surrounded by boys, and the few girls at Fire Temple weren¡¯t exactly lining up to be my best friends.


    As a result, I¡¯ve always been more comfortable with books than people, and the thought of interacting with so many strangers fills me with dread. But I can¡¯t let her know that. So, I take a deep breath and try to devise a plausible excuse.


    ¡°I was thinking about the trials. I¡¯m unsure what to expect and feel a little nervous.¡±


    The <mark>Kishi</mark> girl raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. ¡°Nervous? You must be the first <mark>Ahira</mark> ever to have uttered such words.¡±


    I let out a chuckle, realizing there is no point in pretending. ¡°I suppose I¡¯m not your usual <mark>Ahira</mark>. And to answer your question, I don¡¯t know. Why he is here, that is.¡± I pause, then make a feeble attempt at making conversation, ¡°How do you know him?¡±


    ¡°Is there anyone on the continent who doesn¡¯t know him?¡± she chuckles. ¡°I was just a child when the news of the High Lord of <mark>Aramis¡¯s</mark> son being a sorcerer reached even the distant islands of <mark>Kish</mark>. The story was the talk of the taverns for moons.¡±


    Even though it happened before I was born, I, too, have heard the tales of those years whispered in the halls of Fire Temple Academy. The revelation that <mark>Eshavan</mark>, the sole heir of High Lord <mark>Ardalan</mark> <mark>Eriel</mark>, ruler of <mark>Aramis</mark>, possessed <mark>sorcerous</mark> abilities sent <mark>shockwaves</mark> throughout the Union. It was unprecedented, a High Lord¡¯s child born with sorcery, and it ignited a fierce debate: did <mark>Eshavan</mark> belong in <mark>Aramis</mark> or <mark>Firelands</mark>, the land of sorcerers?


    ¡°My father told me that High Lord <mark>Eriel</mark> summoned all the other High Lords to <mark>Shemiran</mark> for a crisis council. They remained there for turns, locked in heated debate. High Lord <mark>Eriel</mark> argued that, according to the ancient laws, a High Lord¡¯s son, regardless of <mark>sorcerous</mark> abilities, was destined to rule his province and should not be sent to <mark>Firelands</mark>.¡±


    Pippin interjects, ¡°The law of the land is clear. Any child with sorcery in their blood belongs to <mark>Firelands</mark>, regardless of their birthplace or lineage,¡±


    He is bristling at the mere suggestion that <mark>Eshavan¡¯s</mark> lineage could override his <mark>sorcerous</mark> heritage. Despite not being as overtly arrogant as some <mark>Ahiras</mark>, Pippin¡¯s loyalty to <mark>Firelands</mark> runs deep. I don¡¯t even know where he was born or if he has any family outside of <mark>Firelands</mark>.


    ¡°But the law also dictates that a High Lord¡¯s firstborn son has a duty to their people,¡± the <mark>Kishi</mark> girl counters.


    ¡°That¡¯s a law made by men, for men,¡± Pippin declares dismissively. ¡°<mark>Ahiras</mark> don¡¯t answer to men¡¯s laws.¡±


    The <mark>Kishi</mark> girl rolls her eyes and smirks at me. I maintain a neutral expression. Honestly, I couldn¡¯t care less about the nobility drama of over two decades ago.


    ¡°<mark>Firelands</mark> winning that custody battle must be a real laurel to your crown, then. Quite amusing that <mark>Aramis</mark>, the province that founded <mark>Firelands</mark>, had its own heir claimed by them three hundred years later. Word on the street is that the eastern provinces voted in favor of <mark>Firelands</mark> out of sheer pettiness. A poke at <mark>Aramis</mark> for fighting against their past opposition to <mark>Firelands</mark>¡¯ sovereignty.¡±


    Pippin glares at the <mark>Kishi</mark> girl but doesn¡¯t deign to respond, which only amplifies her amusement.


    ¡°My name is Lila,¡± she turns to me. ¡°And you are?¡±


    ¡°<mark>Arien</mark>,¡±


    ¡°So, tell me! How¡¯d you manage to land yourself a spot in this forsaken trails? You must be the only sorceress ever to join <mark>Martysh</mark>!¡±


    ¡°Not quite,¡± I reply, ¡°though it seems most folks have forgotten that <mark>Martysh</mark> was actually founded by a sorceress herself.¡±


    ¡°Oh, believe me,¡± She retorts, ¡°I never forget <mark>Martyshbod</mark> <mark>Mitra</mark>. The most influential figure in our history, and arguably the most overlooked. She¡¯s the very reason I¡¯m here.¡±


    I nearly choke on my own spit. Back in <mark>Firelands</mark>, <mark>Martyshbod</mark> <mark>Mitra</mark> was practically a ghost story ¨C whispered about, but never truly studied. But Fire Temple teaching barely mention anything about <mark>Martysh</mark> at all, least of all it¡¯s founder.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know much about her.¡± I admit.


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re not alone,¡± Lila says. ¡°She¡¯s practically erased from every history book. Makes you wonder why someone who shaped the entire continent is buried in obscurity, doesn¡¯t it? I¡¯ve been obsessed with her for ages. What was her role in the war? Why did she even bother founding <mark>Martysh</mark>? I couldn¡¯t find any decent answers, so¡­ here I am!¡±This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    She is joking, right? She signed up for this grueling trial, risking life and limb, just to learn more about some mysterious sorceress from three centuries ago?


    Pippin, who has been trudging along beside us, snorts with laughter. ¡°Of all the ridiculous reasons to join <mark>Martysh</mark>, that has to be the most absurd one I¡¯ve ever heard!¡±


    Lila, unfazed by Pippin¡¯s jab, responds casually, ¡°More absurd than someone forcing you to come and you not even having the guts to say no?¡±


    I have to bite my lip to keep from bursting out laughing. Pippin turns red and sputters, but Lila continues, ¡°Besides, there are other reasons I¡¯m here. But wanting to learn more about the most influential woman of our millennium, who barely gets any recognition, isn¡¯t exactly a trivial pursuit.¡±


    Pippin scoffs. ¡°<mark>Mitra</mark> didn¡¯t have nearly as much impact as you claim. The war was won by <mark>Erish</mark> <mark>Eriel</mark> of <mark>Aramis</mark>, and the union was founded by a suggestion from King Jamaal <mark>Jafar</mark> of <mark>Jamshah</mark>. She only established <mark>Martysh</mark> because there have always been sorcerers who chose outsiders over their own people, even back then when the most important thing a sorcerer could do was help establish <mark>Firelands</mark>.¡±


    Ouch. That one stung, even though it wasn¡¯t directed at me. Lila rolls her eyes. ¡°You know the world extends beyond <mark>Firelands</mark>, right? Not everything revolves around sorcerers.¡±


    Pippin, ignoring her, continues his grumpy trek. Lila smirks and turns back to me. ¡°So, back to my original question. You must be the first woman <mark>Ahira</mark> to join <mark>Martysh</mark>, considering <mark>Mitra</mark> never became an <mark>Ahira</mark> herself.¡±


    ¡°Not sure,¡± I reply. ¡°I might be the first sorceress to participate in the trials, but not the first to join <mark>Martysh</mark>. Every year, a few <mark>Ahiras</mark> choose to join <mark>Martysh¡¯s</mark> military wing after finishing Fire Temple Academy. I¡¯m sure some sorceresses have been among them in three hundred years.¡±


    I don¡¯t mention that <mark>Firelands</mark> would have stopped them if it could, but the law of the continent does not allow provinces to prevent their residents from joining <mark>Martysh</mark>.


    ¡°How many before you have joined?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure. <mark>Firelands</mark> rarely shares the names of those who choose to join <mark>Martysh</mark>.¡±


    ¡°So you never know. You might as well be the first since <mark>Mitra</mark> if you pass the trials!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so. I know of at least one more.¡± I stop myself, surprised at my own uncharacteristic sharing. But then again, it is also uncharacteristic for me to be having a conversation with another person at all. Maybe I was just a secret chatterbox waiting to be unleashed. Even Pippin seems taken aback by my revelation.


    ¡°You have? Who?¡± he asks with a frown.


    ¡°I met one in Myra, when I was a child, before I came to <mark>Firelands</mark>,¡± I say quickly, taking a long swig of water from my <mark>waterskin</mark>, not keen on sharing more of my traumatic childhood.


    Pippin opens his mouth to ask another question, but Lila, sensing my reluctance, cut in. ¡°So, tell me, are you here to win?¡±


    She is getting straight to the point. <mark>Kishis</mark> are simple, easy people, not made for cunning, and it¡¯s an open secret that most <mark>Ahiras</mark> participate in the trials with the intention of losing, though they¡¯d never admit it openly.


    ¡°I am,¡± I respond with conviction.


    She nods casually. ¡°I thought so. A girl and a fourth-ringer at that¡ªthey don¡¯t usually send your kind to these trials. So, I gathered you weren¡¯t just here for a leisurely stroll. What about him?¡± She gestures towards <mark>Eshavan</mark>.


    ¡°You won¡¯t hear <mark>Ahiras</mark>¡¯ secrets from us.¡± Pippin growls.


    ¡°I suppose that¡¯s a no, then.¡± Lila shrugs, ¡°I¡¯ve heard he is now <mark>Firelands</mark>¡¯ special envoy to <mark>Aramis</mark>. Surely, his High Lord father, having finally gotten him back, wouldn¡¯t risk losing him again, this time to <mark>Martysh</mark>.¡± She pauses, her brow furrowing in thought. ¡°But then, why send him here at all? Here we are, a gaggle of hopefuls clawing and scratching for victory, and the most prized <mark>Ahira</mark> of <mark>Firelands</mark> just strolling in, destined to lose?¡±


    Her words echo the questions that have been swirling in my mind since we left <mark>Firelands</mark>. <mark>Eshavan</mark>, a five-ringer only at the age of twenty-five, the pride of <mark>Aramis</mark> and <mark>Firelands</mark> alike, being in our fellowship is an enigma wrapped in a riddle. Why would he be here, sweating it out with the rest of us, when his path is obviously destined for greatness in <mark>Firelands</mark> and <mark>Aramis</mark>?


    To reduce risk, <mark>Firelands</mark> typically sends common-born, five-ringed sorcerers, mostly from their army, to the trials, ensuring their safe return or, in the unlikely event of their demise, a less significant loss for <mark>Firelands</mark>.


    Pippin mentioned that <mark>Eshavan</mark> was a late complement to the fellowship, handpicked by <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emenshah</mark> himself to lead the rest of us. Yet, none of the <mark>Ahiras</mark>, <mark>Eshavan</mark> included, seem particularly interested in winning the trials, except for me, obviously. Something seems wrong. It all reeks of rotten fish, and my gut churns with its stench.


