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But Darian looks like a man forged in confidence, a man who knows, with absolute, unshakable certainty, the effect he has on people.

And worse, he knows, with that same damned certainty, that he can usually get away with whatever he wants.

And right now, it seems, he wants in on my suicidal, ill-advised, probably-going-to-get-us-both-caught plan. And I have no choice but to let him.

##################

“Darian,” I hiss, trying to sound calm despite already mentally writing my last will. “You must hold fast. A single moment’s lapse could mean our doom.”

He rolls his eyes, clearly not grasping the gravity of the situation. “Oh, do tell, wise sorceress. Remind me again of this vital instruction, for I surely haven’t heard it a thousand times already.”

“I’m serious!” I whisper-shout. “I’m making you an extension of myself. If you break the connection, the spell is doomed, and you’ll be visible.”

“Fear not, little wolf. Your hand is quite safe with me.” And then, the absolute nerve of the man, he winks! At a time like this!

I take a deep breath, and the cold night air makes me shiver. As I reach out, my hand shakes a little. He ignores my offered forearm entirely—so much for following instructions—and holds onto my hand with his much larger one.

“You said hold tight,” he teases as his fingers lace through mine.

His hand is warm and large. I thank the gods it’s dark, and he can’t see me turning into a tomato.

This is, embarrassingly, the first time I’ve ever held hands with a man.

Trying to ignore my traitorous body, I quickly mutter a spell, and instantly, my body feels lighter, as if I could float away.

Darian’s grip tightens, and I can sense a silent question in his touch.

“Gods,” he breathes.

He has never felt the magic of invisibility before. It’s a strange trick of light and life elements that allows light to pass through life, like wind through leaves. It makes one feel shallow and weightless as if about to fade out of existence.

Once I am confident we are fully invisible, I glance up at the battlement.

It is blessedly, wonderfully empty. My little strategically-placed bauble, designed to emit an irresistibly eerie glow, is clearly doing its job.

The guards must have spotted it and trundled off to investigate, little knowing it would vanish once they got close.

A few moments of guard-less-ness on the battlement directly in front of the Martyshyar wing is all I need.

I take another breath, nod at Darian, and we begin our ghostly glide toward the Martyshyar wing.

We tiptoe around the three guards with the silence of forgotten secrets.

I extend a hand towards the smaller stables on the other side of the southern ward, where they house the pampered, high-breed horses, away from the rough-and-tumble war steeds of the main stables.

Suddenly, under the subtle nudge of my spell, a magnificent black horse, previously engrossed in a hay bag buffet, rears, and bucks with such a force that it snaps its tether. Then, it launches towards the guards at the Maryshyar wings’s door with the speed of an arrow.

Predictably, panic erupts among the three Martyshgards.

They scatter like startled pigeons, trying to move out of the way of the charging horse.

The horse, following my spell, aims at the smallest guard, who promptly initiates a high-speed retreat, running away from the massive beast of an animal.

The other two guards give chase, hoping to prevent the frail Martyshgard from being kicked into the heavens.

Seizing our moment amidst the chaos, I fling a spell at the door and haul Darian inside just as it whispers shut behind us!

Once inside, we freeze, holding our breaths and straining to hear the diminishing commotion.

The horse’s dramatic aria fades as abruptly as its magical cue—me—is out of sight.

We remain rooted to the spot, wondering if any of the guards, in a moment of what must have been profound existential terror, had spotted the door opening and closing.

I’d cast a sound-dampening charm so the hinges wouldn’t groan like a gate to the underworld, but the movement of the door could have been easily spotted.

I carefully listen to the faint, argumentative tones of the guards, sounding more confused than alarmed, which suggests that our entrance had gone unobserved. I let out a sigh of relief that I think I’ve been holding since evening and finally allow myself to take a good look around.

We are in a wide, dimly lit entry hall, illuminated by wall sconces that cast long, nervous shadows across the wooden floor. Several doors line the two hallways stretching to our right and left, each a potential gateway to vital information or a dead end.

“Alright,” Darian murmurs, his voice actually low, as if the concept of ‘stealth’ has finally made a grand entrance into his mind. “Where do we start?”

“Let’s try here,” I suggest, pointing to the nearest door on the right. It is solid wood, quite unremarkable, especially when compared to the dragon-fire-and-probably-everything-else-proof door we’d just elegantly slipped through.

We push it open cautiously. Several desks are crammed together, groaning under the weight of scattered parchments and quills. Shelves sag with ledgers, and in one corner, a stack of scrolls leans against the wall.

“Looks like the room for some of Martyshyars’s operations,” Darian observes, already sifting through documents with the air of absolute nonchalance, his usual.

