Page 18

On the ninth day after the first trial, as the sun dips below the horizon, we nervously gather in the inner ward.

After last night’s miraculous escape from the Martyshyar wing, I’ve sworn to focus on each trial as it comes—to stay calm, strategize for one step at a time, and stop worrying about future challenges.

But still, my heart beats frantically, echoing 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 main keep creak open, and a figure emerges, resplendent in dark green and gold.

It’s the same Martyshyar who greeted us before the first trial.

He wears a coat adorned with eight gold stars, placing him just one rank below Martyshbod Lirael.

Flanked by three seven-starred Martyshyars, he descends the steps with a measured pace.

Reaching the bottom, he gazes over us with a cold, calculating appraisal.

“I am Martyshyar Kamran.”

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 will result in elimination.”

My stomach plummets sickeningly to my feet. Partners ? Seventy-three contenders are in the game. An odd number. Someone will be eliminated before the trial even begins!

My eyes dart toward the Ahiras, and a cold sweat breaks out on my skin as I push through the crowd. My heart is pounding like a war drum when I reach them.

“Pippin!” Maleed’s voice cuts through the noise. “You’ll partner with Kameel. Alizan and Elranz, you’ll be together. Zanyar 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 who I am.

“It looks like we’re fresh out of partners,” Maleed says with a dismissive shrug as if my predicament is of no consequence for his highness.

A wave of frustration flares inside me, but I suppress it and try to keep my voice steady. “You are not here to win! I am.”

Maleed’s eyebrows shoot up before he speaks with a voice dripping with condescension. “So what?”

A raw scream claws at the back of my throat, but I bite it back. Instead, I force calmness into my voice and try to appeal to their logic, even though every fiber of my being screams at the futility of it all.

“If you are all planning on losing these trials eventually, why not one of you bow out now before risking a trial that might be dangerous? Isn’t that the perfect excuse for one of you to be eliminated without raising suspicions?”

Pippin stammers, “She’s right. I don’t mind giving her my spot…”

But Maleed doesn’t let him finish. “We don’t take orders from you, girl.”

Pippin quickly closes his mouth, and I know him well enough to realize he doesn’t have the courage to pursue the matter any further. I swallow hard as the futility of our argument sinks in. My mind races as I desperately look around, searching for a solution.

A swift scan of the courtyard confirms my worst fears.

The Izadeonians and Kishis are united, forming a single front.

The Jamshahis and Eyrians are whispering together, clearly allied.

Even the remaining Myrans and Aramisis have formed a tight-knit group.

And the Hamden and Maravan crews are huddled together, their hushed tones betraying their scheming.

It is official: I am the last one standing without a pair.

Despair wraps its icy fingers around my heart, squeezing tight. Is this it? Is my lifelong dream of becoming a Martyshyar about to be extinguished by this cruel game of alliances? My chest feels like it’s caving in, and every breath is a struggle.

I should have known better. Should have focused on building bridges, forging alliances.

Should have swallowed my doubts and approached the Izadeonians instead of clinging to the naive hope that the Ahiras would suddenly develop a sense of loyalty.

Foolish. Utterly foolish. Haven’t I learned by now that compassion and Ahiras are mutually exclusive?

I promised Emmengar that I would not try for Martysh again if I fail these trials. My stomach twists at the thought of my future: back in the Fire Temple, surrounded by these self-serving Ahiras, suffocating under the scent of decaying paper and dust.

NO!

The image of that lonely ending sends a jolt of revulsion through me. No. I should not give up. Turning back to the Ahiras, I prepare to swallow my pride, even if it means groveling.

Kameel and Maleed regard me with undisguised distaste as if I were some unpleasant insect they just crushed. Pippin’s pitying glance is as helpful as a broken kettle. I look from them to the only man whose opinion truly matters in this gathering.

Zanyar’s emerald eyes are locked on me. Solid. Emotionless. Unyielding.

“Please,”

My voice breaks slightly. I don’t think anyone else heard, but Zanyar’s eyes shift just a fraction. It’s the slightest 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.