    My inner thoughts, fascinating as they are, are rudely interrupted when we reach a gaping chasm separating us from the majestic fortress. A sheer cliff face plunges into the depths below, where a waterfall cascades down, like a glistening white ribbon against the dark rock. The river winds through the valley, its surface mirroring the sunlight. A wide bridge, seemingly carved from the mountain itself, connects the castle to where we are standing. It¡¯s our only way forward, a path to a place that feels both impossibly distant and yet feels so tantalizingly close.


    As we cross the bridge, I only see a towering, impenetrable stone wall ahead of us. This colossal barrier rises at the end of the path, with the castle walls perched atop it. Could the gates be concealed behind this wall? Or perhaps they lie on the opposite side of the castle? If so, why did the <mark>Martyshmen</mark> lead us on this arduous journey to this seemingly dead end?


    The <mark>Martyshmen</mark> signal for us to halt when we cross the bridge, and just as I¡¯m pondering our next move, three horsemen emerge from thin air at the path¡¯s end! One moment, the path terminates abruptly at a sheer rock wall; the next, it¡¯s as if someone has torn a hole in the fabric of reality, and out pops a triad on horseback.


    Sorcery,


    Without a doubt! It seems the castle does not need a conventional gate on this side¡ªsorcery serves as a far more impressive entrance, though disconcerting for the likes of us.


    As the figures approach, their forms sharpen into focus. All three are cloaked in long, dark green <mark>Martyshyar</mark> coats, each bearing a striking emblem: a golden wolf entwined with an eagle emblazoned on their chests. Their leader is distinguished by eight golden, eight-pointed stars meticulously embroidered around his collar, marking him as an eight-starred <mark>Martyshyar</mark>. He radiates an air of authority as his icy gaze sweeps over us.


    With a gesture, he dismisses the <mark>Martyshmen</mark> who have accompanied us thus far. With grim nods, they spur their horses into a swift trot, disappearing into the rock face beneath the castle. Vanished, as fleeting as a whisper carried away by the wind.


    Now, here we stand, eighty-one competitors on shaky legs and the three <mark>Martyshyars</mark> on their high horses. The eight-starred <mark>Martyshyar</mark> dismounts with a creak of leather and a grimace that could ice a lake, then steps forward. His gaze sweeps over us once more. And this time, he speaks!


    ¡°The rules are simple, but the path to becoming a <mark>Martyshyar</mark> is not. You will face a series of trials, each designed to test your strength, cunning, and resolve. The first trial commences now, a challenge to determine your worthiness even to set foot upon the threshold of the sacred <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>. Mark well, this is a solitary endeavor. The order of your entry to <mark>Jahanwatch</mark> matters. The faster you find a way in, the higher your standing. If you fail to discover the entrance before sunset, your <mark>Martyshyar</mark> dreams will vanish, and you will find yourself waking up back at the inn down in the valley with no memory of this place or the trials.¡±


    A thousand questions prick at my mind like a swarm of angry bees. Should we scale the sheer rock face and climb, or perhaps there¡¯s a hidden path around the mountain¡ªa secret gate veiled in shadow? The silence stretches thick and heavy, and I swallow the questions burning on my tongue. If the <mark>Martyshyar</mark> had a hint to offer, he would have.


    The <mark>Martyshyar</mark> then turns to the nine of us from <mark>Firelands</mark> and announces, ¡°Any use of sorcery during the trials, whether for personal gain, survival, or influencing the outcome for yourself or others, is strictly forbidden. You are to compete on equal terms with the other participants. Any violation will result in immediate disqualification, and you will lose your wake within a few moments only to find yourself awakening at the inn in the valley on the morrow, with your memories of the trials erased.¡±


    With that final pronouncement, he mounts his horse, and the three <mark>Martyshyars</mark> trot back and vanish into the rock face, leaving us to our own element.


    And just like that, the first trial begins!

 Chapter Five

    The scene is pure confusion, a symphony of bewildered muttering and frantic glances. A nervous murmur ripples through the crowd, creating a sea of bewilderment that mirrors my own feelings.


    The ever-stoic <mark>Ahiras</mark>, however, remain unruffled. As the other participants huddle together in their provincial groups, seeking solace in familiarity, the <mark>Ahiras</mark>, unsurprisingly, form their exclusive circle.


    No invitation comes my way, of course. No whispered strategy, no shared knowledge. If this was the Let¡¯s Pretend This Girl Doesn¡¯t Exist trial, they¡¯d already been winners. I¡¯m tempted to unleash a torrent of frustration at these self-absorbed sorcerers. But the words die in my throat, replaced by a weary sigh as I swallow my pride like I have done all my life and approach them to hear their conversation.


    ¡°It¡¯s sorcery, for sure,¡± <mark>Maleed</mark> states confidently. He is the most senior of our group, with a shock of raven hair and five rings adorning his fingers. It¡¯s been a decade since he earned his fifth ring, and the elusive sixth remains out of his reach, a sign that he may never gain it. ¡°Perhaps a sort of <mark>sorcerous</mark> pull, drawing them directly into the castle.¡±


    ¡°Bound sorcery, <mark>mayhaps</mark>,¡± <mark>Alyzan</mark> adds, his fiery red hair catching the afternoon sun. ¡°Like an invisible tether, connecting <mark>Martysh</mark> folks to the castle.¡±


    ¡°It must be potent magic,¡± <mark>Kameel</mark>, a soldier of the <mark>Firelands</mark>¡¯ army and the newest member of the five-ringed society, murmurs thoughtfully. ¡°To last so long on each person¡­ perhaps it¡¯s embedded in an object? An artifact they carry that grants them passage?¡±


    ¡°A pilfered key would open the door for any thief. Hardly a secure system,¡± <mark>Eshavan</mark> counters. His gaze is locked on the fortress, and a contemplative frown appears on his face. Moments later, a spark of understanding lights up his expression, and he declares, ¡°The oath. It has to be the oath.¡±


    A collective gasp spreads among the <mark>Ahiras</mark>. The Oath of <mark>Martysh</mark>, a solemn vow taken upon joining their ranks, is a promise of steadfast loyalty to the order and the maintenance of peace within the Union. This pact is sealed with powerful sorcery, ensuring that any act of betrayal leads to swift and ruthless consequences¡ªdeath. It serves as a lifelong bond, tying the oath-taker to their commitment. It appears that the Oath of <mark>Martysh</mark> acts as both a <mark>sorcerous</mark> bond and a key, granting those who have sworn it access to <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>.


    ¡°We also swore an oath,¡± Pippin points out.


    He is right. Before the <mark>Martyshmen</mark> escorted us here, down in the valley, we all swore a solemn oath: no harm to <mark>Martyshmen</mark>, no blabbing about the trials to anyone except fellow contenders, and no leading enemies to <mark>Jahanwatch¡¯s</mark> doorstep. The same sorcery that binds this oath will also wipe our memories clean if we fail the trials.


    <mark>Alizan</mark> retorts sarcastically, ¡°If that oath was enough on its own, getting into the castle wouldn¡¯t be a test, would it?¡±


    ¡°If the key to enter is the <mark>Martysh¡¯s</mark> oath, then there¡¯s no point in beating a dead rock,¡± <mark>Maleed</mark> declares, gesturing dismissively towards a group of <mark>Jamshahis</mark> already huddled at the mountain¡¯s base, their hands frantically exploring the barren rock for a secret entrance.


    I look around in confusion. The oath, then? But what good is that to us? We don¡¯t know the spell, and even if we did, using sorcery is forbidden during the trials.


    ¡°Scaling the cliff face seems impossible,¡± <mark>Kameel</mark> remarks, observing a <mark>Jamshahi¡¯s</mark> futile attempt to ascend the smooth, sheer rock wall. We¡¯ve left all our gear, including ropes and climbing tools, behind in the valley, making this approach <mark>unviable</mark>.


    ¡°Perhaps reaching the base of the castle walls would offer a better climbing opportunity,¡± Pippin suggests. A counsel that sounds funny coming from a man who¡¯s more likely to trip over a pebble than scale a mountain.


    ¡°We know that, but how do we get from the cliff to the wall?¡± <mark>Alizan</mark> retorts, exasperated.


    ¡°<mark>Jahanwatch</mark> is <mark>unsiegeable</mark> for a reason. If scaling its sheer face were possible, the castle wouldn¡¯t have stood for three centuries.¡± <mark>Maleed</mark> asserts.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Then there must be a hidden passage around this rock!¡± <mark>Kameel</mark> speculates.


    <mark>Eshavan</mark>, a portrait of composure <mark>amidst</mark> the growing chaos, finally speaks. ¡°We will search the surrounding area. If anyone finds the passage or even a hint of it, sound the Fire Temple whistle. Don¡¯t enter alone. I¡¯ll examine the rock face.¡±


    And just like that, they all scatter like pigeons at a falcon¡¯s shriek, disappearing into the dense foliage surrounding the rock face. I stand alone, watching <mark>Eshavan</mark> stride purposefully towards the wall. A solitary figure. As always, cloaked in an air of mystery as thick as the mountain mist.


    Two <mark>Hamdeni</mark> fellows are scampering up a nearby tree as their eyes scan the surroundings. Taking a cue from their practical approach, I also decide to move. I avoid the area where <mark>Eshavan</mark> is standing and approach the rock. My hand eventually touches the cold stone. It feels solid, with no hidden seams or concealed levers. If there¡¯s a passage behind this barrier, there must be a trigger or some sort of activation lever. Maybe there¡¯s a handle cleverly disguised among the foliage? The <mark>Eyrians</mark>, all seeming to think the same, are carefully searching the base of the trees, using their fingers to probe beneath every rock and branch.


    Primitive, I think.


    It all feels¡­ unrefined. The prize is a lifetime of glory, and the only skill required is blind luck? Is this how they measure worthiness? By who can stumble upon a hidden door handle before others? It¡¯s a hollow victory at best, I reckon.


    Suddenly, a subtle shift catches my eye. The <mark>Izadeonians</mark>, the only group yet to succumb to the initial frenzy, stand huddled together, not far from me. One of them, a towering figure with the body of a seasoned warrior, mirrors my actions. His hands glide across the stubborn stone as the others are engaged in a hushed conversation. Could they have also sensed something amiss, and that is why they are not moving like others? Is there a hidden layer to this peculiar rite that eludes the rest of us?


    I survey the surroundings once again. The <mark>Jamshahis</mark> have abandoned their futile assault on the rock face and are now venturing into the dense foliage on the castle¡¯s right flank. Meanwhile, Lila and her fellow <mark>Kishi</mark> women showcase their resourcefulness by fashioning makeshift ropes from vines, creepers, and sturdy grasses they¡¯ve discovered in the vicinity. A clever tactic, indeed!


