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Darian’s jaw slackens, his eyes wide with disbelief at his transformed band.

In that instant, a shimmering wisp of light emerges from the bands, swirling in the air before slowly coalescing into a small, molten-gold Nohvan—the legendary, native creature of the Albir Mountains and the sigil of Martysh.

My readings described true Nohvans as enormous, wolf-bodied, eagle-headed beings with massive wings, a double threat from the realms of both beast and bird, dwelling deep in the mountains and thus rarely seen.

This luminous apparition, however, is a sparrow-sized creature with the form of a Nohvan.

The small golden figure glides gracefully above us, its wings casting patterns of light that momentarily enchant us and make the world recede into the distance.

Then, with a final swoop, it darts away, leaving a shimmering trail.

Darian snaps out of his trance and grabs my hand.

Pure instinct drives us forward as we sprint after the glowing phantom of Nohvan, down the grand staircase, and into the depths of the keep.

As we run off, I see Samira and Olanna watching us, then quickly mirror our earlier actions and clasp their arms tightly.

We clatter down the steps toward the crypts, following the golden phantom, as the ancient stones echo with the pounding of our boots. My lungs burn, my head spins, and all I can do is pray that my feet don’t twist and send us plummeting into the abyss .

Reaching the bottom, we follow the dance of light into a long, dimly lit hallway where flickering torches cast eerie shadows on the damp stone walls.

As we run along the hallway, the air grows progressively colder, a damp chill that seeps into my bones and thick with the cloying scent of mildew and forgotten secrets.

The heat radiating from Darian’s hand clasped around mine is the only source of warmth in this chilling cold.

Another abrupt turn sends us spiraling into a vast, cavernous chamber. My breath hitches. Towering pillars, hewn from a dark stone that seems to absorb what little light there is, claw their way upwards from the stony floor.

The sheer scale of the space is breathtakingly terrifying.

In the center, barely discernible in the gloom, sits a narrow stone pedestal.

The small Nohvan, a fleeting streak of pure gold amidst the surrounding darkness, arcs gracefully across the chamber before landing silently, almost ethereally, atop the pedestal.

For a heart-stopping moment, it remains there. Then, before our astonished eyes, the creature’s golden form folds in on itself, transforming and splitting into two distinct, solid objects: two golden Martysh coins.

There’s no need to guess if those shiny coins are our golden ticket. We both feel it in our guts, a certainty that resonates deep within us, as deep as the chill radiating from the crypt’s walls. I surge forward, eager to collect the coins.

One step… that’s all it takes before something slams into me, sending me sprawling onto the cold, hard floor like a sack of potatoes.

Pain explodes through my body, momentarily eclipsed by the crushing weight on top of me.

I hear the sickening clatter of metal on stone as my vision swims, and my mind becomes a chaotic blur of shadows and pain.

A voice cuts through my haze. “Gods, Arien, are you hurt?”

Darian pulls himself off me, revealing that he was the one responsible for my sudden crash landing. Color drains from my face as I see the stray arrow lying innocently beside the wall on our right. My gaze goes immediately to the left, toward the direction from which the arrow must have come.

“There’s no one there! Who… ” My voice trails off .

“This place must be enchanted. I heard the arrow coming straight for your head. It was like it appeared out of thin air,” Darian says as his gaze sweeps across the vast chamber like a predator on the hunt.

I gasp, and the realization of my near-death experience sends shivers down my spine.

“Stay low,” Darian mutters, rising cautiously onto his knees. He draws his sword in a smooth, fluid motion, the polished metal glinting ominously in the flickering torchlight. Silence, thick and unsettling, follows his movement.

I hold my breath as he slowly rises to his full height, half expecting another unanticipated arrow to target him.

But nothing happens. Darian cautiously advances his sword as if challenging an unseen assailant to a duel.

Still, nothing. But when he takes a single, hesitant step toward the pedestal, a whistling sound pierces the silence.

Another arrow, this time from our right, hurtles toward him with deadly accuracy. I gasp as it comes within inches of his back, but Darian, with lightning reflexes, spins and deflects the projectile with a resounding clang.

