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WHY is he here?

It’s the question I’ve been asking myself over and over again since we left Firelands for the Martysh trials two moons ago.

For the thousandth time, my gaze is drawn to him.

Even the sun, it seems, has decided Zanyar Zareen’s face is a masterpiece because it tirelessly bathes him in a flattering golden light.

His hair cascades like a waterfall of pure, spun golden brown. His eyes, those vibrant, captivating green orbs—like a lush, moss-covered forest after a spring rain, with a touch of sunlight filtering through the leaves for extra effect—are, as always, distracting.

He’s dangerously attractive. Not in a soft, boyish way, but with the raw, untamed beauty of a lion, powerful and perfectly formed, lethal in its grace.

Every line of his chiseled jaw, every plane of his face, speaks of resolve, of determination, and a flicker of something darker, something that makes my breath catch.

He moves with a natural, effortless elegance, each stride radiating authority, a palpable sense of power that fills the space around him, leaving a lingering impression, a subtle threat, on everyone he encounters.

Stop looking at him, I mentally yell at myself. You’re mad at him. Remember?

But, as I haven’t managed to look away since the first time I saw him twelve years ago, my efforts are futile. Frankly, the least he can do after not talking to me once in two moons since we left Firelands is to let me appreciate the view. His view , to be exact.

He is currently scaling the mountain ahead of the rest of our Firelands fellowship, looking annoyingly fresh. No sweat, no fatigue, nothing. Meanwhile, I am drenched, my feet ache, and my stomach is staging a full-blown rebellion.

Since dawn, we’ve been scrambling up the mountain trails alongside the rest of the contenders in the Martysh trials, led by a group of silent Martyshgards who met us at an inn near Shemiran, the Union’s town nestled in the valley below.

It’s been nothing but wind-whipped faces and blistered soles since.

“What a dreadful ordeal,” Pippin groans beside me, his breathing sounding suspiciously like a dying animal and his face looking almost as red as his fiery hair.

He looks like the living embodiment of why scholars should not be forced on wilderness expeditions. His bulky frame is more suited for scrutinizing scrolls, not scaling mountains.

I’ve known Pippin for three years, ever since I was banished—sorry, assigned—to the alchemy hall under his supervision, which mostly consisted of him letting me supervise myself while his nose was stuck in some book about the color of leaves in Villya.

But he is kind, and in my world, that is good enough. If I hadn’t been so focused on joining Martysh, we might have actually been friends. Or as friendly as a sorceress and a sorcerer of different ranks could be in Firelands’s rigid social hierarchy.

Pippin groans again, shooting Zanyar a look that can only mean eternal hatred. Both he and Zanyar were late additions to the Firelands fellowship for the Martyshyar trials. Ten Ahiras had already been chosen—nine from the army and me.

Then! The entire province collectively lost its mind when Ahira Emmengar announced that Zanyar Zareen, the golden boy of Firelands, the only son of the High Lord of Aramis, would join and lead our fellowship.

And Zanyar immediately handpicked Pippin to join, too, booting another one of the original nine.

You can imagine Pippin’s joy. Anyone who’s met him for five heartbeats would know his happy place is to be surrounded by ancient tomes in the alchemy hall, not…

this. And especially Zanyar should have known since he’d worked alongside Pippin and me in the very same alchemy hall for more than a year.

It was almost a year ago when he left the alchemy hall when he was assigned as the Firelands’s special envoy to Aramis.

We, the lowly alchemists, all shrugged, went back to our regularly isolated lives, and almost forgot we’d spent a year breathing the same air as the most intimidating and admired young Ahira of the land.

Then, BAM! He is back again, like a mist emerging from the mountains, only this time, he’s leading the Firelands fellowship for the Martysh trials. Everyone is scrambling, clawing for a win, and the golden boy just strolls in, destined to… what, exactly?

It’s not like Ahiras are lining up for a chance to become Martyshyars.

Most, like Pippin, are dragged kicking and screaming by the council and can’t wait to sabotage their own chances to get back as quickly as they can.

Swearing allegiance to anyone outside of Firelands is, after all, not what true Ahiras do.

There’s no doubt he is not here to win. Firelands would never let Zanyar—a prize they’d practically fought Aramis, their closest ally, to claim—leave his loyalty to the province.