    There must be a clue, a hidden message, a whisper on the wind that we are all too oblivious to hear¡ªsomething so obvious that it¡¯s easily overlooked. I scrutinize every unremarkable stone, every babbling brook, every tree, and every bush. But, they all blur together, a monotonous landscape devoid of any anomaly to break the spell of normalcy.


    The solution may be beyond this immediate area. My mind wanders back to our trek from the valley, searching for any overlooked clues. The <mark>Martyshmen</mark> were tight-lipped, offering minimal interaction. The only notable event was their instructions to leave all our belongings at the inn. We set off at dawn with nothing but the clothes on our backs and the weight of anticipation.


    My thoughts drift to the three <mark>Martyshyars</mark>. Their instructions were cryptic, and the rules were barely explained. The rules are simple, their leader had proclaimed. Each designed to test your strength, cunning, and resolve, he¡¯d declared. The first trial commences now. Mark well, this is a solitary endeavor. This is a solitary endeavor. This is a solitary endeavor.


    The words reverberate in my mind. Everyone else is struggling collectively. Only <mark>Eshavan</mark>, myself, and the <mark>Izadeonian</mark> man are standing alone.


    Could the key to entry be something only <mark>discoverable</mark> in solitude? If so, then perhaps I am not completely disadvantaged. Solitude has been my constant companion for as long as I can remember. I¡¯ve studied alone, dined alone, and thrived in the quiet company of my own thoughts. Conversation itself was often a foreign language, replaced by a self-directed internal exchange born of necessity. Drawing on this ingrained habit, I turn towards the towering castle walls and plead with a low voice, ¡°Please, let me in.¡±


    Why do you wish to enter?


    A deep, unhurried voice unexpectedly echoes in the vast expanse of my mind, causing me to flinch. My heart thunders. A quick glance around confirms that everyone else remains engrossed in their own activities, oblivious to the voice that reverberated within my core. Alarm threatens to consume me, but a flicker of excitement follows in its wake.


    My eyes settle on the <mark>Izadeonian</mark> man standing nearby. He suddenly turns his head towards me. A puzzled frown creases his brow as if my startled expression perplexes him. I quickly avert my gaze, focusing once more on the castle walls. Hesitantly, I project another thought while silently mouthing the words, ¡°Are you¡­ in my head?¡±


    I shall not answer questions,


    The voice replies, its resonance sending shivers down my spine.


    This has to be it, the key to enter the fortress. Taking a deep breath, I implore the unseen presence, ¡°Please grant me entry.¡±


    The relentless voice resonates once more,


    State your purpose.


    A multitude of reasons floods my mind: adventure, glory, recognition, a chance to prove myself. But as I sift through them, a purer, more genuine motive rises to the surface, eclipsing all others.


    ¡°I long for a place to belong,¡± I whisper under my breath.


    And with that, the world fades to black.

 Chapter Six

    The world around me changes from a moonless night to a blinding light in a blink of an eye. As my eyes adapt to the sudden glare, I find myself in a vast courtyard, or perhaps more accurately, a battlefield held at bay. Surrounded by towering, crenelated walls, the expansive courtyard serves a clear purpose: to train and prepare a powerful army. The gray walls, interspersed with strategically placed guard towers, create an imposing sense of security. Right before me, a massive keep made of the same light gray stone stands tall.


    <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>!


    Heavens be good; this must be the inner bailey of <mark>Jahanwatch</mark> itself. A thrill, sharp and exhilarating, courses through me. Have I, by some twist of fate, stumbled upon the hidden door? But the thrill quickly turns to unease.


    The bailey is eerily silent, devoid of any form of life. <mark>Jahanwatch</mark> should teem with life¡ª<mark>Martyshyars</mark>, <mark>Martyshmen</mark>, smiths, grooms, and servants. But this vast expanse is as empty as a forgotten tomb. This can only mean one thing.


    ¡°Is this an illusion?¡± I call out, my voice reflecting in the emptiness.


    I will not answer questions,


    The same deep voice rumbles. My heart hammers against my ribs as I spin around and freeze!


    In front of me, there is a massive, terrifying, wolf-like creature. It¡¯s a monstrous fusion of predator and scavenger, covered in brown fur with rippling muscles beneath its skin. What truly sends shivers down my spine is its head. Instead of a wolf¡¯s head, it has an eagle¡¯s head with piercing yellow eyes gleaming with intelligence. Its front paws have been replaced with razor-sharp talons, and two enormous wings are neatly folded on its back, hinting at the creature¡¯s dual nature as a hunter of both sky and earth. It¡¯s a double threat from the realms of both beast and bird. I instantly recognize it as a <mark>Seemorg</mark>, a legendary creature of the <mark>Albir</mark> Mountains and the revered symbol of <mark>Martysh</mark>.


    I should be terrified, but a strange sense of familiarity engulfs me as if I¡¯ve encountered this magnificent creature before, perhaps in the depths of an old dream. And for reasons I can¡¯t quite grasp, I instinctively know the booming voice belongs to this winged wonder.


    ¡°Am I inside <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>?¡± I manage to stammer, my heart dancing in my chest.


    I shall not answer questions.


    The <mark>Seemorg</mark> remains motionless, but its voice resonates within my skull loud and clear.


    No questions, huh? Fine. I¡¯ll try a different tactic.


    ¡°I want to enter,¡± I declare, mustering a semblance of confidence.


    State your purpose.


    ¡°I already told you,¡± I growl and instantly wish to swallow back my words. This isn¡¯t some petty argument with Pippin; this is a creature capable of turning me into a feather duster with a single swipe of its talons. I must tread carefully, or I might end up as a stain on the courtyard floor.


    ¡°I¡¯m not here for glory, recognition, or some grand adventure. I long for a place where I truly belong and can use my skills to make a difference. I want to serve <mark>Martysh</mark>. I want to be a part of something bigger than myself.¡±


    I finish with a high voice, hoping I sound like a valiant hero. But the <mark>Seemorg</mark> just stares at me with those piercing eyes, as if it can see right through me, straight into the gaping void where my self-esteem should be.


    You talk of yearning to belong. What makes you think you will belong in <mark>Jahanwatch</mark> when you failed to find it elsewhere?


    The creature¡¯s voice remains calm, yet its question pierces me like lightning. Now, that is a question worth a bard¡¯s song. And truth be told, I do not have the faintest clue. If I claim that other lands suddenly developed an aversion to overly enthusiastic, slightly neurotic sorceresses, would the <mark>Seemorg</mark> believe me? I think not. The truth is, being an outsider might be simply my fate, even if I were to become a <mark>Martyshyar</mark>. But honesty has gotten me this far, so why not be truthful once more?


    ¡°I was born in Myra and raised in <mark>Firelands</mark>. However, I have never truly felt at home in either.¡±


    A moment of silence follows, heavy and uncomfortable. The creature¡¯s gaze remains fixed on me, and I know I haven¡¯t fully answered its question. With a sigh, I continue, ¡°I can¡¯t say for certain I will belong here either. But perhaps, <mark>amidst</mark> the challenges and company, I¡¯ll find a sense of purpose and belonging that has eluded me thus far. And who knows, maybe a small excitement wouldn¡¯t hurt either!¡±


    I force a nervous laugh, trying to mask my growing anxiety with a weak attempt at humor.


    Keep it together, <mark>Arien</mark>!


    I silently scold myself, realizing the gravity of the moment.


    The <mark>Seemorg</mark> cocks its head, and its voice echoes in my skull. Hardly a good reason to join the legends of <mark>Martysh</mark>.


    A flimsy reason. That much is certain. A wave of anxiety floods in my gut. Nine <mark>hells</mark>, I¡¯m blowing this opportunity. This isn¡¯t a test of strength and courage; this magnificent creature wants to know my true worth. And the truth is, I am not even sure of it myself. How can I convince this being of my value when I doubt it myself? I have stumbled upon this opportunity before anyone else, yet here I am, stuck at this damned barrier, wherever it is, with no way forward.


    Just as despair threatens to consume me, I glance up at the majestic creature, half-eagle, half-wolf. Its imposing form shimmers for a fleeting moment, and a cherished memory emerges. It¡¯s <mark>Nejir</mark>, my beloved wolf companion. Her brown fur mirrored the creature¡¯s own. I found her as a pup, a tiny ball of fur and fear, abandoned by her pack. I took her in and raised her in the secrecy of my small room until she was big enough to survive by herself when I returned her to the wild. Over the years, I would venture into the woods to meet her, and we shared an unbreakable bond until her passing. She was a source of warmth and companionship in my solitary life.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Maybe it¡¯s the desperation of the moment or remembering <mark>Nejir</mark>, the constant loyalty she¡¯d shown me, But I am suddenly filled with a newfound openness. And the words pour out, a torrent of truth I¡¯ve never dared speak aloud.


    ¡°I am a bastard, the hidden shame of High Lord <mark>Hankin</mark> <mark>Hemwort</mark> of Myra, though I grew up unaware of my lineage. Hidden away with the gamekeeper and his wife on the outskirts of <mark>Myrielfort</mark>, I knew only that the people I lived with weren¡¯t my own. They made that abundantly clear.¡±


    I pause, uncertain whether I should continue. Why am I sharing my deepest secrets with this creature, this figment of my imagination? But a defiant voice in me urges me to continue. Even if this is all an illusion, I want my truth to be heard once, if only for this fleeting moment. I soldier on.


