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A behemoth of a woman, all muscle and swagger, with a shaved head that gleams under the dim light, plonks down four mugs on our table with a force that makes the wood groan in protest. The mugs are filled with a murky, brownish brew that I eye with deep suspicion, half-expecting it to sprout legs, grow a face, and crawl away.

Chugging ale before attempting a mountain ascent in pitch black does not sound appealing, but Bahador seems intent on making his ancestors proud by draining his tankard like it’s a race against time.

“Behold!” he bellows. “This, my friends, is a proper drinking establishment! No prissy highborn airs here, just honest folk and tales tall enough to reach the heavens. It’s where secrets are spilled, fortunes are won and lost, and questionable life choices are made.”

Faelas rolls his eyes at Bahador’s theatrics, but he isn’t entirely wrong. The place is a raucous symphony of gruff voices, tankards clashing like cymbals, and the occasional snore from some poor soul who’s succumbed to the song of the ale.

“So, no map, then?” Faelas grumbles.

“No,” Darian replies with a shrug. “Arien claims she’s got a sorcerous memory. Says she’ll sketch the whole town later, complete with every stray cat and suspicious alleyway.”

Faelas squints at me. “Is that some sort of sorcery trickery? ”

“No,” I say with a wave of my hand. “Just a powerful memory. I can remember everything I see, even once.”

“Everything? Every word of every book, every forgotten footnote? Every love letter anyone ever scribbled for you?” Bahador challenges.

“Yes.”

He scoffs. “I don’t believe you.”

I shrug. “Believe what you will.”

“I believe her,” Darian says nonchalantly, and again, that warm feeling flares up inside me. “She strikes me as one more likely to keep her head down than blow her own horn. If she says she can, she can.”

Bahador snorts. “Never met a walking library before. That’s all.”

“It is a rare talent, indeed. But someone must earn those highest scores on every test, right?”

Bahador’s booming laughter fills the air. “Well, well, looks like the ale’s loosened your tongue. Careful, Darian, we’ve got ourselves a hidden bard with a thirst for bragging rights.”

Grinning, I silence the nagging voice of caution in my head. This is it, the real deal—a proper tavern in a bustling city. My smile widens as I survey the scene around me.

Faelas disrupts my thoughts. “Let’s not get too comfortable. Trials wait for no one, and we’ve got a mountain to climb. Best to head back soon.”

His gaze sweeps across the lively tavern, taking in the boisterous crowd and the warm, inviting atmosphere. But then, his eyes narrow on a shadowed corner.

“Darian,” he whispers, tilting his head toward the corner.

I follow his gaze to a shadowed alcove where two figures huddle, their features almost lost in the dim light.

One face, however, is recognizable and very familiar: Martyshyar Kamran, the one who presides over the trials.

And beside him, there is a Martyshgard whose brown collar is also adorned with eight stars.

Two eight-starred leaders from two different branches of Martysh sharing a table in a tavern as unassuming as this. I’ve heard fewer than twenty members in the entire Martysh order have eight stars and two of them are sitting mere paces from us.

Bahador shrugs at their sight, nonchalant as ever. “Probably swapping war stories or something.”

Faelas, however, mutters, “Or discussing more important things, like the trials.”

I strain my ears, but the tavern’s roaring cacophony makes it impossible to glean even a whisper of their words. “How can you be so sure?”

Faelas leans in. “We need to know what they’re planning. Arien, can you listen in?”

A shiver of apprehension runs down my arms. “That seems risky. They’re not known for their forgiving nature.”

Faelas scoffs. “Risky? Everything in this forsaken trial is risky. Besides, we came here to find information about the trials, didn’t we? A little information could give us the edge we need.”

I hesitate, torn between the potential rewards and the undeniable risks. Spying on the Martysh is a dangerous gamble, as I learned the last time I foolishly decided to break into the Martyshyar wing, but the stakes are high, and we can use all the help that we can get.

After a moment of contemplation, Darian speaks to me with a hint of reassurance in his tone. “I agree with Faelas. But it’s your choice, Arien. No pressure.”

