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“We need a new approach. Almost half the contenders are out after only two trials.” Faelas looks at each of us as he continues, “Survival is now paramount. We must stay focused and concentrate on just getting through instead of seeking a higher rank until we know there are few enough competitors left for rankings to matter.”

I devour a sausage, enjoying the salty flavor despite my anxiety. This morning, I’m sitting down to a full breakfast with the Izadeonians instead of grabbing an apple on the go, as I usually do.

“We also need a reliable communication method like the Jamshahis have,” Bahador growls. “The others wouldn’t have been tossed out if we could communicate faster.”

He’s been in a foul mood all morning. The other Izadeonians didn’t return before midnight, leaving Bahador, Darian, and Faelas the only three left in the trials from their fellowship, with only fifty-six contenders left overall.

The trials have barely begun, and they are already taking their toll on loyalties and alliances.

The game has also shown its true nature, at last. The memory of the Martyshgards returning with two lifeless Maravanians last night haunts me.

All through the night, I couldn’t shake the image of the young man with an arrow protruding from his throat.

How easily that could have been me without Darian’s quick reflexes .

Darian nods solemnly. “This isn’t a child’s play anymore. We’d be back home smelling roses on the hills if it weren’t for Arien’s quick thinking.”

“Aye. This trial also revealed our vulnerability in moving around the fortress,” Faelas grumbles.

“We need to know it’s layout like the back of our hand.

” His gaze shifts to the table, where a map sits beside his half-eaten breakfast. Turns out, he’s been secretly mapping the entire castle for the past ten days.

“I’ll try to work my charm on the Martyshgards,” Bahador offers. “They may be masters of secrecy, but a shared tankard of ale can loosen even the stiffest lips. And let’s just say I have a few… persuasion techniques when it comes to the ladies.” He winks while Faelas shakes his head in disapproval.

“Speaking of ale,” he continues, “I heard whispers of a secret revelry in the northern ward tonight. Perhaps I can sweet-talk our way in and uncover some juicy gossip.”

Darian nods. “The Maravanians spill secrets like a leaky wineskin. I’ve also managed to forge bonds with a few Eyrians over our shared hatred of mountain beasts. And as for the Hamden and Kish, we know all there is to know about them, which is to say, precisely nothing worth knowing!”

“Information is valuable, but finding allies is crucial for survival,” Faelas states.

“Especially now that we’re down to a mere three,” Bahador adds bitterly.

“Four,” Darian says, nodding to me as if we are lifelong friends.

I blink, startled and slightly disconcerted by the casual intimacy of his gesture.

As always, I can’t help the pang of suspicion that pierces through my mind.

And yet, despite my ingrained skepticism, despite the years of conditioning that scream at me to be wary, to trust no one, a strange, unwelcome warmth blooms in my chest. That simple acknowledgment feels genuine.

And that possibility is the most alarming yet exciting thing of all.

“True,” Bahador says, “but I was referring to the Izadeonian contingent, not our expanded circle.” He winks at me, causing the warmth in my chest to spread up my neck.

“Let’s not get too comfortable,” Faelas cautions, tempering our budding fellowship. “These trials are fickle; alliances can shift like sand. Today’s friend could be tomorrow’s foe.”

I tense, but Darian dismisses Faelas’s concerns. “Nonsense! We Izadeonians value loyalty and recognize a worthy companion when we see one.”

“The Maravan and Hamden contenders are our best bet for partnership,” Bahador says.

“The Jamshahis are too many to need allies, and the southern Myrans and Aramisis have already aligned themselves with the Ahiras, all practically worshiping their High Lord’s son.

The Gajaris are lone wolves, and as for the Kishis…

well, Darian might have scorched that bridge last night, eh? ”

Darian snorts, unrepentant. “Rightfully so! We wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t chosen Arien.”

Darian has been showering me with compliments for my quick thinking since last night, reminding everyone within earshot that I am the reason we succeeded. After a lifetime of cold, calculating interactions with the Ahiras, this sudden outpouring of gratitude is strange.