    ¡°Whispers of the truth first reached me when I was eight. I overheard the castle gardeners gossiping, calling me the High Lord¡¯s bastard. After that, I often sneak onto the castle grounds, observing the seemingly perfect family from afar. The High Lord himself taught his eldest son swordplay, and his daughter, close to my age, would giggle as he taught her to ride ponies. They shared nightly meals in the grand hall. I used to hear their laughter coming through the windows as I watched from outside. He appeared to be a loving father, not a ruthless ruler or a man who would abandon his own flesh and blood.¡±


    ¡°A child¡¯s mind is a tangled web, and mine spun a cruel tale to explain it all. I can¡¯t recall when I first noticed my strange abilities¡ªmoving objects with a thought, cooling the cupboard I slept in during sweltering summer days. Lacking any knowledge of sorcerers or sorcery, I believed I was abandoned because of this curse inside me. I thought I was a freak, and prayer became my only refuge. I would beg the Nine Sisters to heal me, to take away the strangeness that kept me alone. And so, I practiced concealing my sorcery, hoping it would eventually disappear if I didn¡¯t use it.¡±


    ¡°For a brief period, the strange events seemed to decrease. Hoping to prove my normality to my father and everyone else, I went to <mark>Myrielfort</mark> and concealed myself in the shadows of a castle hallway, waiting for the High Lord. He arrived late at night with a companion. When I emerged from the shadow, I saw recognition in his eyes. But it was quickly replaced by a chilling coldness. The fear in my heart silenced the rehearsed words I had prepared for moons. The emptiness in his gaze drowned all I wanted to say. After years of witnessing his love for his <mark>trueborn</mark> children, I was met with nothing but disdain. Before I could even plead, he uttered a single, dismissive word: ¡®Take her away.¡¯¡±


    ¡°The woman who was with him accompanied me back to the outskirts. At first, I was too numb to understand what had happened. But as we journeyed, the weight of reality crashed down on me. It initiated my very first panic outbreak. After that, these outbreaks became a recurring struggle throughout my life. Fear constricted my lungs, and I lost control of myself, wetting myself in the process. With a wave of her hand, she cast a healing spell, easing my breathing and cleansing my soiled clothes. In my confusion, I asked if she, too, was cursed. She explained she was a sorceress and asked if I had similar abilities. When I confessed the truth, she revealed that others like me existed and mentioned a place called <mark>Firelands</mark>. She assured me they would send for me when spring arrived, and I turned nine, old enough to attend the Academy at Fire Temple.¡±


    ¡°I asked her if she lived in <mark>Firelands</mark>. She said she used to, but now she was a <mark>Martyshwoman</mark>. After that, she visited me daily, teaching me to read and write. During our lessons, I could always see worry and affection in her eyes¡ªworry that I later came to understand. She foresaw the life I would have in <mark>Firelands</mark>, which deeply troubled her. When the <mark>Firelands</mark> envoys arrived to take me away, the <mark>Martyshwoman</mark> hugged me goodbye. It was the first and only hug I¡¯d ever received. It was brief, but it meant the world to me. She left me with this.¡±


    I reach under my tunic and pull out a worn leather cord, revealing a single gold coin fashioned into a necklace.


    ¡°This <mark>Martysh</mark> coin is my only real treasure. It has been a constant source of comfort throughout the years. Its giver was kind, and that memory of light and care always stayed with me. There was no ulterior motive, no expectation of reward, just pure kindness. I¡¯ve always wondered if <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>, this place, fostered such compassion. In Myra and <mark>Firelands</mark>, I could never find it. If I could receive just kindness here or learn to offer even a fraction of it, to be a glimmer of hope for someone in need, then perhaps this is where I truly belong.¡±


    I fall silent, my gaze locked with the winged wolf¡¯s. I feel vulnerable, naked, realizing that this is the first time I¡¯ve spoken of my story out loud. And now that I have heard it myself, I realize how small and insignificant my reasons for joining <mark>Martysh</mark> are.


    In <mark>Firelands</mark>, I was simply known as an orphan. But here, in this surreal encounter, I¡¯ve laid bare my deepest secrets, my hidden shame. If I¡¯m to be cast back into the valley, back to the life I¡¯ve always known, I want someone, even if it¡¯s just this magnificent creature, to understand the depths of my longing and the reasons behind my desperate pursuit of <mark>Martysh</mark>, even if it¡¯s not a good enough reason.


    The <mark>Seemorg¡¯s</mark> gaze holds me captive. Its eyes reflect a wisdom that transcends words. It blinks slowly, thoughtfully, as if weighing the weight of my confession. The silence stretches on, and a palpable tension hangs in the air as I await its judgment.


    And then, the strangest thing happens. With a graceful, fluid motion, the <mark>Seemorg</mark> bends its powerful back knees. I instinctively know what it means. It¡¯s inviting me to mount its formidable form!


    My heart pounds with a blend of shock and fear, but a surge of audacious determination quickly takes over. Reminding myself that this is all in my head, an illusion, I approach the creature and place my right foot on <mark>Seemorg¡¯s</mark> knee to hoist myself onto its back. When I¡¯m finally settled and gripping its fur tightly, the creature unfurls its massive wings and launches into the sky.


    My grip tightens, and my knuckles turn white as I hold onto the creature¡¯s fur. I gasp as terror crawls up my throat when we rise into the sky. The wind rushes through my hair, and a blend of exhilaration and fear consumes me. But, the <mark>Seemorg¡¯s</mark> back is wide and sturdy, making my seat feel surprisingly secure. As we soar higher, my anxieties start to fade, and a sense of awe and wonder fills my inside.


    The world below diminishes, along with the weight of my worries. The setting sun bathes the mountains in a warm glow. A gasp escapes my lips, a sound of pure joy and freedom. In this moment, I feel weightless, liberated, as if all my troubles have been swept away by the wind, leaving only the thrill of flight and the stunning beauty of the landscape beneath me.


    But just as quickly as it began, the moment of tranquility shatters. With a sudden, heart-wrenching lurch, the <mark>Seemorg</mark> performs a terrifying mid-air maneuver as its mighty wings beat against the air. Before I can even grasp the situation, the creature flips in the air, sending me plummeting through the sky like a stone. The world becomes a dizzying blur of blue, yellow, and green, a terrifying painting of my impending doom¡ªa silent scream tears through me as I brace for impact. My heart hammers in my ears when I close my eyes in surrender.


    And the world goes dark again!

 Chapter Seven

    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¡ªI¡¯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>¡ªthat 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 ¨C <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> ¨C 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.

 Chapter Eight

    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¡ªpoor, 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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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¡ªthe 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¡ªthe 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.

 Chapter Nine

    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¡ªmoves 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 ¨C 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¡ªa 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:


    <sup>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. </sup>


    <sup>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.</sup>


    <sup>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. </sup>


    <sup>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.</sup>


    <sup>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. </sup>


    <sup>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. </sup>


    <sup>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. </sup>


    <sup>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. </sup>


    <sup>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. </sup>


    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:


    <sup>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. </sup>Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    <sup>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. </sup>


    <sup>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.</sup>


    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 ¨C 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¡ªthirteen 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.

 Chapter Ten

    <mark>Eshavan</mark>, with a curt nod towards the door, utters, ¡°Follow me if you may.¡±


    Surprise passes through me. Is he talking to me? After two moons of icy silence on the road to here from <mark>Firelands</mark>, this single sentence feels like a verbal avalanche. I¡¯m too stunned to resist, so I stand up and follow him out of the library.


    Honestly, I find myself increasingly perplexed by his behavior. Although our interactions in the alchemy hall were not warm, he always treated me with politeness and seemed to value my input, often asking me questions and sharing task details. His approach set him apart from the other alchemists, and I even began to hope for some camaraderie when I learned he was joining the fellowship. However, he completely disregarded my presence throughout our journey from <mark>Firelands</mark> to <mark>Jahanwatch</mark> as if we had never met before. As we leave the library and head towards the adjacent alchemy room, I can¡¯t help but wonder about his sudden behavior change from the alchemy days and what he might want from me now.


    The alchemy chamber is just down the same corridor as the library. But in contrast with the solemn library, it is a mirthful jumble of strange and absurd sights. Glass vials filled with bubbling liquids line the shelves. The colors range from emerald green to ominous blood red as if a mad alchemist couldn¡¯t decide between making a potion or fruit juice. Rows of dried herbs hang from the ceiling. Shelves are lined with countless jars, each containing a meticulously preserved specimen ¨C think grotesque insects, gnarled roots, and even a few shriveled animal parts. In the center of the room, a large stone cauldron rests atop a roaring fire.


    <mark>Eshavan</mark> strides purposefully towards a wooden table nestled against the chamber¡¯s wall, where two smaller cauldrons simmer over a low flame. One cauldron bubbles with an emerald green concoction, while the other seethes with a deep, dark purple hue. I watch him intently, trying to gather the meaning of it all. At this point, If he is secretly trying to recruit me for his secret potion-making society, I wouldn¡¯t be surprised.


    <mark>Eshavan</mark>, noticing my bewilderment, explains, ¡°These are potions I prepared for our fellowship. The green one is for healing and cleansing wounds, while the purple one helps build stamina and deter fatigue.¡±


    Wait, is he offering me the opportunity to use these potions? My eyes widen in surprise, but I quickly remember the strict rules. ¡°But¡­ we¡¯re not allowed to use sorcery in the trials,¡±


    ¡°No sorcery was involved in the making of these potions. They¡¯re based on ancient <mark>Madrisa</mark> recipes, from herbs and other natural ingredients.¡± He pauses. As always, his expression betrays nothing. ¡°The trials can strike at any moment. It¡¯s wise to keep a pouch on you at all times, stocked with these potions, dry food, water, and other essentials. You never know what dangers you might face.¡±


    I stand here, momentarily speechless. His jawline is so sharp it can cut diamonds, and his eyes are so vividly colored they practically command their own realm. It is almost unfair how handsome he is as if the gods have used up all the good on him and left the rest of us with mismatched socks and a tendency to snort when we laugh.


    I clearly remember the first time I laid eyes on <mark>Eshavan</mark>. I was a timid nine-year-old, fresh off in <mark>Firelands</mark> from Myra. Even at thirteen, he cast a long shadow, chilling every room with an unspoken, potent power. It clung to the air long after he¡¯d disappeared down a corridor, leaving an indelible mark on everyone, myself included. He didn¡¯t need to say much; his presence alone spoke volumes.


    To my younger self, he was like a mythical creature, a shining embodiment of everything I wasn¡¯t: popular, powerful, and destined for greatness. I, on the other hand, was a wisp of a girl, lost, scared, ostracized shadow, unseen and unheard.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Every time our paths crossed, I would get a severe case of the flutters, a strange blend of awe and intimidation that tied my tongue in knots. It became better when we started working together in the alchemy hall, but even then, I still couldn¡¯t shake that feeling entirely. So, I tried to avoid him as much as I could. He always had a way of turning me into a bumbling, blushing mess, which is why I¡¯m genuinely surprised at my sudden burst of bravery when I speak, ¡°Thanks for the potions, <mark>Eshavan</mark>. But I¡¯d be even more grateful if you could, you know, press the other <mark>Ahiras</mark> in the direction of helping me win these trials instead of leaving me out in the cold.¡±


    I hold my breath, awaiting his response. To my surprise, he doesn¡¯t look surprised at my audacity. He remains silent, his keen eyes studying me. For a fleeting moment, I sense that he is wrestling with his own thoughts, though nothing is evident on his face.


    ¡°My task isn¡¯t to ensure your victory or any of the <mark>Ahiras</mark>¡¯,¡± he finally declares, his voice firm but laced with a hint of reluctance.


