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But the actual truth is that this wasn’t a choice; it is my destiny, a yearning that has been clawing its way out of my soul for what feels like an eternity.

Maybe the first two years after I arrived at Firelands were a little different. I tried, I really did, to fit in. To feel the Ahira pride that everyone else seemed to radiate. But it just… didn’t happen. I was scared, lonely, and constantly made to feel inferior and weak.

Then, when I was eleven, I came across a book about Martysh in the library. It reminded me of someone from my past—the only person who had ever shown me any real kindness. It told the story of the legends, the Martyshyars.

And that was it. Decision made. I promised myself that one day, I would get out and join Martysh. Not only was it the best way to escape the clutches of Firelands and the predetermined path laid out for me as a sorceress, but it also offered a chance to prove my worth beyond my limited role here.

Ever since, I’ve only dreamed of Martysh—a place where I will not seen as weak, unworthy, invisible. A place where I would finally matter, where I would have power, where I would belong .

Ahira Frankel, the youngest member of the council, yet older than me by four decades, addresses me with venom in his voice.

“Martysh is no place for a sorceress. Our traditions and customs have long dictated that females are best suited for other roles in service of Firelands. Martysh requires a level of physical and mental toughness that is better suited to others.”

A raspy voice, drier than a week-old bread, crackles from the corner.

“Do you forget your place? You are barely a four-ringed sorceress and have only just achieved that rank! We should send only five-ringed or above sorcerers from the army. We wouldn’t want anyone thinking poorly of Firelands’s superior skills, even if we do not intend to win,” wheezes Ahira Mahand, older than time itself and looking suspiciously like a well-worn rug come to life.

Every word that escapes his lips sounds like a rusty hinge protesting his existence.

“I understand this is an unconventional request, but I have spent many years preparing for this moment. My talents and skills lie not in alchemy or bookkeeping but in the art of strategy. I have trained relentlessly. I believe I can serve Firelands best by joining Martysh and protecting the peace and safety within the Union. I am not asking for this opportunity out of selfishness or pride. I genuinely believe that I can make a significant contribution to Martysh and, by extension, to Firelands. I am willing to undergo the Martyshyar trials to prove my worth.”

The council chamber goes so silent you could hear a feather fall, if feathers were allowed in this hallowed hall of white marble and disapproving stares. (They’re not. Feathers are strictly prohibited, along with laughter and any expression of joy.)

I feel their gazes, heavy with disapproval and simmering anger.

Yet I refuse to cower, maintaining my composure as I meet Ahira Emmengar’s penetrating stare.

His expression is so unreadable, it could rival a statue, leaving me wondering if he is contemplating my future or simply trying to remember where he left his beard comb.

Finally, with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of a thousand disappointed ancestors, he leans back in his chair.

“Arien, with your exceptional abilities as a sorceress, the potential for your future is boundless. It is within your reach to grasp a position on this very council in due time.”

The council chamber erupts in a cacophony of gasps and splutters as if Ahira Emmengar had just suggested they replace their white robes with pink tunics.

The notion that a sorceress—a creature of delicate weakness in their eyes—could ascend to the hallowed ranks of the council is clearly more shocking than a snowstorm in Myra.

“I also earned my fourth ring at twenty-one. My role could be yours one day. Wasting your talent for a seat in an army is a waste. Would you ask a dragon to light a campfire?”

His voice is smooth, steady, and for a moment, I almost imagine it: me, sitting at that grand table, a council member, bathed in the warm glow of respect and power.

The image is… tempting. Safe. Especially compared to the uncertainty that waits for me in Martysh. And isn’t that what I claim I want? To have power? To not be invisible? To matter? He is dangling that possibility right in front of me, a path I’d never even dared to imagine in Firelands.

Doubt slithers in like an unwelcome guest. Subtle at first, but chilling nonetheless. It whispers sweet dreams about retreating, about slinking back to my chambers and letting this whole grand plan crumble under the weight of second thoughts.

