Page 6

I close my eyes again, summoning every ounce of calm I have left to regain my scattered wits.

This panic, this overwhelming fear of feeling utterly lost and alone, must be caused by the mist. It feels irrational.

I’ve been alone my whole life; this is not new to me.

I shouldn’t be this afraid under normal circumstances.

“Arien… Where are you? Talk to me so I can find you.”

“I’m here,” I scream back again. The voice is still muffled, still distorted beyond recognition, but its persistence is a hook in my fraying nerves.

Even this muffled, it definitely doesn’t sound like Pippin’s distinct, high-pitched tone. Then who? Who among the Ahiras could possibly be calling my name with such desperate urgency? Could this be just another layer of the mist’s torment to lure me deeper into desperation and terror?

Focus, Arien. Damn it, focus!

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing the heels of my hands against them as if to physically push out the panic.

Breathe. In… Hold… Out…

Slowly and agonizingly, a portion of the wild terror begins to ease.

I force myself to think and analyze the situation.

I am not really stranded in some remote wilderness; I am near the largest castle on the continent, filled with guards and soldiers.

Ninety other participants are somewhere nearby, no matter how distant their voices may seem.

“Arien… Can you hear me? Talk to me. Come toward my voice!”

Relentless. The voice is relentless, almost pleading. Too desperate, even for Pippin. No one cares for me this much. This has to be an illusion. This time, I don’t respond. Instead, I take several deep, deliberate breaths, trying to anchor myself in logic.

I begin to walk again. I take each step with careful placement, my feet testing the unseen ground to avoid falling into some hidden chasm as I ignore the voice calling to me.

Even if, by some impossible chance, the voice is real—though I can’t imagine Pippin would search for me with such fervor—the rest of it, the terror, the dizziness, the cold, that is undoubtedly the mist. They must be testing something specific. But what?

My thoughts drift to Martyshyar’s instructions. “The rules are simple,” he proclaimed. “Each designed to test your strength, your cunning, and your resolve.”

“Arien. I can’t hear you anymore. Where are you?”

The voice is insistent and filled with an almost believable concern and love for me. For an insane moment, I suddenly recognize that deep timbre… the voice of Zanyar!

The idea that Zanyar Zareen is searching for me with such desperation is so ludicrous that it instantly clears my head, and I suddenly halt, standing still.

A newfound realization cuts through the lingering fog of panic like a shard of ice as I recall the rest of Martyshyar’s instructions: “ Mark well, this is a solitary endeavor… The stone’s ears hear only the heart’s true name… ”

The calls I tried to respond to, the panicked search for whoever was calling, for anyone … it was all wrong. Whatever this trial demands from us, it isn’t through someone else’s help. It has to be faced alone. A solitary endeavor…

If so, I may not be at a disadvantage.

Solitude has been my constant companion for as long as I can remember.

I’ve studied alone, dined alone, and thrived in the quiet company of my own thoughts.

The familiar feeling of isolation blooms in my chest, but for the first time in my life, it doesn’t sting with its usual bitterness.

Instead, it feels… freeing. And immediately, the insistent voice falters, then stops altogether.

And with its cessation, I feel the weight of panic genuinely begin to recede, too.

I start walking again. In my stupid, panicked flight towards the voice, I blundered around and completely lost my sense of location against the castle.

I choose the opposite direction of where the voice was coming from.

And a strange thing begins to happen. I can swear the mist is…

receding. Not dramatically, not parting like a grand curtain, but thinning, just enough so that the absolute white is resolving into murky grays.

I can vaguely discern shapes a few steps ahead now.

If I can see, I can navigate. I can escape this mist.

I quicken my pace, my boots sinking slightly into the soft earth, and the ability to see even two steps in front of me feels like a miraculous gift. I am definitely in a wooded area as the bottoms of tree trunks emerge from the mist.

I keep walking in what I hope is a consistent direction, and with each step, the mist seems to grudgingly yield a little more. Soon, I can almost make out a clearing ahead, a break in the trees. And there, standing beside a large, dark shape that resolves into a horse, is a man!

Relief surges through me. It has to be a Martyshgard, or perhaps even one of the Martyshyars.

“Hey!” I yell. “Hey! Do you know which direction the castle is?”

I start to run, but the figure doesn’t turn to me. Doesn’t react at all, even though I am shouting as loudly as I can.

Caution peeks through my excitement. I slow my run to a more careful walk. This feels… off.

“Can you hear me?” I call out again, my voice less certain now.

Still no response. As I draw a little closer, I see a smaller figure beside the man. A child. A little girl. The man moves to kneel in front of her with a gentle posture, and his attention is entirely consumed by her.

The mist continues to thin as I approach as if I am passing through a series of increasingly transparent veils.

Now, I can see them more clearly. Their clothes are rich, expensive fabrics in deep red and gold tones—not the practical garb of Martyshfolks.

Their hair, both the man’s and the child’s, is pale.

And then, as the last wisps of mist swirl away from their faces, the air punches out of my lungs…

My blood doesn’t just run cold; it feels like it freezes solid in my veins, then shatters into a thousand icy shards. My legs feel like they are carved from lead, anchoring me to the spot.

That man… his profile, sharp and aristocratic, the proud set of his shoulders, the almost regal way he holds his head… I know him. I know him with a certainty that is like a festering wound in the deepest, most painful corners of my memory.

He is High Lord Hoomyn Helmsworth of Myra. My father .

And the little girl, her innocent face turns up to him in an easy adoration.

Her pale hair is a perfect, sun-kissed mirror of his…

she is Hannah. His trueborn daughter. My half-sister.