    ¡°But <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emmeline</mark> himself gave me his blessing,¡±


    ¡°Perhaps he did. But he didn¡¯t explicitly instruct me to aid you in winning.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that implied, though? Did he need to spell it out?¡± I retort, my voice rising. Gods, just a few moons ago in the Fire Temple, I wouldn¡¯t have dared to question a senior <mark>Ahira</mark> like this, let alone <mark>Eshavan</mark> <mark>Eriel</mark>. But something about this place, this competition, is making me challenge things, even the most respected <mark>Ahira</mark> of our generation. ¡°Honestly, I don¡¯t care about orders. I¡¯m here to win and need all the help I can get.¡±


    <mark>Eshavan</mark> remains unfazed as his icy emerald eyes meet mine. He has the kind of expression that suggested he¡¯d once stared down a charging bull while simultaneously calculating his taxes in his head¡­and won. But strangely, none of that scares me, ¡°Traditionally, <mark>Ahiras</mark> who participate in these trials assist anyone who expresses a desire to win. It¡¯s always been this way. Why is it different now, just because I¡¯m a fourth-ringed? Or that I¡¯m a sorceress?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the <mark>Firelands</mark>¡¯ council that usually instructs the other <mark>Ahiras</mark> to help whoever is aiming for the win. Like I said, no one has given us those orders this time.¡± His voice is firm, final.


    ¡°Alright, fine. No orders.¡± I utter, trying to keep the frustration from seeping into my voice. ¡°But couldn¡¯t you, I don¡¯t know, choose to help me? I¡¯m not asking for the moon and stars, just a small help.¡± My voice falters, and I bite my lip.


    Despite his best efforts, a flicker of something unreadable softens his expression. ¡°I¡¯m here to ensure the safety of our entire fellowship, including you. But that¡¯s the extent of my commitment. I won¡¯t make promises I can¡¯t keep.¡± He gestures towards the empty vials on the table. ¡°Take as much of the potions as you need.¡± And with that, he turns and walks away, leaving me alone with my swirling emotions.


    Isolation claws at my heart, its icy fingers tracing the familiar patterns of helplessness. My old foes, the panic attacks that have haunted me since childhood, are again threatening to consume me whole. This well-worn path is familiar. If I let these emotions flow, It always ends with a dizzying descent into hysteria and a choking despair that leaves me gasping for air. It would be so easy to succumb, to let the darkness drown me.


    But I clench my jaw in defiance. I¡¯ve learned to fight back. I¡¯ve built walls around my heart, brick by agonizing brick. I have carved a path where I depend on no one. They can¡¯t affect me if I don¡¯t let them.


    Get a grip, <mark>Arien</mark>. You¡¯ve got this. Breathe in, breathe out.


    Each breath is a battle won, a small victory against the suffocating tide of despair before it even dares to approach me. My gaze falls on the empty vials, a cruel reminder of <mark>Eshavan¡¯s</mark> condescending offer. It¡¯s not the support I crave nor the understanding that would truly soothe the wounds that fester in me. But it¡¯s something. And I¡¯ll take it.


    A surge of anger courses through me, hot and fierce. When I win these trials and prove them all wrong, I¡¯ll shove these empty vials in <mark>Eshavan¡¯s</mark> face and thank him for his generosity. I can practically see the shock twist his features, the disbelief in his eyes. In all their eyes.


    A defiant smirk curves my lips. I will not break. I will not be defined by their doubts or their pity. And with a resolute hand, I fill the vials.

 Chapter Eleven

    On the ninth day after the first trial, as the sun dips below the horizon, we nervously assemble in the inner ward. My heart beats a frantic rhythm as a drumbeat of dread echoes my fervent prayer: please, no sword fights, no duels to the death. I¡¯m more of a strategically hide behind a potted plant and wait for the right time to strike kind of warrior.


    Suddenly, the ancient oak doors of the keep creak open, and a figure emerges, resplendent in dark green and gold. It¡¯s the same <mark>Martyshyar</mark> who greeted us before the first trial. He¡¯s wearing the same coat adorned with eight gold stars, making him only one rank below <mark>Martyshbod</mark> <mark>Faelar</mark>. Flanked by a triad of seven-starred <mark>Martyshyars</mark> looking like they¡¯d rather be anywhere else, he descends the steps with the measured pace of a man who¡¯s never spilled a drop of tea in his life. Reaching the bottom, his gaze sweeps over us with a cold, calculating appraisal.


    ¡°I am <mark>Martyshyar</mark> <mark>Kamran</mark>,¡± his voice slices through the nervous whispers. Apparently, we weren¡¯t important enough for an introduction before the last trial. ¡°The second trial demands partnership. You have a tenth of the hourglass to find one. Failure to forge an alliance results in elimination.¡±


    A wave of shock ripples through the crowd. Confusion clouds everyone¡¯s faces. Partners? We are supposed to be rivals, not teammates. This unexpected twist, this reliance on another, is a wrench that sends my heart racing. I remember that seventy-three contenders remain. An odd number. Someone¡¯s getting the boot before the trial even begins!


    My eyes dart towards the <mark>Ahiras</mark> with a desperate plea in my gaze. Seven of us are still in the game. My breath hitches, and a cold sweat breaks out on my skin as I push through the crowd, my heart pounding like a war drum.


    ¡°Pippin!¡± <mark>Maleed¡¯s</mark> voice cuts through the din as I reach them. ¡°Partner with <mark>Kameel</mark>. <mark>Alizan</mark> and <mark>Elranz</mark>, you¡¯ll be together. <mark>Eshavan</mark> and I will be a pair.¡±


    ¡°Wait, what about me?¡± I blurt out, panic rising in my throat. They turn with surprise as if they¡¯d forgotten I existed.


    ¡°It looks like we¡¯re fresh out of partners,¡± <mark>Maleed</mark> responds with a dismissive shrug as if my predicament is of no consequence for his highness.


    ¡°But¡­ but <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emmenshah</mark> himself gave me his blessing! He said I should win this for <mark>Firelands</mark>!¡±


    ¡°Did he?¡± <mark>Kameel</mark> drawls skeptically.


    A wave of anger flares inside me, but I suppress it and try to keep my voice steady. ¡°You are not here to win! I am. I told the council I wanted to win. I think it¡¯s only fair that you help me.¡±


    <mark>Maleed¡¯s</mark> eyebrows shoot up before he speaks with a voice dripping with condescension. ¡°Aren¡¯t you getting ahead of yourself? Last I checked, you were still a lowly four-ringed sorceress, not the Queen of <mark>Firelands</mark>.¡±


    A raw scream claws at the back of my throat, a primal urge to unleash the fury brewing inside me. It would be so satisfying to let it rip and watch them cringe under my rage. But I bite it back. Instead, I force calmness into my voice and try to reason with them, to appeal to their logic, even though every fiber of my being screams at the futility of it all.


    ¡°I¡¯m not asking for a crown, just a scrap of cooperation! If you are all planning on losing these trials eventually, why not one of you bow out now before risking the trial that might be dangerous? Isn¡¯t that perfect excuse for one of you to be eliminated without raising suspicions?¡±


    <mark>Kameel</mark> sneers, ¡°We don¡¯t take orders from you, girl.¡±


    I swallow hard. Anger simmers in my gut, but panic is starting to set in, too. A quick survey of the courtyard confirms my worst fears. The <mark>Izadeonians</mark> and <mark>Kishis</mark> are as thick as thieves. The <mark>Jamshahis</mark> and <mark>Eyrians</mark> have also paired up, and the remaining <mark>Myrans</mark> and <mark>Aramisis</mark> are huddled together. Even the <mark>Hamden</mark> and <mark>Maravan</mark> crews are whispering and plotting. It¡¯s official: I¡¯m the last one standing.


    Despair wraps its icy fingers around my heart, squeezing tight. Is this it? Is my lifelong dream of becoming a <mark>Martyshyar</mark> about to be snuffed out by this cruel game of alliances? My chest feels like it¡¯s caving in, and every breath is a struggle. I can almost touch the upcoming panic attack that creeps in closer and closer. And right here, in front of everyone¡¯s eyes! I push the shadows back, but it¡¯s a losing battle.


    I should have worked on fostering friendships and building alliances. I should have said yes to the <mark>Izadeonian</mark> invitations instead of burying myself in the library. My stomach churns as I picture my future: back in the <mark>Firelands</mark> library, surrounded by the smell of old books and dust, growing old and forgotten until someone stumbles on my withered corpse years later. It is a fitting end¡ªa life lived in isolation, ending in isolation.


    NO! I refuse to give up. I turn to my last hope, the <mark>Ahiras</mark>. I¡¯m willing to swallow my pride and kneel in front of them if I have to. <mark>Kameel</mark> and <mark>Maleed</mark> look at me like I¡¯m something unpleasant they stepped on, and Pippin¡¯s sympathetic glance is about as useful as an empty teapot. So I turn to the only man whose words carry a weight here. <mark>Eshavan¡¯s</mark> emerald eyes, cold as ice, lock onto mine, and for a split second, I think I see something flicker in their depths. It¡¯s gone in a flash, but I cling to it like a lifeline.


    ¡°Please,¡± my voice breaks as I look directly into his eyes. I don¡¯t think anyone else heard, but <mark>Eshavan¡¯s</mark> eyes shift just a fraction. It¡¯s the smallest glimmer of hope in a sea of despair, and I¡¯m desperate enough to grab onto it with both hands. ¡°Please,¡± I repeat, my voice louder this time.


    ¡°Are you looking for a partner?¡± a voice booms from behind.


    I whip around, heart pounding, and there¡¯s <mark>Daryan</mark>. His eyes flicker towards the <mark>Ahiras</mark>. A hint of disgust twists his features before he focuses on me again, frozen in a moment of pure panic.


    The <mark>Kishis</mark> nearby are sporting matching looks of shock. Did <mark>Daryan</mark> just abandon them like yesterday¡¯s leftovers? A strangled squeak escapes my throat. ¡°Weren¡¯t you¡­¡±


    ¡°Do you need a partner or not?¡± <mark>Daryan</mark> asks impatiently.


    ¡°Yes! I do, I do!¡± I almost shout.


    ¡°Good,¡± he grunts curtly, then turns his steely gaze toward the <mark>Kishis</mark>. ¡°Sorry. Plans have changed. We¡¯re full.¡±


    A roar of outrage erupts from them. ¡°Nine <mark>hells</mark>, <mark>Daryan</mark>!¡± Lila, the girl who talked to me on our climb to <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>, shouts. ¡°We had an agreement! You can¡¯t just abandon it!¡±


    The others echo her fury. <mark>Daryan</mark> shrugs with an impassive expression. ¡°Circumstances change. I shall do what¡¯s best for my fellowship.¡±


    One of the <mark>Kishi</mark> men, fury contorting his face, advances on <mark>Daryan</mark> in a menacing stride. <mark>Bryn</mark> steps forward and materializes between them. The sight of the hulking warrior is enough to halt the <mark>Kishi</mark> man in his tracks. No one, not in their right mind, would dare challenge <mark>Bryn</mark>.