Bahador nods in agreement, surprising me with his uncharacteristic sensitivity. “We won’t force you into anything.”

A heavy silence descends on us as I weigh their words against the weight in my gut.

“We’ll tread lightly,” Faelas says. “Just a quick listen. If it’s not trial-related, we’re out.”

Darian’s smirks. “Who could turn down a peek behind the curtain, right?”

“Don’t pressure her,” Bahador says with a frown.

I glance at Faelas, then at the cloaked figures, and a gamble starts to take shape in my mind. The risk is a beast, but the reward might be its tamer.

“Fine,” I breathe. “But we’ll be like ghosts. In and out.”

Faelas’s smile is sharp and victorious. “Like shadows. ”

I place my hand on the table. “You need to touch my skin with your bare hand.”

Darian places his large palm over the back of my hand. Faelas touches my forearm, and Bahador, almost reluctantly, places a finger on my wrist.

I mumble a whisper of sorcery, and a silver thread as thin as a hair stretches toward the shadowed table. As the thread touches their space, hushed words of the Martyshgard crash on my ears, and by the power of the Izadeonians’s touch, theirs too.

“…all over the black beaches. Just like in the deserts. There were maps everywhere.” She’s not talking about the trials.

Just tales of some mission gone wrong. I prepare to sever the connection, but what comes out of Martyshgard’s mouth snags my attention.

“Emmengar’s lapdogs, the lot of them. Every last one a liar and a cheat. ”

I frown. Are they talking about Ahira Emmengar? The head of Firelands’s council? I tighten the thread.

The Martyshgard’s voice seethes with frustration. “And now Martyshbod wants to cozy up to the Ahiras, of all things? Trust those vipers? Hah! I’d sooner welcome a scorpion’s sting.”

Martyshyar Kamran’s reply is a balm of calm against her heat. “She doesn’t trust them, Mitara. But she’s pragmatic. She’s worried they’ll beat us to find the Star’s fragments.”

Star ! That name… again… I look up, searching the faces of the Izadeonians, and find the same question on their tense faces, too.

The Martyshgard, whom Kamran called Mitara, scoffs, “We’re centuries ahead of them. They won’t catch up.”

“They’ve been crawling all over the red sands and the stormy beaches,” Kamran counters, “They’ve amassed centuries’s worth of our knowledge in less than a decade.”

“We’ve held our own for centuries! There’s no need to go begging for their help now!” Mitara grumbles.

Kamran’s sigh is audible even through the spell.

“Mitara, sorcery is a potent weapon when your search is sorcery. For centuries, Firelands and Martysh shared a vital alliance; their leaders always sent us their best, their brightest, because they understood our crucial role in their security. That understanding has crumbled in recent decades. They’ve become drunk on their own power and influence, imagining they no longer need us to shield them from larger provinces.

We need more of their truly strong sorcerers to make any real headway.

The three-ringed mages we’ve received these last fifty years are a pale shadow of the strength needed to find the Star’s fragments.

And now, since Bernold’s death and their discovery of the Star, recruitment from the Ahiras has all but dried up.

They don’t trust us anymore, knowing we concealed the existence of the fragment from them, and so they no longer send their people to Martysh. ”

I feel a ripple of shock passes through the three men beside me at this name, Bernold .

Darian’s hand tightens around mine. Faelas mirrors the gesture, his fingers digging into my forearm, almost to the point of pain.

Even Bahador’s single finger, resting lightly on my wrist, moves a little.

Their faces are etched with a blend of utter shock and apprehension.

Who is this Bernold? And why did the mere mention of his name elicit such a reaction? And what is this Star and its fragments that everyone chases after? I want to ask, but the conversation presses on, and I hold my questions to keep listening intently.

“Because they want the Star for themselves. Mark my words. They want it to do what the Daevas couldn’t.” Mitara’s voice drips with venom.

“Careful now… " Kamran cautions her.

“Why should I? Those sorcerers hide their true motives behind veils of silken words and false smiles. They want the Star’s power to wield against men!”

