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“Whoever finds their artifact blows the whistle,” Darian says. “We will regroup here and share our findings before placing the artifact on that table.”

Everyone nods in agreement as Darian and I run toward the main keep. We breeze through the massive oak doors without any guards stopping us, feeling like we own the place.

Corridors spread in every direction, with shadowy doorways lurking around every corner. This place has more twists and turns than my father’s love life. We could spend a lifetime exploring every nook and cranny and probably still miss the secret room where they hide the sweets.

“I’ll take the left. You take the right,” Darian 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. The object could be anything from a speck of dust hidden in a crack to a massive, glowing orb sitting in plain sight. All we were told was that we would 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 open every chest, sift through every paper and parchment, inspect every drawer, and scrutinize every piece of furniture. No corner goes unchecked.

By the time I’m finished, I feel like I’ve aged a decade. This keep is a labyrinth, and even with our divide-and-conquer approach, I’m starting to think there’s little chance we’ll find the artifact this way, especially with the time limit.

I tear through the second room, but my mind lingers on the last one. Did I miss something in there, buried under a mountain of forgotten documents? There is no time to dwell on that now; the sand is slipping through the hourglass.

As I move to the next, even larger chamber, a sense of dread begins to grow inside me.

With each room, the fear of failure becomes stronger.

What if I’ve already passed the object hidden in a secret hole?

I force myself to stay focused, holding on to the hope that perhaps someone else will find their artifact and their method of discovery will ultimately lead to our salvation.

Room after room blurs together like a collection of wasted time.

The layout of the keep seems to mock me, and doubt creeps in like a cold draft.

By the time I finish searching the left side of the ground floor, I’m exhausted.

I have no idea how long we’ve been searching, but we can’t be far from midnight now.

Darian’s noisy rummaging echoes from above.

As I ascend the stairs, I’m greeted by another seemingly endless hallway of doors.

There are six floors in this keep alone, apart from its watchtowers and battlements.

Panic begins to nibble at the edges of my composure.

Can this truly be the test? Is mindlessly rummaging through drawers the key to becoming a Martyshyar?

It feels utterly random and illogical to me, pointless even.

Pushing open the door where I heard Darian, I find him in the midst of his unorthodox search. Unlike my methodical exploration, Darian is rifling through drawers, their contents spilling onto the floor in a chaotic mess.

“This can’t be it,” I blurt out. “There has to be something we’re missing!”

Darian 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 racking 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 Martyshyar Kamran’s 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 provided any clues?

I sift through my memories, replaying my explorations of the fortress in search of a spark of recognition.

Jahanwatch, however, is a treasure trove of oddities—every corner is crammed with peculiar artifacts and hidden passageways. Nothing specific stands out to me.

Nine days of observations, explorations, and reading. I mentally retrace my steps, revisiting every unlocked room I explored in the castle, from the storerooms holding forgotten sabers to the giant infirmary, the library, and the alchemy rooms.

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 is ignited in my mind. I almost let out a strangled cry before catching myself.

“There was something!” I finally manage to say, stopping Darian’s mid-drawer-toss. “In the library. One of the books had a peculiar sentence. It’s what Martyshbod Lirael said on the first night. Each trial gives you an advantage for the next .”

Darian’s foot taps impatiently on the floor, but he is paying attention. “She meant we get the advantage of moving on to the next round.”

Shaking my head, I say, “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, ’ Lirael said. Maybe each trial gives us something tangible to help us in the next one.”

Darian turns entirely toward me, his brow furrowed in contemplation.

“Hmm, that’s a wild proposition,” he says, a flicker of doubt crossing his face, but his tone isn’t dismissive.

He leans back slightly, one hand resting on his hip.

“What advantage did we actually gain from that first trial besides a ticket to this prison?”

“They gave us quarters, new clothes, access to the kitchen, library, weapons in the training ground… "

“Maybe it’s something hidden in our chambers?” he suggests, a thoughtful expression replacing his earlier skepticism.

I pace a few steps, my gaze sweeping the room. “It has to be something significant. Something we wouldn’t have gotten if we’d flunked the first trial.”

Darian shrugs, clearly starting to lose interest. “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 hits me like a bolt of lightning cutting through the fog of confusion. My eyes dart to the bands encircling our wrists—the very bands they had slapped on us in the courtyard on our arrival, marking us as contenders. I notice the realization dawning in Darian’s eyes as he follows my gaze.

I had barely given the band a second thought since that first night. I had bathed with it, slept with it, and almost forgotten it existed. The band itself is unassuming; it’s just a plain black leather strap with a gold Martysh coin embedded in the center.

Darian mirrors my movement and touches his wrist, his eyes widening. He flips the golden metal over. “There’s something on the back.”

I already know what he sees: two hands clasping each other’s forearms. I’ve always assumed it was a symbol of sworn allegiance between the provinces. No grand revelation there, just a simple symbol on a simple band.

“Look,” Darian growls, likely assuming the same.

“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. But I’d rather wear out my boots than sit here pondering riddles. ”

With that, he storms out of the room, marching toward the next chamber.

I, however, stay rooted in my place for another moment.

The leather band and Martyshbod Lirael’s cryptic words feel so close, like a puzzle on the verge of being solved.

But I can’t blame his frustration. A heavy sigh escapes my lips as I follow behind him.

On the landing below the stairs, I see two Jamshahi women locked in a heated debate. I recognize them. They’re the top two Jamshahis on the leaderboard—Samira and Olanna.

Are they arguing about the same thing? Perhaps this partnership is the real test: to see how well we can cooperate under the pressure of what seems to be a pointless task.

That thought sparks an idea in my mind.

“Darian!” I call out.

He pauses, raising an eyebrow in question. I appreciate that he always stops when I call rather than ignoring me entirely, even as frustrated as he seems with me.

With a surge of confidence, I approach him and extend my arm. Confusion clouds his features as I gesture toward his arm. “Hold my forearm,” I urge, tilting my head toward the symbol on the band. “Just like the symbol.”

Hesitation flickers in his eyes for a moment, but then a spark of understanding replaces it, and he reaches his hand forward until our forearms are clasped together, our wrists aligned where the leather bands meet.

A tense, breathless silence stretches between us, thick with anticipation, as I hold my breath. For a long, drawn-out moment, there is nothing.

I’m about to step back in disappointment when a subtle warmth blooms from the bracelets, creeping up our arms like a gentle caress but charged with undeniable power.

Within a heartbeat, before our disbelieving eyes, the dull black leather shimmers, and a flash of gleaming gold light bursts from our wristbands to pierce the gloom.