    <mark>Daryan</mark> surveys the dismayed <mark>Kishis</mark> with cold indifference, then turns to the <mark>Izadeonians</mark>. ¡°Change of plans. <mark>Arien</mark> will be with me. <mark>Corvys</mark>, you¡¯ll be with <mark>Cyrias</mark> instead.¡± Finally, he meets my gaze with a curt nod as if sealing our unexpected alliance.


    I can barely draw a breath. One moment, I was staring down the barrel of elimination; the next, I am paired with a contender as formidable as <mark>Daryan</mark>. I don¡¯t look back at the <mark>Ahiras</mark> as I walk toward him. Damn them. I am done with those self-serving, <mark>cold-hearted</mark> bastards.


    And just like that, <mark>Martyshyar</mark> <mark>Kamran</mark> shouts, ¡°Time is up. Step forward with your partner.¡±


    The remaining aspirants stand in pairs with a flurry of movement and hushed last-minute arrangements. The <mark>Kishis</mark> are still in a huddle and continue to bicker <mark>amongst</mark> themselves. <mark>Martyshyar¡¯s</mark> voice rises again. ¡°Now!¡±


    The <mark>Kishis</mark> reluctantly pair up, leaving one man isolated. As the last ray of the sun vanishes below the horizon, he collapses, unconscious. Two <mark>Martyshmen</mark> appear from the corner, dragging his body away.


    ¡°He will wake up tomorrow in the valley with nothing but a headache and a long sail back to <mark>Kish</mark>. You, however,¡± his gaze sweeps over us, ¡°may not be so fortunate.¡±


    We all know what he means. This round isn¡¯t a game of merit or cunning anymore. Our lives are at stake.


    <mark>Martyshyar</mark> continues, ¡°Working in pairs, Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to find an artifact. You¡¯ll recognize it when you see it. Return with this prize by midnight, and you shall pass. Failure to return by the watching hour, or returning empty-handed or without your pair, and you will find yourselves waking in the valley come sunrise. Suppose you are alive, of course. When you arrive with your artifact, you shall place it on that table.¡± He points to a long table on the right side of the courtyard. ¡°At that point, you¡¯re not allowed to engage with those still in the competition. The sooner you arrive, the higher your rank. The trial begins now.¡±Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    The courtyard erupts in a chaotic scramble. Some sprint headlong into the maw of the main keep. Others dash towards the other wards, and a few dart for keeps around the inner ward. The <mark>Izadeonians</mark> stand firm, not surrendering to the frenzy. Their eyes dart between <mark>Daryan</mark>, <mark>Bryn</mark>, and <mark>Corbyn</mark>, their obvious leader.


    ¡°Let¡¯s divide and conquer,¡± <mark>Corbyn</mark> rumbles. ¡°More ground covered, higher chance of finding this mystery prize.¡±


    ¡°Three wards to cover,¡± <mark>Bryn</mark> states, his voice flat and matter-of-fact.


    <mark>Corbyn</mark> adds, ¡°And several watchtowers.¡±


    ¡°<mark>Arien</mark> and I will search the main keep,¡± <mark>Daryan</mark> declares, gesturing towards the imposing keep that dominates the inner courtyard, the biggest structure in the castle.


    ¡°Library and kitchens are ours,¡± <mark>Corbyn</mark> chimes in, assigning roles with military precision. ¡°<mark>Varydas</mark> and <mark>Hamzyn</mark>, you take the western ward. <mark>Umyr</mark> and <mark>Jaymar</mark>, the southern ward is yours. <mark>Cyrias</mark> and <mark>Corvys</mark> explore the watchtowers.¡±


    The plan is clear and efficient.


    <mark>Daryan</mark> orders, ¡°Whoever finds their artifact blows the whistle. We regroup here and share the spoils before placing the artifact on that table.¡±


    Everyone nods their heads in obedience before <mark>Daryan</mark> and I, a newly minted pair, burst toward the main keep. We breeze through the massive oak doors without a single guard stopping us like we own the place.


    Corridors snake off in every direction, and shadowy doorways lurk around every corner. This place has more twists and turns than my father¡¯s love life. We could spend the rest of our lives poking around in every nook and cranny and probably still miss the secret room where they keep the sweets.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take the left. You take the right,¡± <mark>Daryan</mark> barks as he dives headfirst into the nearest room. ¡°It has to be something obvious. Don¡¯t waste time searching every hole in the wall!¡±


    But he doesn¡¯t know. He can¡¯t know. For all we know, the object could be a speck of dust hidden in a crack in the wall or a massive, glowing orb sitting in plain sight. All we were told was that we will recognize it when we see it.


    I push open the first door, revealing a huge chamber filled with chests, towering bookshelves, and overflowing closets. With careful precision, I start my search. Every chest is opened, every paper and parchment sifted through, every drawer inspected, every piece of furniture scrutinized. No corner goes unchecked. By the time I¡¯m done, I feel like I¡¯ve aged a decade. This keep is a monster, and even with our divide-and-conquer approach, I¡¯m starting to think we are fighting a losing battle.


    I tear through the second room, but my mind is still in the last one. Did I miss the hidden artifact in the first room, buried under a mountain of forgotten documents? There is no time to dwell on it now; the sand is dripping.


    As I move to the next even larger chamber, a sense of dread starts growing inside me. With each room, the fear of failing becomes stronger. What if I¡¯ve already passed the object hidden beneath a pile of papers? I force myself to remain focused, holding on to the hope that maybe someone else will find the artifact, and their method of discovery or recognizing the shape of the artifact will be our salvation in the end.


    Room after room blurs together like a collection of wasted time. The keep¡¯s layout seems to mock me, and doubt creeps in like a cold draft. By the time I finish the ground floor¡¯s left side, I¡¯m exhausted. I don¡¯t know the time, but we can¡¯t be too far away from midnight. <mark>Daryan¡¯s</mark> noisy rummaging echoes from above. Ascending the stairs, I¡¯m greeted by a seemingly endless hallway of doors. Six floors in this keep alone, apart from its own watchtowers and battlements. Panic starts to nibble at the edges of my composure.


    Random. Illogical.


    These are the words that keep swirling in my mind. Can this truly be the test? Was mindlessly rummaging through drawers the key to becoming <mark>Martyshyar</mark>? It feels utterly useless to me. But I need another perspective.


    Pushing open the door where I last heard <mark>Daryan</mark>, I find him in the midst of his unorthodox search. Unlike my methodical exploration, <mark>Daryan</mark> is rifling through drawers, their contents spilling onto the floor in a chaotic mess. I can¡¯t help but picture the furious <mark>Martyshmen</mark> ¨C this place will likely need a complete reorganization after tonight.


    ¡°This can¡¯t be it,¡± I blurt out, ¡°There has to be something we¡¯re missing!¡±


    <mark>Daryan</mark> spares me a quick glance, his hands still working with the intensity of a man possessed. ¡°I¡¯m open to suggestions,¡±


    ¡°These trials are meant to test our skills. Searching every hole isn¡¯t exactly a noble skill.¡±


    ¡°Agreed,¡± he concedes with a grunt. ¡°I¡¯ve been wracking my brain this whole time but haven¡¯t come up with another idea yet. At least I¡¯m not standing still.¡±


    I cast my mind back to <mark>Martyshyar</mark> <mark>Kamran¡¯s</mark> instructions. Time until midnight. We¡¯ll know the object when we see it. That was all he said. Unlike the first challenge, there are no riddles in his words, no cryptic hints.


    But have the last nine days offered any clues? I sift through my memories, replaying my explorations of the fortress, searching for a spark of recognition. <mark>Jahanwatch</mark>, however, is a treasure trove of oddities - every corner is crammed with peculiar artifacts and hidden passageways. Nothing specific jumps out at me.


    ¡°Are you going to stand there pondering the meaning of life or lend a hand to the search?¡± <mark>Daryan¡¯s</mark> voice drips with dry sarcasm.


    He probably regrets partnering with me. I feel guilty but can¡¯t shake the feeling that mindless ransacking isn¡¯t the answer. So I plant myself on my spot like a stubborn weed, refusing to move.


    Nine days. Nine days of observations, conversations, explorations, and reading. The <mark>Martyshmen</mark>, characteristically secretive, offered nothing. They barely talked to us since our arrival.


    I mentally retrace my steps, revisiting every unlocked room when I walked across the castle, from the storerooms holding forgotten sabers to the giant infirmary, the library, and the Alchemist¡¯s rooms. Nothing triggers any sense of abnormality. It could be anything, though, perhaps an unassuming object I had overlooked during my explorations.


    My mind races as I mentally flip through the books I devoured in the library. The trials barely received any attention. And then, suddenly, a spark ignites in my mind. I almost blurt out a strangled cry before catching myself.


    ¡°There was something!¡± I finally manage to say, stopping <mark>Daryan¡¯s</mark> mid-drawer-toss. He whirls around.


    ¡°In the library. One of the books had a peculiar sentence. It¡¯s what <mark>Martyshbod</mark> <mark>Faelar</mark> said on the first night.¡±


    <mark>Daryan¡¯s</mark> foot taps impatiently on the floor, but he is paying attention.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t she say something about each trial¡­giving us an advantage for the next one?¡±


    He shoots me a skeptical look. ¡°I remember. She probably meant we get the advantage of moving on to the next round.¡±


    ¡°But what if there¡¯s more to it? The first trial proved that we should take everything they say to us literally. ¡®Every word, every sign, every piece of information could be crucial,¡¯ <mark>Faelar</mark> said. Maybe each trial gives us something tangible to help us in the next one.¡±


    <mark>Daryan</mark> pauses and turns entirely toward me. ¡°Hmm, that¡¯s a wild proposition, <mark>Arien</mark>. But what advantage did we actually gain from that first trial besides a ticket to this prison? The <mark>Seemorg</mark> didn¡¯t exactly hand out sweets. It didn¡¯t even talk to me.¡±


    ¡°Me neither. It was a one-sided exchange at best. After the trials, though. They gave us quarters, new clothes, access to the kitchen, library, weapons in the training ground¡­¡±


    ¡°Maybe it¡¯s something hidden in our chambers?¡±


    ¡°It has to be something significant. Something we wouldn¡¯t have gotten if we¡¯d flunked the first trial.¡±


    <mark>Daryan</mark> shrugs, still skeptical. ¡°All I remember is that the first trial was essentially a ¡®get in or get out¡¯ situation. No hidden treasures, no secret handshakes.¡±


    Then it strikes me as a bolt of lightning splits through the fog of confusion. <mark>Daryan¡¯s</mark> face mirrors my sudden realization as my eyes dart to the bands encircling our wrists. The very bands they¡¯d slapped on us in the courtyard upon our arrival, marking us as contenders.


