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They call it an honor, this summons to the Firelands council.

But the imposing door of the council chamber looming before me has all the warmth and charm of a judge’s gavel. My palms are slick with a nervous dew, and I am fairly certain my heart is attempting an escape act through my ribcage.

This audience, this moment, has been the subject of both my starry-eyed fantasies and my midnight sweats for years.

Now, on the precipice of finally facing the Firelands council, the gravity of the situation hits me with the delicate grace of an anvil, and my legs develop a sudden, urgent interest in the opposite direction.

Deep breaths, Arien. Steady yourself. You can do this. In, out, in, out…

I close my eyes, take one final deep breath, and push open the massive oak doors, their hinges groaning in protest. I step into a chamber of stark, gleaming white stone, where some of the continent’s most powerful leaders, the Firelands council, gather to discuss matters of state and destiny.

As a young, low-level sorceress whose social standing rivals a mildly inconvenient stain on the floor, this is my first foray into the hallowed halls of power.

My unexpected earning of a fourth ring of sorcery nine days ago, the first among my age, has granted me the honor of a wish, redeemable at the pleasure of the council.

The room’s grandeur tries its best to calm my nerves, but my anxiety, a seasoned professional in its field, simply sees it as a larger stage for potential humiliation, sending my heart into a frantic sprint.

The chamber, awash in white marble and surrounded by massive windows, seems to shine with an otherworldly glow.

I have to squint my eyes against the blinding brightness.

It feels like no shadows can linger here.

A majestic half-circle table carved from what looks like the same marble sits toward the far wall.

Each council member’s seat is a throne of its own, carved directly from the white stone.

Each member is clad in white—the color of nine-ringed Ahiras.

Positioned at the central seat of the table, Ahira Emmengar, the head of the council, wears his signature genial smile, which is as rare in Firelands as a sunny day in Eyria.

We, sorcerers, aren’t exactly known for our sunny dispositions; we prefer to save our facial muscles for scowling at those we find unworthy.

The other eight council members, however, are giving me the stink eye. They are lined up like grumpy pigeons on a fencepost, four on each side of Ahira Emmengar along the curved table.

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 a nobody orphan and—gasp!

—a girl—the horror!—has joined the likes of Zanyar Zareen and Ahira Emmengar himself to earn a fourth ring of sorcery at only twenty-one years old.

“Arien,” Ahira Emmengar 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 Firelands as a young, uneducated pupil. Many doubted your ability even to complete the first year. And yet, here you stand before us, the first Ahira of your class to collect a fourth ring, a mere three winters after finishing the Academy.”

Unlike other high-ranking Ahiras, there’s a hint of warmth in his voice.

His snowy beard and hair frame a pair of ever-twinkling blue eyes, wise as an owl and twice as cheerful.

He doesn’t seem bothered that I’ve achieved the same glory as him and earned the fourth ring of sorcery at only twenty-one .

“It is an honor to be in the council’s presence,” I mumble, bowing with such exaggerated deference that I nearly face-plant into the pristine marble.

I have to grease the wheels before asking for what I’m sure will shock them into silence.

“Indeed, when I arrived here twelve years ago, I was naive and uneducated. Firelands gave me a home, safety, and an education, allowing me to stand here today.”

There’s a kernel of truth to my gratitude. Firelands did offer sanctuary and education, especially compared to my previous, shall we say, less gilded existence.

But Firelands can also be isolating. Any child across the continent who manifests sorcery gets shipped off to Firelands, the lands of sorcerers known as Ahiras, at age nine.

We then spend nine years training at the Fire Temple Academy.

At eighteen, we graduate with three rings of sorcery! Then, the council decides our fate.

For sorceresses, the options are… let’s just say they’re curated . We’re few, even among our kind. Only one in thousands of children is born with inherent sorcerous abilities, and those are overwhelmingly male.

In Firelands, sorcerers outnumber sorceresses by hundreds to one, and thus, we hold little power. Most sorceresses are married off to noble families after the Academy to expand Firelands’s power and influence. And the rest? There are always mundane duties to keep us busy.

So, after nine glorious years of schooling, guess where I landed?

Right back in the Fire Temple, the very place I spent nine years as a trainee, now toiling away in the alchemy hall for the past three years, thanks to Ahira Brutus, my Sage , that horrible old coot who claimed I have a knack for bookkeeping .

Ahira Emmengar, oblivious to my inner lecture on the injustices of Firelands’s society, drones on about the wonders and fairness of his beloved realm.

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

His words are supposed to ring with truth—a noble sentiment, certainly—but the reality of nobility’s access to private tutors and rare artifacts whispers a different, less equitable story.

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

“Arien, 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. 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.

The silence hangs in the air 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 join the Firelands’s fellowship for Martysh trials.” I pause, letting the words crawl across the floor to reach them. Then, just to make sure there is no room for misinterpretation, I add, “And not just to participate. I intend to win.”

There. I said it. Out loud. The words dance in the air, shimmering with the weight of my hopes and dreams. A strange blend of exhilaration and dread courses through me.

Exhilaration because I’d finally given voice to the burning desire I’d kept hidden for so long. Dread because… what if they say no? What if they explode in righteous fury at my audacity? What if they just look at me with that familiar blend of pity and condescension that I’m so accustomed to?

All because I dared to dream beyond the confines of their expectations.

Dared to want to join Martysh: the independent armed force tasked with keeping the continent from tearing itself apart.

A unifying, stateless peacekeeping army.

And powerful. Too powerful for Firelands’s liking.

And way too powerful for a sorceress—the very embodiment of weakness and delicateness in their eyes—to even consider joining.

I am too terrified to even breathe, but beneath the fear, a sliver of relief blooms. I’ve actually done it. Spilled my secret dream, one that had previously existed only in the safe confines of my own mind, before the most powerful sorcerers in the land.

Now, all I can do is wait.

The silence that follows is so thick you can choke on it.

It stretches and stretches and stretches , each agonizing second amplifying the drumming of my heart.

I can practically feel their gazes boring into me like tiny, judgmental spears.

My palms are slick with sweat, and a single bead of perspiration is making a daring escape down my temple.

Every single councilman looks poised to deliver some earth-shattering pronouncement. Mouths open, snap shut, open again… but no words come out. Their bulging foreheads, however, speak volumes.

Meanwhile, Ahira Emmengar remains the portrait of serene composure in this sea of sputtering outrage, although a flicker of something—is it concern?—briefly clouds his usually placid expression.

“You want Firelands’s support to join Martysh.” It’s not a question but a statement, as if he’s trying to break the awkward tension that has taken over the room.

“I do,” I reply.

“You are aware of the implications?”

“I am.”

Ahira Sunar, the second senior councilman after Ahira Emmengar, snarls, “Your allegiance to Firelands will be relinquished. You will be required to declare your loyalty to the Union.”

“I am aware,” I say with the gravitas of someone making a truly monumental sacrifice. “It was a difficult decision for that precise reason. However, I have thought about it long and hard, and I have made this difficult choice. For Firelands.”

I plaster on my most sincere expression, trying to look like I am not currently performing a one-woman act of heartfelt devotion.