Faelas, however, remains pragmatic. “Choosing Arien was wise. But burning bridges isn’t. We need allies, not enemies. Isolating ourselves is dangerous, as the last trial showed.”

Under Faelas’s stern gaze, Darian relents. “All right, all right. I didn’t anticipate last night’s twist. A quick decision had to be made. I’ll find them and apologize.”

Turning to me, Faelas raises an eyebrow. “What’s your plan going forward?”

“I’ve been searching the library for anything related to Martysh and the trials. There’s little to be found, but maybe some hidden secret can give us an advantage.”

Faelas’s face slightly lights up. “That’s a plan I can get behind!”

Relieved to have a clear task in their group, I nod enthusiastically.

“Sounds like a perfect division of labor!” Bahador says with a smile.

“Don’t forget the importance of steel, Arien,” Darian says. “We saw how quickly things can turn dangerous. Ditch the archery and daggers. You’ve got that down. Focus on what needs improvement.”

“I’ll take her under my wing,” Bahador says, clapping a giant hand on my shoulder.

I gulp, imagining sparring with that mountain of a man, but Bahador seems oblivious to my apprehension.

“Meet me this afternoon,” he says with a confident grin. “We’ll make a warrior out of you in no time.”

For the rest of the day, I’m feeling a haze of emotions. The thrill of passing the second trial and securing a spot in the top nine wars with the fear of future challenges.

I keep reminding myself that things are looking up. I’m currently holding the third-place spot with a solid thirteen, trailing only slightly behind Zanyar’s seventeen and Maleed’s fourteen, both of which don’t even want to win.

Even better, my new Izadeonian allies are also ranking high—Darian is tied for fourth spot with Olanna at twelve points, and Bahador and Faelas are hot on the heels of the other Jamshahi women, Samira.

We may be outnumbered, but with this crew’s strength and smarts, I feel more confident than ever about my chances.

But my newfound allies, Darian, Bahador, and Faelas, are a source of anxiety as much as they are of comfort. Caution tells me this sudden camaraderie is fragile, like a feeble house built on the shifting sands of competition.

I’ve already learned the hard way that opening myself to others is a dangerous indulgence that results only in disappointment.

I can’t risk that again, not when the stakes are so high.

I tell myself to focus on the prize, to keep my emotions in check, and to remember that I’m here to win, not to make friends.

By the early afternoon, as I drag myself toward the training ground, I’m mentally and emotionally drained. The prospect of training feels overwhelming, but I know it’s crucial.

Lost in contemplation, I deviate from my usual path.

Instead of the well-trodden route from the inner ward to the southern ward, I venture behind the kitchens, past the pantries and storage rooms, and down a secluded hallway.

As I approach the door leading to the southern ward, I enter a scene that instantly raises my suspicions.

Kortyz and the two other Myran men, Syriad and Rygnar, are huddled in the shadows, furtively smoking something that looks suspiciously like pilfered kitchen herbs. The air reeks with a pungent, unfamiliar aroma, and their shifty glances only fuel my alarm.

I decide to hurry out unseen, but Kortyz sees me before I can make an escape, and his face twists into a sneer.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the traitorous Ahira.

” He takes a step toward me, swaying like a drunken sailor.

His eyes are glazed over. “Fraternizing with the servants after cozying up to those lowly eastern dogs? Or did you lose your way, little lamb?”

He practically licks his lips when he says lamb , sending a shudder of disgust down my spine. Opting to ignore him, I stay silent and walk past him. But it seems that my dismissal angers him more than any retort could. He blocks my way.

“Cat got your tongue? Last night, you were squawking like a crow.” He leans closer, his voice dripping with venom. “I told Maleed it is that Gajari blood in you, diluting even the noble sorcery in your bones. Even magic can’t wash away the dirt that runs in Gajari veins.”

