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The vast expanse of the inner courtyard is strangely deserted. The usual bustle of soldiers, maids, and smiths is absent, and an eerie silence engulfs the space, making the fortress feel like our illusion in the first trial.

Lirael is the only one present from Martysh, while the rest of the contenders—Samira, Olanna, Lila, Pippin, Omeer, Othman, Roshana, Bahador, Faelas, and finally, Zanyar—form a loose half circle in the center of the courtyard.

Darian and I join Bahador and Faelas. I can’t miss the guilt etched on Bahador’s face.

His eyes hold a silent apology for his part in the deception, and I nod in understanding.

We have all been driven by our own loyalties and fears.

The fact that he feels guilty shows that the bond we formed transcended the deception. That makes it all hurt a little less.

The emptiness of the courtyard amplifies the sense of anticipation. The stone walls seem to close in, and the silence is pregnant with the weight of the impending trial. This is the culmination of our journey, the moment of destiny that would determine our fates forever.

I feel Zanyar’s gaze before I see it—a weight, an intensity, that draws my eyes to his.

His expression is, as always, a mask that reveals nothing of the thoughts and emotions swirling beneath the surface.

I search his eyes, those impenetrable emerald depths, looking for some clue, some hint of what he’s feeling, but find nothing .

Days have passed since his confession. Two days? Three? Time has lost all meaning, blurring into a haze of exhaustion and uncertainty. Emerging from the self-imposed isolation of my room, everything feels strange and new.

Does he feel guilty? For the promise he made to Emmengar?

I can’t tell. He hasn’t offered any explanations or attempted to justify his actions despite the raw, almost painful honesty he showed on the cliff.

But as our gazes lock across the space, an unexpected realization settles on me: my anger, resentment, and hurt… are all gone.

I’m not angry with him. Not with Darian, or Bahador, or Faelas.

It’s as if this moment, this impending trial, is a dividing line.

It is as if this moment is the true beginning of the rest of my life, and everything before it was merely a prelude.

All sins are forgiven, all past grievances forgotten.

“As you have guessed, the last trial is upon you,” Lirael’s voice echoes through the courtyard. As always, her words carry an otherworldly power that seems to freeze the very air we breathe, and I wonder if it is the fragment inside her chest that creates this aura around her.

“You have passed five trials,” she continues, her voice resonating through the silent courtyard.

“They were designed to test your cunning, attention to detail, understanding of your surroundings, knowledge of Martysh history, reasoning, and ability to build partnerships with others. All of these are essential for any Martyshyar to succeed in their missions. I became a Martyshyar after twenty years of sweat and blood as an ordinary Martyshgard. You, however, will have a chance to become one after only a single year of training, but only if you pass this final trial.”

She pauses. Even her silence is more profound than any sound. The world seems to hold its breath. Everyone looks at her with anticipation, ready to face whatever challenge awaits them. Myself included. But not with excitement. With dread.

“The last trial might seem the easiest. But it is the most important. This is the trial of choice. You have one last chance to choose , once and for all, to join Martysh, for after this point, there is no turning back.”

Her words are cryptic and ominous. But Lirael’s imposing presence discourages any questions, and she doesn’t seem to expect any, either. She simply turns her back to us, raises her hand, and whispers something under her breath.

For a long stretch of time, nothing happens. We stand frozen, staring at Lirael’s back, the silence so complete and profound, it’s almost a physical presence.

The trial of choice?

Her words echo in my mind. But what does it mean? What if they have some way to peer into our minds and discern our true, hidden certainty? But I am anything but certain. It’s impossible, though. No sorcery can read the mind… can it? A knot of dread tightens in my stomach.

And then… movement. In the distance, nine small dots appear, almost imperceptible against the vast expanse of the sky.

They grow slowly at first, then with increasing speed, resolving from mere specks into distinct shapes.

They look like a flock of birds in perfect formation, but as they draw closer, their sheer scale becomes terrifyingly clear.

Nohvans…

Real Nohvans. Not illusions, not phantoms, not conjured images, but the actual, living, breathing creatures of legend, the mythical beasts of the Albir Mountains descending upon us. Gasps of astonishment ripple through the group.

