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I wonder if she lives within these castle walls or is stationed at one of Martysh’s many bases scattered across the continent. I don’t even know her name. But I doubt there are many sorceresses-Martyshyars. I might be able to ask about her after a few days, once I settle in.

Just as I complete a full circle of the courtyard and find myself back near the food table, the massive gates groan open again, and two figures stumble in. One takes a few unsteady steps before collapsing onto all fours, gasping for breath as if he’s just outrun a pack of wolves.

The other, the ever-graceful Zanyar, stands tall, but his usual mask of unruffled composure is absent.

Instead, he looks like he has just been forcibly ejected from a nightmare directly into reality.

His breath comes in ragged, harsh gasps, and his eyes, usually so coolly assessing, are wide with a blend of shock and raw surprise as they dart around, taking in his new, mist-free surroundings.

I watch as realization slowly dawns on him.

Finally, his eyes find mine. They widen, then they stay , as he pushes a sharp breath out.

It isn’t his usual aloof, almost dismissive glance.

This… this is intense. Heavy. Deep. Uncomfortably so.

Why is he looking at me like that? Did something happen during his illusion?

I break eye contact and notice the same Martyshgard who greeted me earlier now standing beside the two newcomers.

The gasping man quickly scrambles to his feet, and I realize it’s the tall, attractive Izadeonian from earlier, the one who winked at me.

His hair is disheveled, and sweat drips from his brow.

“Are you Darian of Izadeon?” The Martyshgard asks.

“By the Nine, yes, I am!” The man exclaims between breaths, and a triumphant grin spreads across his face. He seems to have an admirable ability to recover from nightmarish experiences with remarkable cheer. “Which one of us arrived first?”

The Martyshgard points a bored finger at me. “She did. You two entered simultaneously, so you share the same rank.”

The man—Darian—turns his head towards me. I can see recognition flicker in his eyes as he strides toward me and the food table after Martyshgard slaps the same bracelet on his wrist.

“Just the person I was hoping to see,” he announces, as if we were old acquaintances meeting at a pre-arranged luncheon.

He reaches the table and lifts an entire flagon of ale, treating it like a personal goblet and chugging a significant portion straight from the jar.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, he adds, “I told Bahador, you’re the one to watch.

And here you are, beating the rest of us.

My knack for reading people remains impressively accurate. ” And then, he winks at me again.

I can only stare at him, feeling as though an entirely different creature has just wandered into the courtyard. Why is this stranger talking to me with such familiarity?

“So, tell me,” he says, after taking another hefty gulp of ale. “What nightmare did that delightful mist conjure up for you ?”

When I continue to simply stare, my powers of speech apparently having taken a brief departure, he chuckles. “What, not keen on sharing your secret advantages with the competition?”

He doesn’t seem remotely bothered by my stunned silence and launches into his own tale unprompted.

“Well, I suppose you didn’t waste your time chasing phantoms like me.

Had this wild obsession rattling around in my head that I had to find Bahador and Faelas.

Took me an embarrassingly long time to realize it was a fool’s errand, even with their voices ringing in my ears.

Once I finally shook that off, I got to face the real entertainment. ”

“What did you see?” The question slips out before my usual guarded mind can intervene.

“Daevas,” he mentions such a bizarre thing as casually as if he had encountered aggressive squirrels. “Hordes upon hordes of them. Among other… less pleasant things.” He punctuates this by stuffing a rather large mound of roasted meat into his mouth.

My jaw, which has been mostly slack with surprise, nearly drops to the ground completely.

Daevas? Of all the horrors the mist could conjure, it chose Daevas for him?

The very demons of old who ignited the Great War, slaughtered tens of thousands, and now supposedly cower behind the Doozak Mountains, away from civilized societies?

All I know from my readings is that these simplistic, brutish demons walk on two legs, possess horns and tails, and have an intelligence that is close to, but not surpassing, that of men.

The only exceptions are a small number of sorcerous kind among them whose intelligence does rival men’s, and who could even change their likeness to appear like men.

I’d never actually seen one—a privilege most on this continent share. But Izadeon, with its long border with Doozak Mountains and the Daeva settlements lurking beyond, must be far more acquainted with those demons than most.