Nine hells, the arrogance of this puffed-up oaf! I may not have given two copper coins for my absent Gajari mother, but to hear him spew such bile about the Gajaris, the very people he and my own father rule over against their will, ignites a fierce rage in my gut.

My fingers itch to release my sorcery and burn his eyebrows off, but I am not about to break the rules and get myself tossed out of the trials for a lowlife like him. I try to sidestep him, but this time, the other Myrans, Syriad, and Rygnar block my path.

“Gajaris should know their place,” Rygnar mumbles with a voice thick with menace. “You don’t just ignore your betters and walk away.”

I take a deep breath and open my palm to summon my sorcery quickly if need be.

“And what will you do about it? Make me?” My voice is steady despite the rage and fear boiling inside me. Whatever herbs they’re smoking have clearly affected their minds. “Perhaps you need reminding that harming a fellow contender is forbidden between trials.”

Let them make the first move. I’d be waiting. And they’d learn that this little lamb has teeth.

Kortyz let out a bark of laughter. “Lucky for me, then, that no one will witness our little… disagreement in this secret corner, aye?”

He slithers closer. His breath is hot and reeks of that cursed herb while Syriad and Rygnar block any path I can take to run away.

I stand my ground, my chin held high. “Martyshbod said the bracelet will ensure we are eliminated if we disobey the rules.”

He creeps in closer, “Did she? I don’t remember that. Why don’t we put that idea to the test?”

“Lest you’ve forgotten, I’m an Ahira. Touch me, and I’ll turn you into a bloody stain under my foot,” I say through gritted teeth.

Kortyz’s smirk only widens, and he steps closer still, his gaze holding a dark promise. I have no idea what he intends to do, but from the look in his eyes, it won’t be pleasant. But whatever happens, I know I can’t blast him with sorcery first, or else I’d be the one breaking the rules.

Is this his game? To goad me into attacking so he can have me disqualified from the competition? Maybe he isn’t as addled as I thought—the cunning bastard.

Now I’m trapped, and Kortyz is looming over me. Behind me, another Myran effectively seals off any chance of retreat down the narrow hallway. My mind races, but the rules are clear: I can’t initiate an attack.

Instead, I decide to use this opportunity to toss him out! The instant Kortyz makes his move, I will cast a protective shield from my outstretched palm, intercepting his blow. If I’m fast enough to cast the shield, I can get him eliminated without letting him hurt me.

Every muscle in my body is taut, coiled, and ready to react. I brace myself, waiting for the inevitable strike, a blow I can only pray my hastily conjured shield would meet in time.

Just as my knees start to wobble, a voice booms from behind Kortyz, “ What in the nine hells is going on here?”

A Martyshgard is standing in the nearest doorway, his face filled with suspicion. Kortyz plasters that slimy smirk back on his face. “Just some friendly chatter, sir. Nothing to see.”

Oh, there is plenty to see, you weasel.

I sidestep Kortyz’s encroaching form and nearly sprint past him, and the Martyshgard as my heart rumbles in my chest. Once in the open bailey, I lean against the cool stone wall, close my eyes, and take a deep breath.

“That was a close call, huh?” A cheerful voice startles me. Lila, the Kishi girl, stands nearby, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed.

I gape at her. “Did you… Did you see everything?”

“I saw it all,” she says, her voice calm and nonchalant. “That’s why I called the Martyshgard.”

I stare at her, speechless. Why? Why would she help me? Darian’s betrayal, for my sake, had cost her fellowship dearly. The Kishis are down to four. And yet… she intervened.

“What?” she says with a hint of amusement in her voice and a smirk on her lips. “I may not be fond of Ahiras, as a general rule, but you… You’re different. And nobody deserves to be cornered by those slimy, disgusting southern Myrans.”

With a wink and a playful wave, she vanishes into the keep, leaving me standing there, stunned and more than a little bewildered. It’s not until her figure is completely gone, swallowed by the darkness, that I realize I never even thanked her.