Startled, I spin around, my hand clutching my chest as though it can calm my racing heart, and there… stands Darian.

His eyes dart toward the Ahiras, a hint of disgust twisting his features before he focuses on me again, waiting for an answer, but I am too shocked to respond.

Just as shocked as the Kishis nearby, who are watching us with wide eyes and open mouths.

Did Darian just abandon them like yesterday’s leftovers?

A strangled squeak escapes my throat. “Weren’t you—”

“Do you need a partner or not?” Darian asks impatiently.

“Yes! I do, I do!” I almost shout.

“Good,” he grunts curtly, then turns his stern gaze toward the Kishis. “Sorry. Plans have changed. We’re full.”

A roar of outrage erupts from them. “Nine hells, Darian!” Lila shouts. “We had an agreement! You can’t just abandon it!”

The others echo her fury. Darian shrugs with an impassive expression.

“A pact is only as strong as its members. I’m choosing a stronger partner,” he says, surveying the dismayed Kishis with cold indifference before turning to the Izadeonians.

“Arien will be with me.” His eyes then find mine, and a curt nod seals 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 formidable contender. I nod and walk toward him, refusing to look back at the Ahiras. I am done with those self-serving, cold-hearted gits.

Just then, Martyshyar Kamran shouts, “Time is up. Step forward with your partner.”

The remaining aspirants form pairs amidst a flurry of movement and hushed last-minute arrangements. The Kishis huddle together, continuing to bicker amongst themselves. Martyshyar’s voice rises again.

“Now!”

The Kishis, with obvious reluctance, form their final pairs, leaving one man utterly alone.

As the last ray of sunlight dips below the horizon, he crumbles to the ground, unconscious.

I force down the pang of guilt, struggling to steady my breathing as I watch two Martyshgards emerge from the shadows to haul his limp body away.

“He will wake up tomorrow in the valley with nothing but a headache and a long sail back to Kish. You, however,” Martyshyar Kamran’s gaze sweeps over us, “may not be so fortunate.”

This trial is about survival; that much is certain. The realization is enough to make my heart race, but I fight for calm. Even with the possible threat of death looming, I’d choose whatever is to come a thousand times over being dragged away to the valley, unconscious, like the Kishi man.

And besides… I am paired with Darian. He is as strong and capable a partner as anyone can hope for.

If this round demands swords, then I have him to compensate for my own lacking skills.

This feeling is unfamiliar. The sensation of having someone to lean on, someone who chose me, even if only for this single round of the trials.

“Working in pairs,” Martyshyar Kamran continues, “your mission is to find a specific artifact. You’ll recognize it when you see it.

Place the prize on that table by midnight,” he points to a long table on the right side of the courtyard, “and you shall pass. At that point, you’re not allowed to engage with those still in the competition.

Failure to return by the watching hour, or returning empty-handed or without your companion, and you will find yourselves waking in the valley come sunrise.

Supposing you are alive, of course. The sooner you arrive, the higher your rank. The trial begins now.”

The courtyard erupts into a chaotic frenzy as people scramble in different directions.

Some sprint toward the surrounding keeps, while others dash to the various wards.

The Izadeonians stand firm, refusing to succumb to the chaos as their eyes move between Darian, Bahador, and Faelas, their obvious leaders.

“Let’s divide and conquer,” Faelas suggests, his brow furrowed slightly. “The more ground we cover, the better our chances of finding this artifact.”

“There are three wards to cover,” Bahador states in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.

Faelas nods, pointing a finger for emphasis. “And several watchtowers in between.”

“I will search the main keep with Arien,” Darian declares, gesturing toward the imposing structure that dominates the inner courtyard.

“The library and kitchens are ours,” Faelas chimes in, assigning roles with military precision. “Varidas and Hamzen, you take the northern ward. Umleer and Jaimar, the southern ward is yours. Cyrias and Corvis, explore the watchtowers.”

The plan is clear, efficient .