The cherished child, the legitimate daughter, the sun around which his world seemed to revolve all those years ag o.

The scene before me isn’t just some random illusion. It is a memory. One of the many agonizing moments I had witnessed countless times, a lifetime ago, before I was sent away to Firelands.

He used to teach her to ride, just like this. The small, dappled pony, the infinite patience in his hands as he adjusts the tiny stirrups, the bright, carefree peal of Hannah’s laughter as he steadies her… it is all so painfully familiar.

I used to creep through the dense undergrowth at the very edge of the castle grounds in Myrielfort, the seat of the High Lord of Myra, my father .

I’d hide behind thick, thorny bushes like a silent wraith observing these idyllic moments.

Watching him be a father to her , and to his older son, Hyrad, his precious heir.

The loving, attentive father he never, not for a single moment, chose to be to me, his bastard-born shame.

The mist has faded even further, but my vision remains blurry. This time, however, the moisture is hot and stinging. I raise a trembling hand to my eyes, only to realize that they are my own tears. I am crying.

Gods, why are you crying?

I am no longer that little girl who used to hide and watch these moments.

I’d buried her, and her aching pain, deep down, a long, long time ago.

So why now? Why, in this crucial moment, this trial that is supposed to be my chance to forge a new future, to finally leave my past behind, am I confronted with this ?

And why am I dissolving into tears like a child?

“Father! You promised you wouldn’t let go!” Hannah’s bright, cheerful voice dances through the air.

“I won’t, my sweet. I promise. I’ll hold you tight, my brave little girl.”

A familiar numbness starts in my palms, a cold tide spreading up my arms, creeping towards my chest, aiming to extinguish any flame of my resolve.

No… it’s all an illusion, Arien. It’s not real.

A voice, deep in the core of my being, fights against the encroaching wave of despair. I have no doubt that this sorrow, just like the earlier fear, is amplified by the mist, but I still can not stop it from numbing me from the inside out.

If you can’t face it, run… run away from it.

And that, I do.

I turn my back on the perfect family I could never be a part of, and I run.

I run as fast as my trembling legs can carry me, but the uneven ground offers no easy escape.

My foot catches again, and I pitch forward, crashing down hard onto my already bloodied and battered knees.

The impact steals my breath as pain explodes through me.

The panic surges back with a vengeance, amplified by the fresh agony in my heart from the memory that the mist so cruelly resurrected.

This must be the real trial. To fight against your worst fears and wounds.

It was a long time ago. It was the pain of someone else. Another girl, not you. Not the Arien you are now. You should not let it affect you.

I take another shuddering breath and force my head up, steeling myself to rise, resume my trek, and push through this nightmare.

And there, right in front of me… There he is again.

High Lord Hoomyn Helmsworth. But this time, he isn’t looking lovingly at Hannah.

This time, he is looking directly at me .

And I know that expression. Oh, gods, I know it.

Because I’ve seen that gaze on me only once before in my entire life, and the image is seared into my soul.

I am still on all fours, unable to move or look away.

I grew up hidden away with the gruff gamekeeper and his sharp-tongued wife on the far outskirts of the Myrielfort estate, unaware of my true lineage. I knew only that the people I lived with, the people who fed me and clothed me in roughspun, weren’t my own.

When I was six, I overheard the castle gardeners calling me the High Lord’s bastard.

After that, I’d often snuck onto the castle grounds, watching the seemingly perfect family from afar.

The High Lord always appeared to be such a loving father to Hyrad and Hannah, so gentle, so attentive, not like a man who would willingly abandon his own flesh and blood.

So, my mind created a twisted story to explain it all.

I’d known I had strange abilities for as long as I could remember.

I never told a soul. I was certain they were the reason I was abandoned.

Because I was cursed. So, I’d practiced concealing my sorcery for years, desperately hoping it would eventually wither and die, and then my father would finally accept me.

It was a few moons before I turned nine.

I hid myself in one of Myrielfort’s shadowy halls, having overheard the servants whispering that the High Lord would be returning late.

I waited for hours. It was the first time I was going to try to speak to my father.

To show him that I was normal. That I wasn’t cursed.

The moment I stepped out of the shadows, I saw recognition in his eyes as they momentarily widened.

But that recognition died as quickly as it appeared, replaced by an impenetrable coldness.

After years of witnessing his boundless love for his trueborn children, I was met with nothing but utter disdain.

Now, he is standing before me in this mist with that exact same expression.

He opens his mouth, and my heart sinks, filled with an absolute certainty of exactly what he is going to utter.

It would be the only words he has ever spoken in my presence.

And just as I expected, he speaks that very single, brutally dismissive sentence he said all those years ago to the woman standing beside him: “Take her away.”

Tears, hot and shameful, stream down my cheeks. He turns and walks away, just as he had back then, leaving me shattered.

I want to run, to hide. I don’t want to be here anymore, even if it means forfeiting the trials. I am shaking uncontrollably, and the tears are falling unheeded. I hide my face in my hands, and the old despair coils around my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs.

I need to fight back. I need to claw my way out of these shadows, but I feel utterly drained and hollowed out. Even though I know, on some rational level, that this is an illusion, that the mist had picked the exact, perfect weapon to defeat me. Just like the fear, this despair is also not normal.

Arien… fight back… don’t surrender to the darkness. Don’t let him win. Not again.

But I feel defenseless, exposed. The crushing wave of terror and sorrow is overwhelming.

I curl up on the cold, damp dirt, instinctively trying to make myself as small as possible.

It used to work, sometimes, when I was a child.

But it isn’t helping now. I am drowning, sinking into a black, airless void.

Just as I feel the last vestiges of hope slipping away, a shadow falls over me.