“Stay put, Arien. It only attacks when we move toward the pedestal,” he mutters, his eyes darting, scanning the shadows for any hint of movement. He chews on his lip for a moment, brow furrowed in concentration. “I’ll get the coins; you stay here and keep an eye out.”

“But what if it attacks from other sides?” I protest as I recall the near-miss of that last arrow. “That last one nearly tore your back! I can help.”

Darian hesitates, his gaze flickering between me and the pedestal. Finally, he nods, “Draw your blade.”

Rising to my feet, I unsheathe my sword.

Darian positions us back-to-back and then draws a long dagger from his belt.

The air crackles with tension, and the only sound is the soft rasp of our breaths and the distant dripping of water from the crypt’s ceiling.

“We’ll take this one step at a time. You watch our back. I’ll handle the rest.”

I want to argue, to insist on a fairer division of labor.

But I remember that I’m still a slouch with a blade, and his confidence screams of years of training and a natural talent that I can only dream of.

So, I swallow my pride, acknowledging that right now, we need his skills more than my stubbornness.

And with that, we embark on our death march.

The moment our feet touch the ground, a hiss slices through the air. I don’t see the arrow, but the sharp clang of metal on metal tells me everything I need to know.

Another step. This time, the arrow materializes from behind, aimed squarely at my unsuspecting chest. Panic floods my veins, but my body reacts on instinct.

My sword, a trembling extension of my will, barely intercepts the arrow, altering its course but not its momentum, and it careens off the wall.

“Good?” Darian’s voice pulls me back from the brink of terror.

“Yes,” I croak, trying to catch my breath. “I’ll react faster next time, I promise.”

“You will,” he replies. His confidence in me is like a life raft in a stormy sea. It’s strange, this belief he seems to have in me, a stranger he barely knows. But I’ll take it.

Each step feels like we’re tempting fate, dancing on the edge of a knife. When three arrows fly at us, Darian deflects them all, two with one hand and one with the other.

“Damn, that was a close shave,” he says with a slight chuckle, a hint of excitement lacing his voice.

This deadly game seems to have awakened something primal in him.

Me? I’m shaking like a leaf in a storm, terrified he can feel my fear through our touching backs. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice.

We press on, and as we get closer to the pedestal, the attacks grow fiercer and more complex. Darian somehow blocks two arrows with a single sword swing.

“How are you doing that?”

“Timing and reflexes, my friend,” he replies with a cocky voice. “Three more steps to go,” he adds as if sensing my fear.

But the heavens, or whichever celestial comedian is orchestrating this nightmare, clearly has other, more sadistic ideas. The very next step we take unleashes a six-pronged assault, arrows streaking toward us from every direction.

Panic flares in my chest, and my heart leaps into my throat.

There must be another woman, hidden in my body, who reacts instinctively, reaches her arm to block one arrow, and then, with a seamless movement, with the speed of light, shifts my sword to block another.

Beside me, Darian moves with lightning reflexes, deflecting the other four arrows with his blades.

Six arrows! At once!

My breath hitches. This isn’t a trial; it is a bloodbath. It feels almost as if we are being hunted.

“Great work, Arien. One more step,” he rasps, but his voice is barely audible over the pounding of my heart.

The pedestal looms before us, but that single step feels like a vast, terrifying chasm. My heart thunders, each beat urging me to turn back. My mind screams, asking for self-preservation after that last attack. Every muscle in my body tenses, coiled and ready to flee from this terrible place.

As if the sheer force of my terror has called out to him, Darian turns, his gaze immediately latching onto mine.

For a moment, his eyes search mine, and a silent conversation passes between us in the charged air.

He gives a slight, firm nod as if he can indeed hear the frantic voices clawing at my sanity.

Strangely, the simple act of meeting his steady gaze is enough to calm the storm inside me, or at least enough to silence the wild, desperate urge to bolt.

I nod in response. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I hold it, bracing myself for the inevitable. And then, we step forward one last time, not back to back, but side by side.

And then… all nine hells erupt.

My eyes widen as a storm of arrows is unleashed from every direction. My gaze darts frantically… my mind scrambling… I try to track the trajectories… trying to decide which arrow to deflect—but it is a futile exercise. There are too many!

Any time now, I think as a cold dread settles in my stomach, we’ll be dead .