Page 4

And yet, Pippin’s views are common in Firelands; we are a proud, possessive bunch, and the thought of giving one of our own to the Union—even though we, the smallest and the least populated province, have the most to gain from the Union’s stability—is about as appealing as mold on bread.

“Any chance of a hint now that we’re practically at the castle gates?” One of the Myrans booms at the stoic Martyshgard beside him. He’s a fellow the size of a small ox, with piggish features and hair like a bleached turnip.

Most of their crew, seemingly from southern Myra, walk ahead with their noses held high, as if the very mountain air stinks of commoners.

I recognize their type—those southern Myra nobles who always think they are superior to others, especially when compared to the Gajaris, the desert folk from northern Myra.

Only two Gajaris are among the Myrans, trailing behind the southern nobles as if their presence is barely tolerated.

The Myrans have been chattering incessantly with the Martyshgards riding beside us in their brown Martysh coats, hoping to gather information about the upcoming trial.

The Martyshgards, however, have remained tight-lipped, offering only the barest of instructions: “Leave your belongings and weapons behind. Keep only the clothes you’re wearing and your accessories. Climb up the mountains behind us.”

“You’ll have about as much luck prying information out of them as a weasel trying to milk a stone,” a Maravanian smirks, a dark-haired man clearly unimpressed by the Myrans’s constant chatter with the Martyshgards.

His comment sparks a wave of agreement from the Hamdenians and a few chuckles from the Kish contingent.

“Isn’t a weasel the sigil of House Markham?” Pigface retorts.

“Seems your knowledge of heraldry is as impressive as your ability to keep your mouth shut during a climb,” the Maravanian replies smoothly.

The Myran man’s face flushes with anger.

He opens his mouth to retort, but the Kishi girl who had been arguing with Pippin interjects.

“Martysh folks can’t discuss the trial. The lot of them are oath-bound.

Don’t bother asking. The only thing we know about the trials is that failing any part of it results in instant elimination. ”

She’s right. The last time the trials were held was seventy years ago, and Martysh ensured that the details were not recorded in any book or document.

No one knows what awaits us inside those ancient walls.

Will there be tests of strength, intelligence, or something far more sinister? It’s anyone’s guess.

“That is, if we get lucky,” grumbles another Kishi man. “I heard a third of the contenders died the last time they hosted the trials.”

A somber silence at the thought of our possible demise settles over our group, the kind that magnifies every small sound, making the crunch of gravel under our boots too loud.

Naturally, it is the Southern Myran oaf who feels compelled to shatter it.

“You lot are a bunch of spineless cowards! I’ll show you all how it’s done when we get there! ”

The Kishi man replies with a smirk, “Ah, the sweet scent of Myran ego. It’s like a particularly pungent cheese, isn’t it? Best appreciated from a distance.”

The Myran, clearly missing the subtle art of insult, growls, “Perhaps you’d like a taste of it yourself. I’ll happily oblige.”

“Myrans and their boundless arrogance!” the Kishi girl says, surprisingly feisty for her size. “Do remember, friend, this path is said to be treacherous, littered with the bones of those who dared to boast too loudly before their time.” She sends a playful wink in my direction.

I can’t help but admire her; she is like a splash of color in a world of grays. Compared to her easy confidence, I feel as exciting as a pot of cold porridge.

Unfazed, the Myran puffs out his already considerable chest. “Spare me the dramatics. The truth is, strong men forge history, while the weak are naught but footnotes.”

A distinct snort has my head turning. The Izadeonians are walking as a unit, not far from me. Ten towering men, all carrying themselves with the unmistakable swagger of trained soldiers.

One of them, a tall figure with the powerful build of a warrior, was the source of the laugh. He looks less like a competitor in a deadly trial and more like a man embarking on the grandest adventure of his life, with a glint of enjoyment on his face from the spectacle around him.

He senses my gaze and looks at me. For some inexplicable reason, a reason that goes against my usually reserved being, I don’t immediately look away. Perhaps it is his sheer presence or that charming, almost roguish light dancing in his eyes that holds my attention.

He isn’t just tall; he looks like the wind has carved him from a mountain.

There is a wildness about him, the rugged charm of someone who clearly spends more time sleeping under the stars than lounging in gilded halls.

His tousled dark brown hair curls with a delightful disregard for combs, and his deep, dark blue eyes, striking against the frame of surprisingly long, long , thick lashes, hold a spark of quiet intelligence.

I hold his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, and then… he winks!

Just like that. As if we are old friends sharing a private joke about the Myran’s bluster.

His strong jawline softens as his mouth quirks into a lopsided grin, revealing a disarmingly charming dimple on his right cheek.

Combine that with the distinct cleft in his chin, and the man is a walking, talking, smoldering bonfire.

My internal organs, usually so well-regulated, seem to suddenly combust. A blush I can feel all the way to my toes ignites, and I snap my gaze away as if his grin is a forge. My heart suddenly hammers against my ribs, and a strange tingle dances along my nerves.

Sustained eye contact with strange men? Receiving winks and devastatingly charming grins from men who look like they wrestle bears for fun? Definitely, definitively , not my forte.

