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The three of them then fall into an animated, overlapping conversation, sharing their experiences in that cursed mist. It seems Faelas and Bahador had indeed spent a considerable amount of time searching for Darian, even after Darian had apparently stopped responding to their calls.

Both now seem thoroughly irritated with Darian for, as they put it, ‘ gallivanting off on his own ’.

Darian keeps protesting, claiming that he thought it was best to try and find the castle instead, a declaration he apparently shouted in the mist, which they heard but chose to interpret as more of a reason to find him.

Wait …

My mind snags on that. Then were those sounds real ?

There isn’t a chance in the nine hells that someone was looking for me with that kind of urgency.

Specifically not, as my foolish, overactive imagination embarrassingly assumed to be Zanyar.

So, for some, the voices were genuine, and for others… a trick?

As I am contemplating, I am startled to find Zanyar suddenly looming beside me like a storm cloud. He grabs a cup from the table and downs some water in one swift gulp, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscles working.

I look up at him cautiously, unsure if I should risk initiating a conversation or if that would merely invite his typical glacial stares. Just as he opens his mouth, seemingly to address me, another figure materializes through the gates – another sorcerer. Maleed.

He looks… awful. All traces of his usual arrogance and confidence have been stripped away, leaving behind a man who looks like he’s stared into the abyss and found it staring back. After the Martyshgard slaps the bracelet onto his wrist, he races towards us, or rather, towards Zanyar.

Before he can even catch his breath properly, Zanyar asks, “What about the others?”

Maleed stammers, “I… I could only hear Kameel. Alizan. Elranz. And Pippin. I kept hearing their voices, so close, and then… then just when I thought they were only a few steps away, their voices would recede, get further! It was maddening. At some point, I realized it was impossible to find anyone in that cursed mist. It was as if… as if the mist itself was intentionally keeping people on different, diverging tracks. So, instead, I tried to find the castle, which I should have done much, much earlier, and then I…” He falters, his gaze dropping, clearly not keen on sharing whatever personal horror he has experienced in the depths of the fog.

As the sun begins its slow descent towards the horizon, and with still no sign of any of the other Ahiras, Zanyar’s mood darkens with the same pace as the encroaching night. He hasn’t touched any food, and his expression is as sharp as broken glass.

I can’t help but wonder what had him so agitated. They had all ‘ volunteered ’ for this competition, knowing they would have to intentionally fail at some point. Does he feel humiliated that most of the Ahiras might be eliminated in the very first trial?

Meanwhile, the courtyard is gradually filling with more hopefuls.

Nine of the Izadeonians who have passed the test are now at the food table, drinking wine and ale.

Six Jamshahis have arrived and are huddled together, comparing their mist experiences in hushed tones, while the Maravanians are shoveling food into their mouths like they haven’t seen a decent meal in a fortnight.

Three Eyrians are talking quietly amongst themselves in a corner.

To my delight, no one from Southern Myra has yet managed to pass the barrier, but the two Gajaris are present.

The Kishi girl, Lila, has approached the Izadeonian group and is now engaged in a conversation with Faelas.

Listening to the conversation reveals a common theme: many people wasted a significant amount of time trying unsuccessfully to find each other in the mist. It is only after they gave up on this pursuit that they could confront the true nature of these illusions.

Many seem hesitant to share their specific experiences, suggesting that the mist has penetrated deeply, touching on their most profound memories, fears, inspirations, and motivations.

Those who are still missing may be stubbornly pursuing phantom sounds or may have entirely succumbed to the emotional torment inflicted by the mist.

As the day draws inexorably to a close, Zanyar remains unexpectedly, and rather uncomfortably, by my side. It is a gesture so out of character that even Maleed finds it unusual, as evidenced by the disapproving, sideways glances he keeps shooting in our direction.

Just as the sun’s last rays bleed crimson across the sky, Kameel, Pippin, Alizan, and Elranz, along with three Southern Myrans and a larger, more bedraggled group of other contenders, stumble together through the gates, looking as though the mist has reluctantly, and at the very last possible moment, allowed them passage.

Zanyar lets out a breath, his tense shoulders relaxing as if a weight has been lifted.

By the time they stagger over, the sun has completely vanished, and several torches around the courtyard flare to life, casting an eerie glow over the space.

Almost on cue, the massive oak door of the main keep groans open.

Five figures emerge from the keep, all clad in the distinctive dark green garb of the Martyshyars, except for the one in front who wears the black coat of the Martyshbod, the head of Martysh.

