Page 24

Bahador’s training is no joke; it pushes me to my limits without crossing the line into cruelty. As I awkwardly parry his blows with my thin sword, sweat stings my eyes and my frustration battles with admiration for his skill.

“You announce your moves like the town crier.” He chuckles, his golden eyes twinkling with amusement. “Hear ye, hear ye! I, Arien, shall now attempt a feeble jab to the left!”

“I’m trying, all right?” I grumble. “It isn’t my fault I’ve spent more time with potions and scrolls than sparring partners.”

“You’re better than I expected, though,” he says with a shrug. “Not bad for a bookworm.”

“Hey, knowledge is power. You never know when a well-placed historical quote might disarm your opponent.”

Bahador laughs at my joke. “True enough. But brains won’t help you if you can’t stand your ground. Besides, a little muscle never hurt anyone, especially in a place like this.”

He winks in a casual, almost playful gesture and then wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. As I watch him, I am struck again by how handsome he is.

It is as if he were sculpted from pure sunshine and mischief.

His golden eyes, his bronze-brown skin, the confident smirk playing on his lips.

He has the dangerous allure of a forbidden pastry, which makes one want to grab a spoon and dive headfirst into a sugar rush.

No wonder he is the center of attention for every woman in the vicinity.

I’d bet my favorite scroll that he leaves a trail of swooning admirers wherever he goes.

“All right. All right. More training, then?” I say, even though my breathing is still labored.

Bahador’s smile widens, and I swear I hear a chorus of angels singing in the distance. “Now you’re talking. But this time, try and surprise me.”

Over the next hour, I practice the same move repeatedly, and with each swing, my movements become smoother and more precise.

“There you go!” Bahador exclaims, a genuine smile lighting up his face as the wooden target splinters and crashes to the ground with the force of my sword hitting dead-center.

“See? I told you! Natural talent. Just needed a bit of practice.” He heads toward the training rack.

“Now, how about we celebrate your progress with a tankard of ale?”

Bahador’s words catch me off guard, and I look at him in surprise. “Is there a tavern here?”

“Didn’t I mention it? I managed to secure an invitation to the Martyshgards’s secret gathering. Come along; we’ll meet the others there and raise a glass to your newfound skills .”

With a wink and a reassuring smile, he strides away before I can even think to decline.

##################

The Salty Flagon lives up to its name. Tucked away in the southern wing, the tavern smells of stale ale and woodsmoke, two scents that cling to my skin as I shift uncomfortably on the rickety stool.

This isn’t the sort of place you’d find in Fire Temple, that is for certain. This place is alive, messy, unorganized, and loud in a way Fire Temple could never be.

Tables and chairs that look like they’d been salvaged from a shipwreck fill the space. The ceiling is a tangle of rough-hewn beams, thick with soot and cobwebs. The air is heavy with smoke—the good, honest sort that comes from a roaring fire .

Sputtering torches stuck in iron sconces on the walls cast everything in a flickering orange glow and create pools of deep shadows to hide all sorts of occurrences.

Laughter, loud and unrestrained, bounces off the damp flagstones, mixed with whispers and the clink and clatter of tankards that have definitely seen better days.

It’s a scene that’s both alluring and intimidating, a glimpse into a world that I’m only just beginning to understand and one that I’m not entirely sure I belong in.

In a cozy corner, a grand, ornately carved fireplace crackles merrily with a cluster of well-worn leather armchairs beside it.

One of the chairs is currently occupied by a grizzled, one-eyed man.

His name is Hadryk, Bahador told me. A highly respected five-starred Martyshgard, originally from Izadeon, and, judging by Bahador’s warm greeting, a cherished family friend.

Bahador, with his booming laugh and back-slapping enthusiasm, is holding court in the middle of the room like he owns the place.

He looks as comfortable in this dimly lit, slightly spooky chamber as if he’s known these Martyshgards—with their impressive beards and intimidating scowls—his entire life.

Meanwhile, I am my usual wallflower, trying to blend into the shadows and hoping no one will notice me. The ale he handed me isn’t helping alleviate my growing sense of being a fish out of water. One sip confirms my suspicions: this stuff is potent.

Bahador, noticing my awkwardness, gestures for me to come over with a booming voice. “Arien! There you are, lurking in the shadows again! Come join the fun! Hadryk here is about to spin a tale about the upcoming trials.”

