Page 5

All conversation ceases, replaced by a collective, stunned silence.

It matches the tales exactly. Perched impossibly on the precipice, the graystone behemoth stands defiantly against the nine elements, dominating the sky like a vision from a dream. Its spires pierce the clouds, catching the sunlight and reflecting it back in a thousand golden shards.

Jahanwatch, the seat of Martysh, has stood here in the heart of the Albir Mountains since the Union was established three centuries ago.

It is an awe-inspiring painting of towers, turrets, courtyards, and keeps that sprawls across the clifftop.

Atop the highest tower, a banner bearing the sigil of Martysh—a wolf’s head intertwined with an eagle’s head—snaps proudly in the breeze.

“It is magnificent,” I whisper, my heart pounding excitedly.

“It’s nothing compared to Fire Temple,” Pippin retorts.

Ignoring him, I breathe in the pine-scented air. The vibrant greenery blanketing the slopes softens the mountain’s imposing presence, and unexpected wildflowers add life to the verdant landscape, making the castle seem even more majestic.

But no—it’s more than just a castle! It is a chilling reminder to those who dare threaten the peace that binds the Union together. As if, amidst the howling winds and razor-sharp peaks, defiance has taken root, it’s talons dug deep into the mountain’s heart .

I am finally here—not in some dusty room in Fire Temple, but at the very seat of heroes—the heart of the continent!

Here, the bravest souls are forged into steel, their courage honed for the continent’s most perilous tasks.

Joining them is a dream I once whispered to the wind, a legend I dared not believe. Yet, here I am, at last.

Our path leads us across a wide bridge, seemingly hewn from the mountain’s own stone, which arches over a gaping chasm.

The view is breathtaking. A magnificent waterfall cascades down a sheer cliff face, a glistening white ribbon unfurling against the dark, ancient rock. Far below, the river snakes its way through the valley.

As we cross the impressive span, the Martyshgards escorting us signal for a halt. Beyond, the bridge ends, and the path vanishes. The only thing I can discern ahead is a thick, white mist clinging to the air like a shroud. My stomach tightens at the sight of it.

Are we supposed to simply walk into that? It doesn’t look like any natural mountain fog I’d ever seen; it is too dense, too uniform, too… unnatural. It pulses with an eerie stillness. A palpable silence falls over our group as every gaze is fixed on that opaque curtain.

Just as the unspoken questions begin to feel deafening, three figures emerge from the heart of the mist. They ride towards us on horseback; their movements initially obscured, then slowly sharpening into focus as they draw nearer.

All three are cloaked in long, dark green Martyshyar coats, each bearing the Martysh emblem emblazoned on their chests: a golden wolf’s head entwined with an eagle’s head. Their leader is distinguished by eight golden, eight-pointed stars meticulously embroidered around his collar.

When they reach us, the eight-starred Martyshyar dismounts with a creak of leather and a grimace that could ice a lake, then steps forward. His gaze sweeps over us before he speaks.

“The rules are simple, but the path to becoming a Martyshyar is not. You will face a series of trials, each designed to test your strength, cunning, and resolve. The first trial commences now, a challenge to determine your worthiness to even set foot upon the threshold of the sacred Jahanwatch. Mark well, this is a solitary endeavor. The stone’s ears hear only the heart’s true name.

The order of your entry to Jahanwatch matters.

The faster you find a way in, the higher your standing.

If you fail to discover the entrance before sunset, your Martyshyar dreams will vanish, and you will find yourself waking up back at the inn down in the valley. ”

A thousand questions prick at my mind, but I swallow them. If the Martyshyar had a hint to offer, he would have.

The Martyshyar then turns to the nine of us from Firelands.

“Any use of sorcery during the trial with the intention to influence the outcome for yourself or others is strictly forbidden. You are to compete on equal terms with the other participants. Any violation will result in immediate disqualification.”

With that final pronouncement, he mounts his horse, and the three Martyshyars and the dozen Martyshgards who have accompanied us thus far spur their horses into a swift trot, vanishing into the mist.

And just like that, the first trial begins!

Immediately, a handful of the more impetuous contenders bolt into the mist, and their figures are swallowed by the white opacity within a heartbeat. Many, however, stay put, including the Ahiras.