And Aramis’s High Lord certainly wouldn’t just hand his only son over to Martysh.

Not to mention, he’s a Fire Eye, Firelands’s own intelligence order—an order just as secretive, just as powerful as Martyshyars.

If Zanyar joins Martysh, he’d be bound by oath to spill all of Firelands’s secrets. No way that is happening.

Which brings me to my very same old question again: WHY IS HE HERE?

I could have asked him, of course, if he’d actually decided to speak to me in the last two moons. He’s acting like we’ve never met.

I’m no stranger to Ahiras’s arrogance, or the whole “ higher-ups don’t talk to lower-downs, especially lowly sorceresses” attitude. But Zanyar and I had a good relationship in the alchemy hall. Well, it was better, at least, than my relationship with every other alchemist aside from Pippin.

We were not particularly close, but Zanyar always treated me with politeness and seemed to value my input, often asking me questions and sharing details about his tasks.

The others just pretended I didn’t exist. When I learned Zanyar was joining the trials, I even began to hope for some camaraderie.

But on this trip? Silence. Except for the occasional stolen glances, which he quickly averts the moment I catch him. Those are the only moments I suspect he hasn’t completely erased me from his memory.

I look at him again. Even his casual mountain climbing is a spectacle.

His powerful frame moves with effortless grace.

His golden brown hair catches the sunlight, and his tunic, which started out loose and flowing, now clings to his rippling muscles.

Every flex sends ripples through the fabric, and the Aramisi girls climbing behind us…

let’s just say they’ve suddenly developed a very keen interest in mountaineering.

He is like a shimmering, golden beacon, blindingly reflecting the sun in their lovestruck gazes.

I survey the crowd again, taking in my fellow competitors in this grand Martyshian spectacle. Ten hopefuls from each province of the Asyrion continent: Aramis, Jamshah, Eyria, Myra, Hamden, Maravan, Kish, Izadeon, and Firelands.

I count seventeen women among the ninety participants, including me.

Five are from Jamshah, four from Hamden and Aramis, and three from Kish.

The delegations from Izadeon, Eyria, Myra, and Maravan are all male, but not all carry the swagger of warriors.

The Kishis, Maravanians, and Hamdenis include a few slender scholars who seem more comfortable with books than blades.

“Three blasted centuries of forced peace,” Pippin grumbles, “and still we are dancing to Martysh’s tune.”

Pippin’s complaints are as predictable as the sunrise; he has repeated the same grievances ever since he was forced to join these trials.

Before I can respond, a bright and surprisingly cheerful voice interrupts.

“I know you Ahiras think you’re the core pillar of the world, but these trials are not just for enlisting sorcerers.

They’re designed to find the best and brightest from across the entire continent, giving everyone a fair shot at becoming a Martyshyar. ”

The speaker is one of the five women from Kish walking near us. She is short and curvy, with braided brown hair and sun-kissed skin of the islanders. Despite her small stature, she speaks confidently, obviously tired of hearing Pippin’s constant complaining.

“And why all the Martysh hate? They’re the reason we have peace. I, for one, am grateful they’ve been the ones facing Daevas and their altered monsters, not us.”

Pippin glances at me in disbelief at the audacity of the island girl. I give him a noncommittal shrug and a half-smile that could mean either agreement or constipation—it’s a versatile expression, really—but inside, I’m screaming, Preach!

Pippin takes this as a cue to launch into another one of his rants. “Martysh demands Firelands to send lambs to the slaughter, but we don’t raise sheep for the Union’s feast.”

The Kishi girl rolls her eyes and, without missing a beat, claps back, “More like stubborn mules refusing to pull their weight for the common good. I have news for you: the Union’s feast is a shared provision, and Firelands keeps showing up empty-handed.”

I am trying my best to suppress a laugh, but it’s a losing battle. This girl has Pippin sputtering like a leaky cauldron. Who knew the trials could be this entertaining? With a huff of annoyance, she dismisses us and strides away.

She is right, of course. Our monarch-less continent is unique, as each province has its own High Lord, except for Firelands, governed instead by our council of nine-ringed Ahiras.

After enduring a devastating war against Daevas, Martysh has served as a unifying army, and the continent has enjoyed three hundred years of peace as a result.