    I¡¯d barely given it a second thought after that first night. I¡¯d showered with it, slept with it, and practically forgotten its existence. It is snug around my wrist, impossible to remove without a knife.


    The band itself is nothing special; it is just a plain black leather strap with a gold <mark>Martysh</mark> coin dabbed in the middle, the only thing that breaks up the endless black. The <mark>Martysh</mark> <mark>sigil</mark> ¨C a wolf¡¯s head intertwined with an eagle¡¯s head ¨C is etched into the metal.


    <mark>Daryan</mark> mirrors my movement and touches his wrist. A moment later, his eyes widen as he flips the golden metal over. ¡°There¡¯s something on the back,¡±


    I already know what he sees. Two hands clasped together, holding on each other¡¯s forearms, above the wrist, and below the elbow. The first time I saw it, I assumed it was a symbol of sworn allegiance between the provinces. No grand revelation there. Just a simple symbol on a simple band.


    ¡°Look,¡± <mark>Daryan</mark> growls. ¡°We¡¯re burning sand here, and I¡¯m not about to fail this trial because we¡¯re playing ¡®guess the hidden meaning¡¯ with a piece of leather. You think searching every nook and cranny is a waste of time? Fine. Do as you please. But I¡¯d rather wear out my boots than sit here pondering riddles.¡±


    With that, he barges out of the room, stomping towards the next chamber along the hallway.


    The leather band, the <mark>Martyshyar¡¯s</mark> cryptic words ¨C it feels so close, a puzzle on the verge of being solved. But I can¡¯t blame his frustration. A heavy sigh escapes my lips as I trail behind him.


    Below the stairs, on the landing floor, two <mark>Jamshahi</mark> women are locked in a heated debate. I recognize them. Their names are <mark>Samira</mark> and <mark>Olanna</mark>. They are the top two <mark>Jamshahis</mark> on the <mark>leaderboard</mark>, trailing behind <mark>Maleed</mark>. Are they arguing about the same thing? Maybe this partnership was the real test ¨C to see how well we could cooperate under the pressure of a seemingly pointless task.


    And with that thought, the answer sparks in my mind.


    ¡°<mark>Daryan</mark>!¡± I call out.


    He pauses, with an eyebrow raised in question. As much as he seems frustrated with me, I have to appreciate how he stops at my call every time instead of ignoring me entirely.


    With a surge of confidence, I approach him and extend my arm. Confusion clouds his features as I gesture towards his arm. ¡°Hold my forearm,¡± I urge, tilting my head towards the symbol on the band. ¡°Like the symbol.¡±


    Hesitation dances in his eyes for a moment, and then a spark of understanding dawns. He mirrors my pose, and our forearms press together, wrists aligned where the leather bands meet. A tense silence hangs between us.


    And then, something extraordinary happens. A gentle warmth radiates from the bracelets, spreading up our arms like a comforting embrace. Before our astonished eyes, the dull black leather transforms into shimmering gold, and the <mark>Martysh</mark> coin pulsates with an inner light as if it has a heartbeat of its own. <mark>Daryan¡¯s</mark> jaw drops, his eyes wide with disbelief as he stares at his transformed band. Mine mirrors his expression, and in that moment, something emerges from our intertwined hands.

 Chapter Twelve

    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¡ªunless, 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¡ª 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.

 Chapter Thirteen

    ¡°We need a new approach. Almost a third of the contenders have been eliminated after only two trials. We¡¯ll be fortunate to have enough people for the final trial at this rate, let alone worry about rankings.¡± <mark>Corbyn</mark> looks at each of us as he continues, ¡°Survival is now paramount. We must stay focused and concentrate on getting through the next trial instead of seeking a higher rank. We must change our approach until we know there are enough competitors left for rankings to matter again.¡±


    I devour a sausage, enjoying the salty flavor despite my anxiety. This morning, I¡¯m sitting down to a full breakfast with the <mark>Izadeonians</mark> instead of grabbing an apple on the go, as I usually do.


    <mark>Bryn</mark> growls, ¡°We also need a reliable communication method like the <mark>Jamshahis</mark> have. <mark>Corvys</mark>, <mark>Cyrias</mark>, and the others wouldn¡¯t have been tossed out if we could communicate faster.¡±


    He¡¯s been in a foul mood all morning. The other <mark>Izadeonians</mark> didn¡¯t return before midnight, leaving <mark>Bryn</mark>, <mark>Daryan</mark>, and <mark>Corbyn</mark>, the only three left in the trials from their fellowship.


    I feel bad for him, but I¡¯m not exactly having a tea party myself. I just declared war on the <mark>Ahiras</mark>, a decision that felt incredibly satisfying at the moment but now leaves a lingering sense of dread. Defying my senior <mark>Ahiras</mark> goes against everything I¡¯ve been taught for the past eleven years. The trials have barely begun, and they are already taking their toll on loyalties and alliances.


    <mark>Daryan</mark> nods solemnly. ¡°This isn¡¯t a child play anymore. We¡¯d be back home smelling roses on the hills if it weren¡¯t for <mark>Arien¡¯s</mark> quick thinking. We need to get serious and devise a plan that doesn¡¯t involve running around like headless chickens with swords.¡±


    We¡¯re down to three <mark>Izadeonians</mark> now, while the <mark>Jamshahis</mark> and <mark>Aramisis</mark> are still strutting around with a full fellowship of nine. The game has also shown its true nature, at last. The memory of the <mark>Martsymen</mark> returning with two lifeless <mark>Maravanians</mark> last night haunts me. All through the night, I couldn¡¯t shake the image of the young man with an arrow protruding from his throat.


    <mark>Corbyn</mark> grumbles, ¡°Aye. This trial also revealed our vulnerability in moving around the fortress. We need to know its layout like the back of our hand.¡± His gaze shifts to the table, where his half-eaten breakfast sits beside a map. Turns out, he¡¯s been secretly mapping the entire castle for the past ten days.


    <mark>Corbyn¡¯s</mark> map is a masterpiece, a tangle of lines and symbols revealing the castle¡¯s secrets. Locked rooms are marked with ominous iron nails, while open passages are drawn with different colors. <mark>Corbyn¡¯s</mark> sharp eyes have even uncovered several hidden passageways snaking across the parchment like veins. He¡¯s clearly a cartography master, but his furrowed brow suggests he¡¯s not satisfied yet. ¡°I shall dedicate more time to completing the map,¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll try to work my charm on the tight-lipped <mark>Martsymen</mark>.¡± <mark>Bryn</mark> offers, ¡°They may be masters of secrecy, but a shared tankard of ale can loosen even the stiffest lips.¡± He leans in. ¡°Speaking of ale, I heard whispers of a secret revelry in the western ward tonight. Perhaps I can sweet-talk our way in and uncover some juicy gossip.¡±


    <mark>Daryan</mark> nods, ¡°The <mark>Maravanians</mark> spill secrets like a leaky <mark>wineskin</mark>. I¡¯ve also managed to forge bonds with a few <mark>Eyrians</mark> over our shared hatred of mountain beasts. Misery loves company, as they say. And as for the <mark>Hamden</mark> and <mark>Kish</mark>, we know all there is to know about them, which is to say, precisely nothing worth knowing!¡±


    ¡°Information is valuable, but allies are crucial for survival,¡± <mark>Corbyn</mark> states.


    <mark>Bryn</mark> adds, ¡°Especially now that we¡¯re down to a mere three.¡±


    <mark>Daryan</mark> interjects, ¡°Four,¡± nodding towards me as if we are lifelong comrades rather than recent acquaintances.


    <mark>Bryn</mark>, amused, clarifies, ¡°True, but I was referring to the <mark>Izadeonian</mark> contingent as a whole, not our expanded circle.¡± He winks at me.


    But <mark>Corbyn</mark> tempers the budding fellowship. ¡°Let¡¯s not get too comfortable. These trials are fickle; alliances can shift like sand. Today¡¯s friend could be tomorrow¡¯s foe.¡±


    I tense, but <mark>Daryan</mark> dismisses <mark>Corbyn¡¯s</mark> concerns and claps a hand on my shoulder. ¡°Nonsense! We <mark>Izadeonians</mark> value loyalty and recognize a worthy companion when we see one.¡±


    <mark>Corbyn</mark>, however, remains unconvinced. ¡°The <mark>Ahiras</mark>, as <mark>Arien</mark> mentioned, seem determined to remain in the competition for now, but victory isn¡¯t their priority. We¡¯ll leave them to their own devices. The real threat lies elsewhere. The <mark>Jamshahis</mark>, <mark>Aramis</mark>, and <mark>Eyrians</mark> still boast significant numbers. We need to forge new alliances if we hope to survive.¡±


    <mark>Bryn</mark> proposes, ¡°The <mark>Maravan</mark> and <mark>Hamden</mark> contenders are our best bet. The <mark>Jamshahis</mark> are too numerous to need allies, and the <mark>Aramisis</mark> have already aligned themselves with the <mark>Ahiras</mark>, all practically worshiping their High Lord¡¯s son even though he belongs to a different fellowship. The <mark>Gajaris</mark> are lone wolves, and as for the <mark>Kishis</mark>¡­Well, <mark>Daryan</mark> might have scorched that bridge last night, eh?¡±


    <mark>Daryan</mark> snorts, unrepentant. ¡°Rightfully so! We wouldn¡¯t be here celebrating if I hadn¡¯t chosen <mark>Arien</mark>.¡±


    Last night and this morning have been bizarre. <mark>Daryan¡¯s</mark> praise for my quick thinking feels strange yet satisfying. <mark>Corbyn</mark> and <mark>Bryn¡¯s</mark> gratitude and <mark>Daryan¡¯s</mark> constant reminders of my contribution are soothing remedies for the cold shoulder I got from the <mark>Ahiras</mark>. It¡¯s unfamiliar and sometimes uncomfortable, but I¡¯m starting to warm up to it.