A nervous murmur ripples through those who stayed behind, mirroring my own unease. As the other participants huddle together in their provincial clusters, the Ahiras, unsurprisingly, form their own exclusive circle.

No invitation comes my way, of course. No whispered strategy, no shared knowledge. If this were the Let’s Pretend This Girl Doesn’t Exist trial, they’d already be winners. I sigh, swallow my pride like I have done all my life, and approach quietly to hear their conversation.

“It’s sorcery, that much is certain,” Maleed states. His voice holds the confidence of being the eldest among the Ahira contingent. His raven hair is a stark shock against his pale skin, with five rings adorning his fingers.

“Illusion-inducing sorcery, perhaps,” Alizan wonders.

“But the Martyshyars passed through it unaffected,” Kameel, a soldier from the Firelands’s army, counters .

“Perhaps they have some ward that grants them passage,” Maleed wonders aloud.

“That mist might be a veil for something far more sinister lurking behind,” Pippin suggests, visibly shaking.

Zanyar, a portrait of infuriating composure amidst the growing unease, finally speaks. “We will enter together. Everyone, take the arm of the person beside you, and no matter what happens inside, do not let go.”

His gaze sweeps over the Ahiras before landing on me, pinning me in place.

For the first time in the two moons since our journey began, his eyes linger on me, not flicking past as if I were a piece of unremarkable existence.

This isn’t an invitation; it’s a command.

For two moons, he had barely acknowledged my presence, but now his look holds an imperative I should not dare to ignore.

My hand instinctively moves as I reach out to grasp Pippin’s arm tightly.

As always, my willpower seems to evaporate under the scrutiny of Zanyar’s eyes.

Zanyar takes Pippin’s other arm—a gesture that makes Pippin visibly stiffen, though he does not dare to object.

The other Ahiras follow suit, forming a chain of sorcerers linked arm in arm.

Maleed gives a curt nod, and with a collective, indrawn breath that feels like a prelude to our doom, we plunge into the white.

The world vanishes instantly.

One moment, I am gripping Pippin’s arm; the next, a violent dizziness slams into me. My grip is gone, snatched away. Or did I let go? I can’t tell. My hands flow to my head as the cloying whiteness spins around me, threatening to pull me apart. I squeeze my eyes shut.

Pippin! My mind screams his name, but the sound is trapped, along with a cry that never escapes my throat.

When the worst of the dizziness subsides after a painfully long time, I open my eyes and blink rapidly.

Nothing.

Less than nothing.

An absolute, featureless void of white surrounds me, so thick I feel it pressing against my skin and my eyeballs. Pippin is gone, along with the others.

I stretch out my hand, but it meets only the damp chill of the mist again and again. Each desperate grasp at emptiness only tightens the knot of pure, visceral fear in my chest. I am alone. Utterly, terrifyingly alone.

I strain my ears, hoping to locate the Ahiras by sound, but all I can hear is the thundering of my own heart and faint, unidentifiable, muffled noises—too indistinct to understand.

Or is it just the blood roaring in my own ears?

I listen intently, hoping to pierce the blanket of fog.

Then, an impossibly thin sound creeps through the mist.

“Arien… Arien… Where are you?”

It sounds like someone shouting from across a vast mountain range. Hope pierces through my terror. “I am here. Where are you?!”

“Arien… Arien…” The voice, fainter now, snags at the edges of my hearing. It is like an echo from a half-forgotten, sorrowful dream.

“I’m here! I’m here !” The words tear from my throat. I lunge forward, stumbling and scrambling into the fog, flailing towards the ghost of a sound.

“Arien… I can hear you. I am coming towards your voice. Come to me!”

The sound echoes as if the call is descending from the heavens themselves.

My arms thrash about, seeking something to hold onto, but all I find is the empty air.

I move frantically toward the source of the voice, but my foot catches on an unseen branch or maybe a loose stone, causing me to pitch forward and fall hard onto my knees.

A sharp pain, followed by the immediate warm wetness of blood, tells me I’ve scraped them badly.

I ignore the pain and scramble back to my feet, trying to hear the voice again. Is it getting closer?

“Where are you?!” I shriek, and the raw panic in my own voice sends a fresh stab of fear through me. It is becoming impossible to walk, listen, and even breathe properly as the tide of terror rises inside me.

Focus, Arien. Focus.