They are mostly logistical reports, supply lists, and records of tasks so minor they probably bored the ink itself. Nothing of interest about the trials.

We try another door and then another, each unveiling a similar scene. It is becoming abundantly clear that the ground floor is dedicated to the nuts and bolts of the wing’s operations, not it’s secrets.

Darian leans against a burdened desk. “If we want to find anything important, the real treasures must be upstairs with the higher-ranking Martyshyars.”

“You’re right,” I admit, feeling deflated and weak by the invisibility spell.

We re-enter the corridor and return to the entry hallway, where a shadowy staircase ascends into the unknown.

As we climb, the very air seems to change, growing thicker.

The hallway on the second floor is wider, and the doors are sturdier.

At the very end of the corridor, one door stands apart from the rest. It is significantly larger, crafted from a dark, gleaming wood adorned with intricate carvings.

“Let’s start there,” Darian whispers. An undeniable thrill of the hunt is all over his face. My stomach, on the other hand, is performing a series of nervous flips, keenly aware that ‘ more important spots ’ usually come with ‘ more important consequences for getting caught. ’

We walk toward the door and enter the room. I anticipated a council room, a place for meetings and strategic head-scratching and plotting (hopefully about the trials). Instead, this feels intensely private. This definitely belongs to a very high-ranking Martyshyar.

A massive desk dominates the space, it’s dark wood gleaming in the subdued moonlight that filters through the tall windows. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line most of the available wall surface, and several maps are pinned to the remaining wall space.

I release Darian’s hand—partly because the invisibility spell is beginning to feel like wearing a lead coat and partly because he is dragging me toward the maps, which I doubt would have any useful information about the trials.

I let the invisibility spell drop, trying to recapture my breath and stamina. Darian, now fully visible as well, immediately begins a more leisurely circumnavigation of the room, peering at things with an interest and calm that is slightly unnerving given our precarious situation.

My gaze is drawn to the massive desk. I approach it cautiously, my eyes scanning the various objects scattered across its polished surface: a crystal inkwell glinting softly, a selection of quills in a silver holder, and neat stacks of parchment.

One particular scroll is in the center, slightly unfurled as if it has been recently drafted.

And there it is, nestled beside it like a royal warrant: the Martyshbod’s personal seal.

“I think we’re in Martyshbod’s personal study.” My heart sinks as I struggle to fully comprehend the sheer audacity—and monumental stupidity—of our current predicament.

“Don’t worry,” Darian offers, his dimple making a reappearance. “If we get caught, we’ll just tell them we got lost looking for the wine solar and took a wrong turn.”

“I’d prefer a plan that doesn’t involve us being sent to the dungeons,” I mutter, realizing it’s impossible for him to feel scared and worried.

He stands in front of a large map depicting various trade routes and military paths, tracing the intricate lines with a thoughtful finger.

He seems genuinely more captivated by potential Martysh adventures than by our pressing need for information about the trials.

I, however, have a one-track mind, and it isn’t currently set on cartography.

I start with the bookshelves. I scan them quickly, my fingers flying over spines, searching for anything related to the Martysh trials, but they are no different from the similar versions in the library—plenty of heroic deeds, remarkably little about the details of the trials.

I glance at Darian again. He is still engrossed in the maps. But finally, the usual teasing on his face has faded, replaced by a focused intensity as he studies them. Whatever secrets he is hoping to unearth in this room, they clearly aren’t related to the trials.

I ignore him, a knot of desperation tightening in my chest. Should I move to another room? It seems unlikely that the intimate details of the trials would be casually lying about in Martyshbod’s private study. Surely, she wouldn’t concern herself with such an administrative subject.

My gaze returns to that scroll on the desk, the one that looked like it had been interrupted mid-sentence.

I know I shouldn’t. It is reckless, foolish, a direct invitation to disaster.

But if there is any sensitive, handwritten information about the trials here, that scroll feels like the prime candidate.

Slowly, with the caution of someone approaching a sleeping dragon, I reach for it and begin to unfurl it. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly as dry as old parchment, as my eyes scan the elegant script.

It isn’t about the trials. It is a letter from Martyshbod Lirael herself, addressed to Martyshyar Revaan, the commander of the Martysh base in Jamshah:

I am commanding that you immediately dispatch three hundred men to the eastern side of Ardaseer Woods in secret.

There have been large Daeva sightings, hundreds of them, the sorcerous kind, and the reports indicate that they are searching for a fraction of the Star in the forests.

This information is to remain concealed from High Lord Jabbar Jafar and the Ahiras stationed in Jamshah.

Do not attack the Daevas, but follow them, see what they are doing, and confirm if they are, indeed, looking for a fraction of the Star.

Report back only to me, in person, within a moon.