“How?” Faelas breathes, his voice filled with disbelief.

I understand his shock. Summoning animals and controlling them is within the realm of possibility for certain types of complex sorcery, particularly those that manipulate the element of life.

But this is on an entirely different scale.

To call creatures from such a distance, across mountains, defies conventional understanding.

But then again, Lirael is anything but conventional. She wields the power of the life fragment, a power that, by all accounts, amplifies her abilities a thousandfold.

I see the same stunned disbelief mirrored on Pippin’s face, his jaw practically hanging open. Zanyar’s initial shock, however, is quickly replaced by a dawning realization, and a grim understanding settles over his features.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t know the extent of Lirael’s power. He turns to me, and for the first time since I’ve known him, the mask is completely and utterly gone. His eyes, those usually impenetrable emerald depths, are wide, not with wonder, but with a stark, chilling fear .

And in that fear, I see the truth: Emmengar hadn’t confided in him. He hadn’t revealed the real reason why a sorceress in Martysh was such a threat. He’d been sent on this mission, blind and manipulated.

The Nohvans, all nine of them, complete their majestic descent and circle the courtyard before landing with a surprisingly gentle grace on the cobblestones.

They are breathtaking. Magnificent. Creatures of myth made real.

Their massive wolf-like body is covered in gray fur, just like in my dream.

Their piercing yellow eyes gleam with intelligence.

Their front paws have been replaced with razor-sharp talons, and two enormous wings are neatly folded on their back.

These aren’t mere animals to be controlled or commanded. They are sentient beings.

Lirael steps back in front of us, and her voice, once again, commands our attention.

“I will call you by your rank. One by one, you will have the opportunity to decide whether you wish to move forward. Then, you will approach a Nohvan. If deemed worthy, the Nohvan will fly you to one of the peaks at the Nohvan head, where Martyshyar Kamran will administer the Martysh Oath. There are only nine Nohvans here. Only the first nine who choose to become a Martyshyar will have one to ride.”

Roshana gasps. She is last in the ranking.

We all know that Zanyar and Pippin will not choose to advance, which means she will be the tenth person called, with the possibility that no Nohvan will be left for her.

Her face contorts with despair, but I know she is safe.

Darian, Faelas, and Bahador will not attempt to fly either.

The rest of the contenders look relieved and terrified in equal measure. They have all expected a grueling trial filled with swords and danger, but instead, they only need to make a choice, and they all seem certain of what that choice would be.

But the Nohvans themselves are intimidating. Their sheer size is enough to make the thought of approaching, let alone riding one, quite frightening.

But for me, the thought of flying isn’t the terrifying part. I’ve done it. I’ve soared on the back of a Nohvan, even if it was just a dream. The real challenge is the choice . That’s what makes my heart pound and my breath catch. That’s the obstacle I have to conquer.

“Arien,” Darian whispers beside me.

I risk a glance at him, and the raw plea in his eyes nearly breaks me.

He had probably hoped for a longer trial, one that would give him more time to persuade me, like our time in the wilderness or the arena.

But this is an individual test. Once I walk away from him toward Nohvan, he knows he cannot stop me.

“Arien,” he pleads.

I can’t bear to look at him. I bite my lip and turn away, fixing my gaze on Lirael.

Her eyes meet mine, and there’s no plea there.

Only a cold, unwavering command, a steely expectation that brooks no argument.

It’s as if she’s daring me to defy her, as if she’d drag me to that Nohvan herself if I hesitate.

“Zanyar of Firelands,” Lirael’s voice rings out with a clear, resonant command that cuts through the silence like a blade, though her eyes remain on me. “Make your choice.”

Zanyar doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He stands frozen, his gaze still locked on me.

He shakes his head, urging me to reconsider and understand the consequences.

It is as if he only now truly grasps the extent of Lirael’s power and the reason for her intervention, the reason for Emmengar’s command.

“Zanyar of Firelands,” Lirael repeats, her voice rising. “This is your last chance.”