“Don’t play coy with me, boy,” Hadryk snorts. “Even if I had the honor of a weasel, I can’t betray Martysh, or I’ll lose my life.”

As I start to make my way over, a booming voice erupts behind me. Darian. He approaches Bahador, clapping him on the back with a force that would probably stagger a lesser man. “What merriment are we brewing here?”

For some illogical, deeply buried reason that I refuse to examine too closely, his mere presence eases the knot of anxiety in my chest. It’s a ridiculous, almost dangerous feeling, this sense of relief, this feeling of familiarity.

But it’s there, undeniably—a subtle shift in the air that makes it easier for me to breathe.

Don’t be a fool. You’re getting too close to him .

I watch him, the way he grabs a tankard and, in an instant, blends with the crowd.

It is effortless, seamless. With someone like Zanyar, whose beauty and power are a blazing warning, you instinctively keep your guard up.

But Darian doesn’t demand attention; he simply draws people in, closer and closer, with an easy smile and an engaging word, and by the time you realize you’re in too deep, it’s already too late.

“Seems our friend here got a thirst for forbidden knowledge,” Hadryk grumbles, gesturing toward Bahador. “Thinks he can sweet-talk me out of Martysh secrets, the fool. You don’t have the same mind, do you?”

Darian rumbles a laugh. “Aye, well, if Bahador the silver-tongued couldn’t pry loose a word, then I wouldn’t waste my breath trying.”

“A wise choice,” Hadryk confirms. Then his one eye narrows at Darian. “How fares your father?”

Darian’s smile, which was so easy and warm moments before, falters slightly. “He… persists.”

Persists? Why did that simple word, that slight hesitation, feel so loaded? I look to him, searching for answers, but he looks more guarded than Martysh on their trials.

Hadryk, sensing the unspoken tension, nods sympathetically. “And yours, Bahador?”

“Same as ever, swamped with work. Governing a province doesn’t leave much leisure time.”

“Aye, I can imagine. Izadeon’s a handful, eh? Good to know it’s in a capable hand.” Hadryk grunts as he drains his tankard.

Bahador’s father is governing Izadeon? That’s odd. Is he… the High Lord’s son? He can’t be! High Lords don’t send their heirs to the harsh life of Martysh. But what else could Bahador mean about his father governing the province ?

Before I can ponder further, a new arrival interrupts my thoughts. “Took me forever to find this hideout,” Faelas remarks, stepping into the group. “The hallway’s eerily silent compared to the racket in here.”

Hadryk’s sharp gaze locks onto Faelas, and a wave of raw emotion washes over his weathered features as he rises from his chair.

His strong, calloused hands grip Faelas’s arms as his single eye scrutinizes the younger man’s face with an intensity that conveys deep affection. “By the Nine, you’ve become a man.”

Faelas meets the old man’s gaze unflinchingly. “Commander. I’m afraid I haven’t grown into the image of my father as you once hoped. It seems my Eyrian mother’s blood runs stronger in my veins.”

Hadryk’s grip tightens momentarily, and several emotions flit across his face, all too fast to see. “But you carry his spirit. The bravest man I ever knew, and his courage lives on in you.”

I watch, curious, as a quiet conversation unfolds between them.

Bahador and Darian, meanwhile, are engaged in their own lively discussion with other Martyshgards.

Not wanting to intrude, I retreat into my shadowed corner.

Darian, of course, notices me and approaches, leaning against the wall. “Someone avoiding the revelry?”

“Just tired from the training,” I say defensively.

I glance away, and my gaze falls on Hadryk and Faelas, still deep in conversation. “Does Faelas know Hadryk closely?”

“This old warhorse was a commander in Izadeon’s army before he joined Martysh,” Darian explains. “He served under Faelas’s father’s command.”

“Was he a high-ranking commander, Faelas’s father?”

“He was the Chief Commander of the Izadeon army.“

That’s interesting. Such a prestigious position is typically reserved for the High Lord’s inner circle, entrusted only to those of the highest noble blood.

“Did he fall in battle?” I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.

“Killed by a Daeva,” Darian states bluntly.

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. His earlier words in the Martyshyar wing echo in my mind, and I voice my confusion, “I never knew Daeva attacks were so frequent in Izadeon.”