Forcing a semblance of calm, I am far from feeling; I make a show of surveying our surroundings once again. My eyes land ahead at my fellow Ahiras, marching forward like emotionless statues on a mission to conquer the mountain.

If I am to make it through, I’ll likely need help, but my fellow Ahiras have treated me like a bland mushroom—ignored, inedible, and generally unworthy of acknowledgment.

Pippin is the only one who actually speaks to me.

According to him, they all resent my participation in the trials.

Apparently, being the youngest Ahira, with only four rings, and being the first-ever sorceress selected for these trials is an egregious insult to their traditions.

Even Ahira Emmengar’s blessing hasn’t thawed their hostility.

It is painfully obvious they wouldn’t be offering me any help in winning these trials.

They march with that practiced Ahira arrogance, eyes fixed on the mountain like it owes them a wagonload of gold. No flicker of awe, no hint of nervous sweat. And then, there he is again, looming before us like a mist sculpted into a man. Zanyar.

The Kishi girl beside me notices my gaze lingering on him. “I have to admit,” she whispers, “when I saw you Firelanders arrive at the inn last night, I was surprised to see a girl. But nothing shocked me more than seeing him in your group.” She nods discreetly toward Zanyar. “Why is he here?”

I glance at her. Idle chatter with strangers is unfamiliar territory for me, and I can’t help but wonder if she is trying to pry information from me about the Ahiras. Choosing silence, I just stare at her.

“What’s wrong? An islander is beneath an Ahira’s notice?” she remarks with a sarcastic smirk. Her words sting, and I realize she’s mistaken my quiet nature for the arrogance of an Ahira.

“No, it’s not that,” I quickly say. “I just… "

The Kishi girl gives a curt nod, her expression a delicate blend of regret (for having spoken to me, I’m sure) and exasperation (at my general existence).

I bite my lip. We are all equally clueless about these trials, but one thing is clear: I need allies. At most, only nine can win this competition. Anyone with half a brain would form a strategic alliance, maximizing their chances.

Everyone else, of course, has their provincial teams to work with. Me? I have a gaggle of sorcerers who actively resent my participation and, on top of that, have no interest in actually winning. Which means charming potential allies is paramount.

The only problem? I am a socially stunted disaster, a product of a lifetime of solitude and no practice in the art of interaction.

Growing up surrounded by boys, who Firelands frowns upon girls interacting with, and then spending my formative years with less-than-welcoming girls at Fire Temple hasn’t exactly nurtured my social skills.

After a few initial, brutally rejected attempts at friendship, I gave up.

Especially once I decided to join Martysh.

Why bother building connections in a place I was destined to leave?

“I was thinking about the trials,” I confess with a sigh. “I’m a little nervous… No… I’m really nervous. I don’t know what to expect.”

The Kishi girl raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Nervous? You must be the first Ahira in history to admit such a thing.”

I chuckle, realizing the futility of pretending. “I suppose I’m not your typical Ahira. And to answer your earlier question, I have no clue why he’s here either.” I pause, then bravely venture into conversational territory. “How do you know him?”

“Is there anyone on the continent who doesn’t know him? I was just a child when the news of the High Lord of Aramis’s son being a sorcerer reached even the distant islands of Kish. The story was the talk of the taverns for moons.”

Even though it happened before I was born, I, too, have heard about those years.

The revelation that Zanyar, the sole heir of High Lord Zardalan Zareen, ruler of Aramis, possessed sorcerous abilities apparently sent shockwaves throughout the continent, igniting a fierce debate on whether he had to remain an Aramisi and claim the seat of the High Lord or become a Firelander.

“My name is Lila,” the Kishi girl suddenly says. “And you are?”

“Arien,”

“So, spill it. How’d you land a spot in this forsaken trial? Sorceresses and Martysh, it just sounds… strange.”

I frown. “You don’t know the head of Martysh is a sorceress?”

She nods. “Martyshbod Lirael, right? I heard she was the only sorceress to ever join Martysh since its founder, Jiva.”

“I doubt it. Every year, a few Ahiras join the Martyshgard Order. I’m sure some sorceresses have been among them. I know of at least one.”

I stop, surprised by my own uncharacteristic sharing. Then again, having a conversation with strangers is uncharacteristic for me. Maybe I was just a secret chatterbox waiting to be unleashed. Even Pippin looks slightly surprised by my sudden openness.

“You do? Who?” he asks, frowning.

“I met one in Myra when I was a child, before I came to Firelands,” I respond quickly, taking a swig of water from my waterskin, not keen on delving into that part of my life.

Pippin opens his mouth, probably to ask more questions, but Lila, sensing my reluctance, cuts him off. “So, is he here to win?” She gestures toward Zanyar.

“You won’t hear Ahiras’s secrets from us,” Pippin growls.

“I suppose that’s a no. Then why is he here, sweating it out with the rest of us, when his path is obviously destined for greatness in Firelands and Aramis?” she asks, staring at Zanyar with a frown.

I understand her confusion. Zanyar’s participation in these trials is a puzzle wrapped in an enigma. It all reeks of rotten fish, and my gut churns with its stench.

I glance at Zanyar’s tall figure, but before I can get completely lost in his unfairly attractive features yet again, my gaze is pulled to something even more breathtaking.

A majestic fortress emerges from the mist.

Jahanwatch!