Now, I’m not usually one for idle chatter, especially with strangers who look as though they could arm-wrestle a bear and win.

But this man has a certain disarming charm, a twinkle in his eye that suggests that while he is a muscle-bound warrior, he doesn’t take himself, or perhaps anything, too seriously.

And the thought of someone facing Daevas in that torment-mist has me itching for answers. “Did they… did they attack you?”

He gives me a skeptical look. “Of course. Are those demons known for their peaceful negotiation skills?”

I can only continue to stare, mouth still agape. Seeing my expression, he asks, “So, I take that you didn’t fight any ancient demon?”

“No… just… faced old memories…” I mumble.

“Huh… " he grunts in response, which isn’t particularly insightful, and proceeds to slather cheese on his bread as if he’s trying to plaster a wall. Next, he piles on a mountain of various meats and cheese, building it higher and higher.

Despite my mind screaming to walk away from a man who admits to fighting with hordes of Daevas as if it’s an everyday occurrence while creating a culinary monstrosity, I blurt out another question. “How did you find the gates?”

“No earthly clue,” he mutters, his words slightly muffled by the initial assault on his bread-meat-and-cheese tower.

“First, I ran away from the Daevas. Then I saw some other… things… which made me realize I’d prefer to fight the Daevas.

So, I ran back towards them and, well, started fighting.

They just kept coming. And coming. When I finally dispatched what I hoped was the last horde, one of the bigger blighters gave me a shove, and I sort of…

tumbled straight through the gates.” He shrugs and stuffs the remainder of the monstrosity into his mouth in one go.

As he munches, I take him in. He is attractively charming.

Unlike Zanyar’s chiseled perfection, his features are rugged and genuine, not intimidating.

They’re steady and reassuring. Laughter lines crinkle around his eyes, and his full lips promise easy laughter, contrasting with his eyes, which are the color of a storm brewing on the horizon.

There’s mischief dancing in their depths, but beneath it, there’s also a warmth simmering.

Though his bearing hints at noble birth, he looks more like someone who wrestles monsters for fun rather than spending his days sipping fancy wine. Judging by how he chugs his drink, he wouldn’t say no to a good flagon of ale either.

“I haven’t seen many of you,” he mumbles through a mouthful of food, catching me staring. “A sorceress,” he clarifies, eyeing me.

“There aren’t many of us,” I respond.

Despite his imposing stature and rugged appearance, his demeanor is surprisingly gentle and approachable.

He nods thoughtfully, his eyes still on me.

“Not like blacksmiths or bakers, that’s for sure.

You look… young.” He glances at the four rings adorning my fingers before meeting my gaze again.

There is a hint of what appears to be respect in his eyes.

It is a foreign concept, and my stomach does a little dance in response.

This enormous man, this surprisingly perceptive giant, is making me flustered, even though he isn’t doing anything, intentionally, to fluster me.

It isn’t just his size or the intensity of his gaze.

It is his… presence . His attention. That hint of regard in his eyes.

It is unsettling. I look away, suddenly fascinated by the intricate pattern of cracks in the stone floor.

“By chance, is that your brooding lover?” he asks casually, throwing a look over my shoulder.

“W-what?” I sputter.

“He seems pretty interested in our conversation. He’s glaring at me like I just stole his favorite axe.”

I look around, bewildered, my gaze finally landing on Zanyar. He is standing a few paces away, his arms crossed, his expression thunderous.

If looks could kill, I would currently be a small, smoking pile of ash on the ancient stones of Jahanwatch.

What, by all the fires of Azarkuh, is his problem ?

But before I can stammer out a reply, another figure strides into the courtyard through the gates, looking incredibly calm given what he has emerged from.

“Faelas!” Darian exclaims as he walks towards him and pulls the newcomer into a full hug. The man, Faelas, however, shoves him back with a grunt, which only makes Darian’s grin widen even further.

“Took you long enough, mate.”

“That’s because I was looking for you ,” Faelas mutters, a frown creasing his brow. “Why in the blazes did you stop calling for us?”

Just then, another Izadeonian, this one looking like he’d also wrestled a Daeva, stumbles through the gate, drenched in sweat and gasping for air.

“Bahador!” Darian roars, clapping him on the shoulder.