Page 36

The sky bleeds crimson, painting the distant mountain peaks with the promise of a new day. I sit on the cold, damp battlements of Jahanwatch, watching as the sun struggles to rise.

Unlike the gentle pastels that graced Firelands’s skies, dawn here is a brutal affair. The sky blazes with fiery colors, reflecting off the cold stone beneath me, offering no warmth or solace.

A dull, rhythmic pain throbs in my shoulder and each breath sends a fresh wave of agony through me, but it’s nothing compared to the emotional turmoil I feel inside.

I knew a healer was what I needed, but my legs moved with a will of their own, leading me up to the battlements instead of toward the solace of the infirmary.

As I sit on the battlements, the dawning light brings me no peace. The new day stretches before me, vast and uncertain, just like the trials themselves.

I should be relieved to have survived the night, but instead, I am lost in a maze of confusion and a gnawing gloom that I do not understand.

The events of last night repeat in my mind like a haunting melody. The fear of elimination and the weight of potential failure. The stone crashing down on Rygnar’s skull before he could attack me.

And then… Zanyar. I don’t understand him or my reaction to him.

What was that moment that felt so intimate?

Did I imagine it? And why did I react to it that way?

I have always felt flustered around him, but who isn’t?

Th at moment, though… it was different. It was something else. Did he want to… kiss me?

The notion is so bizarre, so out of this world, that I want to dismiss it with all my might. But what if he did want to? Would I have allowed it? I don’t know, and that’s the most confusing part of it all.

It’s all so overwhelming. I’m not accustomed to analyzing my own emotions, let alone those of others, and it makes understanding this moment with Zanyar even more challenging. Like I’m trying to solve a complex puzzle with only half the pieces.

And then there’s Darian. He risked his own life, his chances to win, to find me.

We’re close, but not that close. With every moment he offers me warmth and welcome, I can feel myself growing more and more attached to them, to him .

But is it wise? To let my guard down and get too attached to another person?

But most of all, I can’t erase the image of Kortyz’s face, twisted in pain and shock, after I plunged the makeshift weapon into his neck. Now, surrounded by cold stone and the impatient dawn, I feel adrift, with only the pain in my shoulder and a familiar loneliness for company.

A weak mind…

Suddenly, a movement catches my attention. I turn my face toward it, expecting a guard, only to find… Zanyar.

He approaches with a quiet grace, stopping a few paces away. His posture is relaxed but watchful, and his body language suggests a subtle alertness. His vibrant emerald eyes gleam in the soft morning light.

The usual flutter in my heart when he is near starts, but for the first time since I’ve known him, I crush it down instantly. Instead, I simply look at him, my gaze contemplative, as if observing a distant landscape.

“Your injuries?” he asks.

I raise a hand to my aching shoulder, wincing at the sharp pain. “It’s nothing,” I reply, though the lie is evident.

He doesn’t move. He just stands there and watches me. As the first rays of dawn bathe the battlements in a warm glow, his golden hair, loose around his neck, catches the light, making him shimmer like the sun itself, a burning perfection that seems at odds with his usual cold demeanor.

Before I can react, he closes the distance between us. His hand reaches out, and I instinctively flinch.

I’m not sure why; even I am surprised by my body’s response. He stops when he sees my reaction, and I can see a muscle in his jaw tense. He takes a deep breath while I hold mine. After a long moment, he moves his hand again, slower this time, and I stay still.

When it is only inches from me, a spell emanates from it, like a gentle caress against my injured shoulder. The throbbing pain subsides, replaced by a soothing warmth.

He leans closer, his shadow enveloping me.

His palm, surprisingly gentle, cups my cheek, and the warmth of his hand spreads through me.

It is a difficult effort not to lean into his touch.

The ache in my jaw instantly eases. It is a strange comfort, a caress that is both soothing and unnerving, and I briefly close my eyes, savoring the relief and the sensation.

Even after the healing is complete, his hand remains on my cheek. I open my eyes to meet his golden-green eyes locked on me. I almost resent how stunning he looks in this light. His beauty feels like a sign, screaming at me to run away from this enigmatic man.

My eyes run between his, trying to read them, read him . But how can I? I can barely grasp my own feelings, let alone those of someone so remote, so out of reach, until just hours ago.