    <mark>Corbyn</mark>, however, remains pragmatic. ¡°Choosing <mark>Arien</mark> was wise. But burning bridges isn¡¯t. We need allies, not enemies. Isolating ourselves is dangerous, as the last trial showed.¡±


    <mark>Daryan</mark>, under <mark>Corbyn¡¯s</mark> stern gaze, relents. ¡°Alright, alright. I didn¡¯t anticipate last night¡¯s twist. A quick decision had to be made. I¡¯ll find them and apologize.¡±


    Turning to me, <mark>Corbyn</mark> inquires, ¡°What¡¯s your plan going forward?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been scouring the library, searching for anything related to <mark>Martsy</mark> and the trials. There¡¯s little to be found, but maybe some hidden secret can give us an advantage.¡±


    <mark>Corbyn¡¯s</mark> face slightly lights up, ¡°That¡¯s a plan I can get behind! Mapping this labyrinth is a full-time task, and any insights you unearth from the library can be valuable.¡±


    Relieved to have a clear task in their group, I nod enthusiastically. ¡°Sounds like a perfect division of labor!¡±Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    <mark>Daryan</mark> chimes in, ¡°Don¡¯t forget the importance of steel, <mark>Arien</mark>. Your mind is sharp, but your sword arm needs some work. We saw how quickly things can turn dangerous. So, while hitting the books, make sure you¡¯re hitting the training yard as well. Ditch the archery. You¡¯ve got that down. Focus on what needs improvement.¡±


    <mark>Bryn</mark>, surprisingly gentle for a man of his size, offers, ¡°I¡¯ll take her under my wing.¡±


    I gulp, imagining sparring with the giant, but <mark>Bryn</mark> seems oblivious to my apprehension. ¡°Meet me this afternoon,¡± he says with a confident grin. ¡°We¡¯ll make a warrior out of it in no time.¡±


    The rest of the day, I¡¯m in a whirlwind of emotions. The thrill of passing the second trial and securing a spot in the top nine wars with the fear of future challenges. I keep reminding myself that things are looking up! I¡¯m currently holding the third-place spot with a solid 13, trailing only slightly behind <mark>Eshavan¡¯s</mark> 17 and <mark>Maleed¡¯s</mark> 14. Even better, my new <mark>Izadeonian</mark> allies are also ranking high ¨C <mark>Daryan</mark> is tied for fourth spot with <mark>Olanna</mark> at 12 points, and <mark>Bryn</mark> and <mark>Corbyn</mark> are hot on the heels of the other <mark>Jamshahi</mark> women, <mark>Samira</mark>. We may be outnumbered, but with this crew¡¯s strength and smarts, I feel more confident than ever about my chances in this competition.


    But my newfound allies, <mark>Daryan</mark>, <mark>Bryn</mark>, and <mark>Corbyn</mark>, are a source of anxiety as much as they are of comfort. Their acceptance feels like a warm embrace. But I can¡¯t shake the feeling that this sudden camaraderie is fragile, a feeble house built on the shifting sands of competition. I¡¯ve learned the hard way that opening myself to others is a dangerous indulgence.


    I¡¯ve been hurt before, approaching others only to be rejected. With my own father, my mentor, and the girls in the Academy. I can¡¯t risk that again, not when the stakes are so high. These new companions are ultimately my rivals. I need to focus on winning rather than on forming friendships that could easily shatter, especially in this cutthroat game where alliances can crumble in an instant. So, I tell myself to focus on the prize, to keep my emotions in check, and to remember that I¡¯m here to win, not to make friends.


    By the early afternoon, as I drag myself toward the training ground, I¡¯m mentally and emotionally drained. The prospect of training feels overwhelming, but I know it¡¯s crucial, especially with <mark>Bryn¡¯s</mark> generous offer to train me. When will I ever get a chance to train with a mountain of a man?


    Calm down, <mark>Arien</mark>. Focus!


    I¡¯ve always been prone to anxiety, battling the shadows of terror attacks that once plagued my life. But through the years, I¡¯ve developed inner strength, erecting barriers to shield myself from fear and doubt. Now, more than ever, I must draw on those reserves, stay focused, and remain steadfast in my pursuit of victory. I have to push through the exhaustion, the anxiety, and the fear. I have to train, hone my skills, and become the warrior I need to be to survive these trials. So, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the challenges ahead, and remind myself that I¡¯m stronger than I think. I¡¯ve overcome adversity before, and I¡¯ll do it again.


    Lost in contemplation, I deviate from my usual path. Instead of the well-trodden route from the inner ward to the southern ward, I venture behind the kitchens, past the pantries and storage rooms, and down a secluded hallway.


    As I reach a wider space before the door leading to the southern ward, I stumble upon a scene that instantly raises my suspicion. <mark>Morteez</mark> and another <mark>Myran</mark> man are huddled in the shadows, furtively smoking something that looks suspiciously like pilfered kitchen herbs. The air is heavy with a pungent, unfamiliar aroma, and their shifty glances only fuel my alarm. But before I can find my way out, <mark>Morteez</mark> spots me.


    His face twists into a sneer. ¡°Well, well, well. If it isn¡¯t the traitorous <mark>Ahira</mark>. Fraternizing with the servants after <mark>cozying</mark> up to those lowly eastern dogs? Or did you lose your way, little lamb?¡± He practically licks his lips when he says ¡°lamb,¡± sending a shudder of disgust down my arms.


    I stay silent, opting to ignore and walk past him. But it seems that my dismissal is angering him more than any retort.


    ¡°Cat got your tongue? Last night, you were squawking like a crow.¡± He leans closer, his voice dripping with venom. ¡°I told <mark>Maleed</mark> it¡¯s that <mark>Gajari</mark> blood in you, diluting even the noble sorcery in your bones. Even magic can¡¯t wash away the dirt that runs in <mark>Gajari</mark> veins.¡±


    Nine <mark>hells</mark>, the arrogance of this puffed-up peacock! I may not have given two copper coins for my absent <mark>Gajari</mark> mother, but to hear him spew such bile about the <mark>Gajaris</mark>, the very people he and my own father rule over against their will, ignites a fire in my belly.


    My fingers itch to unleash a bolt of lightning and singe his eyebrows off, but I am not about to break the rules and get myself tossed out of the trials. <mark>Morteez</mark>, though, clearly has a few loose ends, or maybe that herb he is smoking has addled his brain. He sways like a drunken sailor, eyes glazed over, words slurring like a bard after a flagon too many. I try to sidestep him, but he blocks my path.


    ¡°<mark>Gajaris</mark> should know their place,¡± he mumbles with a voice thick with menace. ¡°You don¡¯t just ignore your betters and walk away.¡±


    I take a deep breath, summoning my sorcery, hands open and ready. ¡°And what will you do about it? Make me?¡± My voice is steady despite the rage and fear boiling inside me. ¡°Perhaps you need reminding that harming a fellow contender is forbidden between trials.¡±


    Let him make the first move. I¡¯d be waiting. And he¡¯d learn that this ¡°little lamb¡± has teeth.


    <mark>Morteez</mark> let out a bark of laughter. ¡°Lucky for me, then, that no one will witness our little¡­ disagreement in this secret corner, aye?¡± He slithers closer. His breath is hot and reeks of that cursed herb.


    Every instinct screams at me to run and vanish into the maze of hallways like a shadow. But I stand my ground, chin held high. ¡°I doubt there¡¯s a corner in this whole castle beyond the <mark>Martsy¡¯s</mark> beady eyes. And lest you¡¯ve forgotten, I¡¯m an <mark>Ahira</mark>. Touch me, and I¡¯ll turn you into a bloody stain under my foot.¡±


    His smirk only widens, and he keeps getting closer. Rage is quickly turning to panic. Not because I can¡¯t defend myself, but because if I blast him with sorcery first, I¡¯d be the one accused of breaking the rules.


    Is this his game? To goad me into attacking so he can play the victim and toss me out of the competition? Maybe he isn¡¯t as addled as I thought¡ªthe cunning bastard.


    If I have to use sorcery, it has to be in self-defense. Then I have to pray that <mark>Martsy</mark> believes my word against his. But what if they don¡¯t? It would be my word against two <mark>Myrans</mark>. Should I run? Scream for help? Anything but resorting to violence?


    My mind races as I step back. Then, with a sickening thud, my back hit the cold stone wall. Trapped. <mark>Morteez</mark> looms over me, and the other <mark>Myran</mark> blocks the hallway. I have one choice now: take the hit, then retaliate. At least a bruised face would be proof of his attack.


    Nine <mark>hells</mark>, why didn¡¯t I run? Now, I should let him make the first move. I¡¯d be waiting. And then, it will be sweet, sweet revenge.


    I brace myself, summoning my sorcery, waiting for the blow that I can only hope wouldn¡¯t crack my jaw. Just as my knees start to wobble, a voice booms from behind <mark>Morteez</mark>, ¡°What in the nine <mark>hells</mark> is going on here?¡±


    <mark>Morteez</mark> freezes, and I take out a sigh of relief. An <mark>Martsyman</mark> is standing in the doorway leading to the southern ward, his face filled with suspicion.


    <mark>Morteez</mark>, caught like a rat in a trap, plasters that slimy smirk back on his face. ¡°Just a friendly chatter, <mark>ser</mark>. Nothing to see.¡±


    Oh, there is plenty to see, you weasel. And I have a feeling this is just the beginning of his menace. I sidestep <mark>Morteez¡¯s</mark> encroaching form and nearly sprint past him and the <mark>Martsyman</mark> as my heart thunders in my chest. Once in the open bailey, I lean against the cool stone wall, taking a deep breath.


    ¡°That was a close call, huh?¡± A cheerful voice startles me. Lila, the <mark>Kishi</mark> girl, stands nearby with a playful grin on her face.


    ¡°Did you see everything?¡± I ask, disappointment forming in my stomach. If only I¡¯d known there was a witness, I would¡¯ve gladly turned that brute into a rodent. But then, would she have testified in my favor? My high rank on the <mark>leaderboard</mark> makes me a better opponent to eliminate than the oaf.


    Immediately, shame replaces disappointment when she replies, ¡°I saw it all. That¡¯s why I called the <mark>Martsyman</mark>.¡±


    I stare at her, speechless. Why would she help me? <mark>Daryan¡¯s</mark> betrayal, for my sake, had cost her fellowship dearly. Only four <mark>Kishis</mark> stand in the game now after four more didn¡¯t return with their golden stones before midnight. Yet, despite that, she¡¯d come to my aid.


    ¡°What? I may not like <mark>Ahiras</mark> much, but you seem different than them. And nobody deserves to be cornered by those slimy southern <mark>Myrans</mark>.¡± Her grin widens. ¡°Just remember, you owe me.¡±


    With a wink and a playful wave, she vanishes out of the southern ward, leaving me stunned. It isn¡¯t until her figure disappears that I realize I never thanked her for her intervention.