Page 11

He has finally shown some sign of sweating, but it’s more from the sun than effort.

And what makes me madder is that it only makes him look like he has emerged from a particularly steamy maiden’s dream.

His tunic clings to those ridiculously sculpted muscles in a way that makes me swallow.

His dark brown hair is artfully tousled, framing those piercing dark blue eyes that watch me with a pulse-quickening hint of amusement.

Honestly, the man is a devastating masterpiece, effortlessly handsome.

The way he moves, that easy grace and confident swagger…

It’s a silent declaration that the world bends to his will.

And let’s be frank, it probably does. Who can deny that wicked curve of his lips, the artistry of those sculpted arms? (Certainly not I.)

“You’ve got the fire, all right,” 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. “Hilarious. I’ve been practicing. Just not with actual, living opponents.” I shuffle my feet. “Sorceresses aren’t trained for swordsmanship. We tend to leave the stabbing to the sorcerers.”

“Right. Well, there’s not much time for sharpening your sword fighting here. Any other weapons you’re proficient with?”

“Archery,” I say, a touch of confidence entering my voice. “And throwing daggers. That’s where I’d best anyone.”

He nods, a single, curt nod, and the surprising thing is, he doesn’t question it. He doesn’t scoff, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t demand proof. He just accepts my declaration of skill based on absolutely no evidence. It’s… unexpected.

“Good. Stick to what you know. If there’s a ranged combat trial, that’s your strength. But it wouldn’t hurt to at least familiarize yourself with a blade. Just in case. You never know what they’ll throw at you.”

“Nine hells, 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 Izadeonian men, Faelas and Bahador, strolling toward us.

Darian, with his sun-bronzed skin, unruly brown hair, and large, expressive eyes, embodies the rugged, earthy strength of the Izadeonian mountains. He’s handsome, undeniably so, but in that grounded, practical way of the Easterners. But his friends… they’re a different breed entirely.

The giant, Bahador, has golden brown skin, hinting at a mixed heritage and a touch of Jamshahi blood.

He dwarfs even Darian, who’s no small man himself.

Bahador is pure, raw power—broad shoulders, a chest like a barrel, a narrow waist, all sculpted muscle honed by years of carrying steel and wielding weapons that would make a lesser man weep.

His face is striking, almost intimidatingly perfect: sharp angles, a strong jaw, and piercing golden eyes that seem to mock the world.

He’s not just big; he’s the very embodiment of a mountain, immovable, unyielding.

And yet, there’s a cheerful spirit to him that softens the edges.

His dark hair frames a face that seems almost inhuman in its perfection.

Faelas, however, is like a moonbeam next to a bonfire, standing beside Bahador.

He is lean, almost ethereal, with a grace that borders on heavenly.

His hair is a cascade of pale silver, almost white, shimmering like spun moonlight as it falls down his back in a single, intricate braid.

His skin is flawless, porcelain-pale, and his features are delicate and refined, almost too perfect for this rough, unforgiving place.

He looks like he belongs in an Eyrian court, surrounded by silks and jewels, not here, amidst the dust and sweat and steel of the training yard.

The contrast between the three of them is almost jarring.

“Just doing a little dance with our top competition,” Darian replies casually.

Bahador’s deep voice rumbles, “Working up a sweat builds an appetite. Let’s eat.”

Darian nods and heads to the weapon rack to drop his sword, then turns to me. “Want to join us for breakfast?”

My heart stops in shock. Is he actually asking me to eat with them? A strange feeling creeps through my chest. It’s a simple gesture, but it feels monumental—the first time I’ve ever been invited to eat with a group of people. Heat rises to my cheeks, and I silently curse my body’s betrayal.

Get a grip, Arien! 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.

“Uhh, sure,” I squeak, trying to sound casual.

One side of Darian’s lip curves, clearly finding my flustered state amusing.

He nods toward the keep, and the three of them, myself trailing nervously behind, begin the trek to the kitchen.

On our way, the three of them effortlessly banter and engage in comfortable silence while I mentally kick myself for signaling my lack of social skills with a beacon fire.

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, and they each load their trays with steaming porridge, hearty bread, and an assortment of fruits. My own tray holds a meager two slices of bread, butter, and a lone boiled egg.

When we are seated at the communal table, Darian looks at me curiously. “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.

Bahador snorts. “Well, you can’t be a stick figure for these trials. You’re about as thin as a quill.”

Faelas scolds his friend with frost in his voice. “Perhaps you should concern yourself with matters of greater import than the shape of a stranger’s body.”

Bahador chuckles. “Merely concerned about the well-being of our newest companion.”

“I’m stronger than I look,” I say defensively.

Bahador lets out a hearty snort, and Darian’s smirk threatens to split his face.

Only Faelas 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 .

“So, where are you from?” Darian drawls through a mouthful of porridge.

“I’m an Ahira. From Firelands, obviously.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine… Where were you hatched?”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Of course, that’s what he meant. “Myra.”

“Which part of Myra?”

“Near Myriel,” I say curtly. It’s not quite a lie. Myriel, the capital of Myra, is close to Myrielfort, the seat of Myra’s High Lords.

“Does your family still live there?” Darian probes, clearly enjoying countering my short responses and watching my discomfort.

There is no graceful escape. With a sigh, I say, “No family. I’m an orphan.”

Now , that is a lie, obviously, but I decided long ago that lying was less embarrassing than admitting I’m High Lord Helmsworth’s abandoned bastard child.

Besides, trotting out the word “orphan” is usually a conversation killer.

Instant social repellent, preventing any additional questions.

At least, it had been until now. These Izadeonians, though?

They are a strange lot. Instead of politely backing away, my fake orphan story seems to have only piqued their curiosity.

All three of them are staring at me with an inquisitive expression.

Hoping it will stop the interrogation, I shove half my egg and a chunk of bread into my mouth at once.

No luck. As soon as I swallow my food, Bahador asks, “What happened to your kin?”

I try to focus on my tray as I lie again, “Don’t know. I grew up in an orphanage. Never knew my kin.”

“Orphanage?” Faelas finally breaks his silent observation. “That’s unusual. If you were orphaned, Firelands would’ve taken you in rather than let you go to an orphanage until you were of age.”

His pale blue eyes narrow in either suspicion or just plain curiosity. I’m not sure which, and it makes me nervous.

“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!

“Were your parents Gajari?” Faelas presses with a blank, unblinking stare.

The question nearly forces the true story out of me.

The word “yes” teeters on the edge of my tongue.

My mother was indeed Gajari. A humble maid to High Lady Helmsworth, who apparently caught the High Lord’s eye.

When she became pregnant, she received a nice amount of gold to head back to her Gajari desert village, which she did, but forgot to take the wailing baby.

Me. And the High Lord, equally thrilled with an unwanted infant, just sort of…

re-gifted me to the childless gamekeeper and his wife.

Who, in a shocking turn of events, also weren’t thrilled about a random child but didn’t dare to disobey the High Lord.

Naturally, I can’t unpack that story for them. Or, more accurately, I don’t want to. Also, I’ve claimed ignorance of my lineage, so it’s time for another creative story. “I’m not sure! Like I said, I never knew my parents. Why do you ask?”

“You bear some Gajari features, that’s all,” Faelas responds with a thoughtful tilt of his head.

He’s right, of course. My raven hair and large, almond-shaped, black eyes are typical Gajari traits, though the fairer complexion I inherited from my father is usually enough to make most people overlook my desert heritage. Faelas’s observation is surprisingly astute.

I manage a one-shoulder shrug and try to respond with a neutral voice. “I have no idea what I am. All I know is that not everyone from Southern Myra is fair-haired.”