Without warning, he pulls his hand away and, with it, his warmth, leaving me feeling profoundly cold, unsettled, and disoriented. I feel shaken, once again, from whatever just happened between us. But instead of leaving, he moves to the side and sits beside me, watching the sunrise.

The silence stretches between us, filled with unspoken words and the growing light. I occasionally glance at him, but his gaze remains fixed on the rising sun. Its rays soften his features, revealing a weariness in him.

I nervously pick at my bruised hands, seeking solace in the mundane. Zanyar, in contrast, seems a picture of serenity, his gaze fixed on the dawning day as if he doesn’t wish to be anywhere else. We sit in a deep silence, watching the sun ascend .

Conflicting desires war inside me: to speak or to remain cautious. He is a mystery. His actions and presence at the trials are a puzzle. And now, these strange moments between us and his unexpected healing contradict his previous actions.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, he asks, “Was that your first taste of blood?”

The memory of the arena hits me like a brick. I don’t know why he is bringing it up, but I choose silence and only nod.

“I was sixteen when I first spilled blood,” he says casually, still looking at the rising sun.

My eyes widen in disbelief as I turn to look at him. “How? Why?”

“A debt had to be paid. The beast had taken four lives in Aravan. Ending his life was justice, perhaps too merciful.” His tone is calm. Too calm for such a topic.

“But why did you have to do it?”

“My father’s decree. He called it a rite of passage. To mark the day I was deemed a man.”

I’m at a loss for words. Sixteen, the age of adulthood, is typically a time for celebration and gifts in these lands. But this boy was forced to shed blood to earn his place among men? It sounds too cruel and twisted.

“The first kill stays with you,” he says. “Mine was a clean strike with an axe. Though justice was served, the memory stayed, even to this day. It’s a ghost that haunts the mind. There’s no shame in carrying such a burden.”

His words unlock something in my mind, and I finally acknowledge that among everything that has happened, what weighs on my heart the most is the lingering stench of blood. I can still hear the wood hitting flesh and smell the blood misting the air.

I suddenly see Lila’s defeated face, remember her doubts, and realize they are my own, too. How can I be haunted by that memory when I am stepping into a life that could bring many more experiences like it?

Looking down again at my fiddling fingers, I whisper under my breath, “What if I’m not cut out for all of this? For Martysh life? When I’m shaken so easily by a single encounter?”

It should feel strange to share such a profound vulnerability with this distant, guarded man that I have worshipped from the shadows for years. But it doesn’t.

“I would much prefer a sword in the hand of someone who hesitates before striking, who feels sorrow after the deed is done.”

His eyes finally turn to me, and I look up to meet them.

The morning sun catches the gold in their depths, and for the first time, the glacier I am used to seeing has melted away.

“There is no glory in death. Only in protecting those who don’t deserve it.

You saved a man you had no reason to save. That is not weakness.”

The unexpected warmth in his gaze makes my head spin. It isn’t just the absence of his usual ice; it is a light that seems to shine from within, a deeply human quality that is a thousand times more captivating than his cold perfection.

Before I can savor this unexpected sight any further, his expression shifts, and the new softness hardens at the edges.

“But being worthy of a path doesn’t make it the right one for you.

You see Martysh as freedom. An escape. It’s not.

It’s just a different kind of cage, gilded and far more dangerous than the one you left. ”

I frown at the sudden bitterness that has crept into his voice and the abrupt shift from understanding to this grim warning. “It’s my only chance to escape the grip of Firelands. At least I’m walking into this cage by my own choice.”

“We all play the hand we’re dealt, Arien,” Zanyar rumbles. And the realization that it’s the first time my name has graced his lips shakes something deep inside my core. “The question is, how cunning are we in playing it?”

“What good is cunning if you’re forever trapped?” I ask weakly.

“True freedom isn’t just about escaping from one prison to another,” he responds with a softer tone.

“It’s about shaping your destiny within the confines of your circumstances.

Martysh holds secrets that could alter the fate of the world.

It’s not a sanctuary, Arien; it’s a viper’s nest, and you’re walking blindly into it because desperation has clouded your judgment. ”