No! You’ve been dreaming this dream for far too long to let it go now.

“Ahira Emmengar,” I begin with a steady voice despite my inner turmoil, “I value your high regard, but a position on the council is not my aspiration. My path lies elsewhere, and I have chosen it deliberately.” I meet his gaze, hoping he sees the sincerity in my eyes.

“I trust that my decision will be understood and honored, just as the wishes of those who preceded me in this council.”

I stop and hold my breath, waiting for his response. Ahira Emmengar’s gaze cuts through me, piercing and assessing. Standing under his intense gaze, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by anxiety. What if he says no?

Steady yourself, Arien. You expected this. In… Out…

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that this isn’t a request; it’s an inevitability. I have, indeed, meticulously prepared for the very real possibility of their collective disapproval. My contingency plan is tucked neatly in my mental satchel, less glamorous but decidedly functional.

Martysh operates in two branches. The Martyshgard Order forms the military branch.

This Order has an open cadet program for all citizens of the Asyrion Union, who can undergo a year of training before being selected for full induction.

According to the Treaty of the Nine, this requires no provincial blessing—a route I can take without Firelands’s approval.

Yet, in my mind, that particular path was only a preliminary stage, a stepping stone toward my final aspiration: to enter Martysh’s second branch, its intelligence wing, the esteemed Martyshyar Order . The legends. The spies. The strategists. The ones who hold real power.

To an average Martyshgard recruit, becoming a Martyshyar is the ultimate, almost unattainable dream.

They are the elite, selected from the best of Martyshgards, trained for years, entrusted with secrets that could undo nations, guiding High Lords, and navigating perilous intrigues.

It’s a position typically earned through long, decorated service in the Military branch and only possible after gaining seven military stars.

But rarely does Martysh hold what they call the Martyshyar trials , a rare opening, a high-stakes contest for outsiders to join their intelligence ranks from the outside.

Ten champions from each of the nine provinces should compete in these trials, and only nine or fewer can win.

If I could be one of those winners, I could leapfrog the entire system and land directly in my dream role: a Martyshyar.

Three years ago, Martysh announced they would hold the trials this spring after a seventy-year pause. At that very moment, with absolute clarity, I recognized this as my fate, as a sign that this is my path, the opportunity I had been waiting for all my life.

The only snag in my otherwise brilliant plan?

Unlike simply enlisting in the military wing, participating in these trials requires Firelands’s official nomination.

Their blessing. Which, considering my general existence is a mild affront to their white-robed sensibilities, is a rather significant, if not insurmountable, obstacle.

But if these ancient relics of magical superiority refuse my perfectly reasonable request, I will simply inform them of my immediate plans to join the Martyshgard Order. My bag, containing precisely no items suitable for actual combat, is already packed.

So, I return Emmengar’s piercing gaze with one of my own, letting the unshakeable resolve within me shine through.

I am going to Martysh. Whether you allow it or not.

I let that silent message, clear and unambiguous, burn in my eyes.

Emmengar’s eyes, brimming with wisdom and scrutiny, seem to pierce my very soul, peeling away the carefully crafted facade I’ve maintained over the years.

The only outward sign of his internal deliberations is a slight narrowing of those unnervingly blue eyes, a fleeting moment of sharpness that vanishes as quickly as it appears.

Does he see the stubborn rebellion etched behind my polite front? All I know is that I am poised on the edge of a life-altering decision.

Ahira Emmengar finally breaks the tense silence. “For three centuries, it has been our tradition to honor the aspirations of any Ahira who outpaced their peers in the collection of rings. Arien, you have undeniably earned this right, and we shall not deny you what is rightfully yours. ”

His voice, though calm, carries a note of finality that even the visible disapproval radiating from the other council members cannot diminish. “Therefore, Firelands council grants your wish. You shall join the Firelands fellowship for Martyshyar trials.”

Before I can start flying out of my skin from pure thrill, he adds, “There’s only one condition. If you fail the trials, you must never attempt to join Martysh. Ever again.”