“Or perhaps they simply believe men cannot be trusted with a power that can bend each of the elements. A power that can shake the very foundations of the world. Just as we do not trust the Ahiras with it.” Kamran says with a measured voice.

“We are not just anyone! We are Martysh, protectors of the continent! Who better to wield the Star’s might? Any other hands on it would spell disaster.”

“I don’t disagree. But we still don’t know what secrets Bernold discovered before his death.

His writings were taken by the Ahiras, remember?

Perhaps he wrote of something that gives them an advantage and helps them find the fragments before we do.

It is far wiser to unite with them, to combine our knowledge and seek the Star together. ”

“Unite with them?” Mitara scoffs, clearly aghast. “Imagine those treacherous bastards with the Star’s power coursing through their veins!

Bending the elements to their will! Do you believe they would ever relinquish such power?

No one would. That is the curse of the Star.

It corrupts as surely as it provides. No one but Martysh should ever possess it. Especially not those Ahira snakes.”

Kamran sighs again, releasing a sound of weary patience.

“Look, I understand your distrust. I share it. But now, with Daevas in Jamshah and them also joining the hunt for the Star’s fragments outside of Izadeon, we must utilize every tool at our disposal.

I know you don’t trust the Ahiras. But an alliance with them, however distasteful, is surely preferable to the Daevas finding a fragment, don’t you agree? ”

Martyshgard Mitara’s voice is tight when she responds, “That’s a complication we certainly didn’t need. And why Jamshah’s forest all of a sudden? My latest reports indicate they’re still active in Izadeon, searching for the earth fragment.”

“Perhaps they’re dividing their forces. Thinking there’s another slice in the forest,” Kamran suggests.

“But why Jamshah, specifically?”

“Maybe they forced some words out of Bernold before killing him,” Kamran wonders.

Darian’s grip on my hand tightens further, and Faelas’s ragged breathing is now clearly audible. Whoever this Bernold was, his death is clearly important to them.

“Thirteen years is a long time, Kamran,” Mitara says.

“Whatever led them to believe a fragment of the Star hides in Jamshah must be a recent discovery. Never have so many sorcerous Daevas gathered in one place since the Great War.” A note of deep concern enters her voice.

“They must be absolutely certain there is a fragment there. If we alert Firelands with this clue, they will also start their search in Jamshah. They are already breathing down our necks in the search for the light fragment in the Gajari deserts. And their shadow has loomed over the Maravanian coasts for years. We still don’t know how they discovered the sound fragment is hidden there.

We cannot afford their interference in the forests as well. ”

“Whatever brought the Daevas to Jamshah, we cannot allow it to continue,” Kamran says with a grim voice. “They must be stopped before some innocent poor soul crosses paths with them and gets himself killed.”

“Agreed.” Mitara lets out a deflated sigh. “Zareen… has he made any move?”

Zareen? I frown. Does she mean Zanyar? Making a move?! What is she talking about? I lean more as though that will help me listen, my ears straining to catch every word.

“We are watching him closely,” Kamran assures her. “He spends his time training and in the library but keeps his distance. No signs of treachery yet.”

“Perhaps he is seeking help from the others. Knowing we are watching him.”

“We are watching them as well,” Kamran says.

Zanyar must have come here for some mission. But what kind of mission requires a High Lord’s son? Not knowing is eating at me. I need to know what’s going on!

“Martyshbod still thinks he is here on Emmengar’s orders?” Mitara asks.

“Why else would Emmengar send his prized successor?” Kamran responds with a dry voice.

I share a knowing look with the Izadeonians. Could the mission that Zanyar was sent here to fulfill be related to this Star that apparently Firelands, Daevas, and Martysh are all after?

“Enough of this grim talk. Ready for another round?”

I cut the magical thread as Martyshgard Mitara rises, presumably heading to the bar.

I look up at the stunned, pale faces of the Izadeonians. “Who is Bernold?” I ask with a hushed voice .

Darian, Faelas, and Bahador exchange heavy glances, and a tense silence stretches on. Finally, Darian responds, “He was Izadeon’s advising Ahira. The one who was murdered beside Faelas’s father.”