With measured steps, the figures approach, and my heart nearly jumps out of my chest as the leader comes into focus.

Years have etched lines on her face, but she remains unmistakably the woman who crossed my path in Myra twelve long winters ago.

Like a waterfall, her Eyrian silver hair frames a face marked by determination.

As she steps closer, nine golden eight-pointed stars shimmer on her black cloak—the unmistakable symbol of Martyshbod, the leader of Martysh.

A tremor, not of fear but of pure disbelief, runs through me. It can’t be. My memory, usually so reliable, must be playing tricks on me. I remember a dark green cloak, the standard uniform of a Martyshyar, adorned with… seven stars.

Back then, she was just a nameless face, a fleeting moment of warmth in an otherwise bleak existence.

I hadn’t even known her name . She was just…

Martyshyar. But now I’m supposed to believe that the woman who showed me such unexpected kindness is now the legendary, fearsome leader of Martysh? It’s… incomprehensible.

I know that the new head of Martysh was appointed six years ago.

The first sorceress, since Martysh’s founder Jiva, who ever assumed this title.

One needs nine Martysh stars to become Martysbod.

Does that mean that she gained two stars in six years?

The climb through the ranks is grueling and arduous.

How could she possibly… ? It defies logic.

Overwhelmed, I struggle to breathe as my hands tremble uncontrollably. Zanyar glances at me as if he senses my shock, but I keep my eyes fixed on the woman who unknowingly set me on this path that led me across half the continent.

Her pale blue eyes sweep over us. A steely resolve has replaced the warmth I once knew in her gaze, but there is no hint of arrogance or disdain in it either.

“Welcome to Jahanwatch,” Martyshbod Lirael says. Her voice, imbued with power and grace, commands absolute silence, captivating everyone in the courtyard. Every person, from aspiring trial participants to soldiers, cooks, and stablehands, stands frozen as if time itself has paused.

“As a reminder, those who fail to pass the trials ahead will lose their senses and will be transported outside.” Her words carry a grim finality.

“Failing the trials isn’t the only way to be eliminated; breaking the rules will do it too.

First and foremost, the bracelet given to you must be worn at all times.

Removing it will cause immediate unconsciousness and removal from Jahanwatch.

The bracelet ensures your disqualification if any of the trial’s rules are broken.

“You are forbidden from harming any Martysh individual, company, or affiliates.

You are forbidden from harming other contenders outside the trials.

Using sorcery with the intention to influence the outcome for yourself or others during the trials is also prohibited.

Any violation of these rules will result in immediate disqualification.

“I trust the first trial has illuminated the true nature of these challenges. This is no idle fantasy, no childish game of swords and shields. The Martyshyars are the continent’s shadows, the silent blades that guard the realm’s secrets.

Their wisdom guides the tireless might of the Martysh.

To stand beside them, to earn the mantle of Martyshyar, is a prize beyond measure.

You must prove your worth not only by your strength but by your wit, your resolve, and the value held deep within your being. ”

As she speaks, the air around her seems to shimmer, as if she is not merely a woman but a manifestation of power and authority.

I feel every hair on my neck raising as she continues, “More trials await, each designed to give you an advantage for the next.

Use the time between trials wisely to hone your skills and gather knowledge.

Every word, every sign, every piece of information could be crucial.

Only the last nine or fewer who conquer every challenge will emerge victorious.

“The first nine to finish each trial will earn points. Nine points for the first, down to one point for the ninth finisher. Those who do not finish within this range may continue, but will receive a score of none. Your performance in each trial will be recorded, contributing to the cumulative score that determines your rank. Your rank will hold great significance during the times you need it most.”

With a graceful sweep of her wrist, Martyshbod Lirael conjures shimmering golden letters on the cold stone wall of the main keep. My eyes scan the wall, and then I see it—my name. It’s at the very top, followed by a large, bold number nine.

It feels like an out-of-body experience; it’s surreal, almost dreamlike. I am vibrating with a sharp thrill, and I notice Zanyar looking at me again, his expression odd. It’s almost as if he can sense the charge crackling across my skin.

Darian and Zanyar are listed in the second row, both with an eight in front of their names.

Izadeon’s Faelas and Bahador hold the following positions with seven and six points, respectively.

Maleed follows with five, then Samira, the first Jamshahi woman who arrived, with a four.

Another Jamshahi, Olanna, holds a three, while the Gajaris, Omeer and Othman, are awarded two and one.

The remaining contenders have yet to make their mark on the wall.

“Martyshgards will now guide you to your quarters.” Martyshbod Lirael’s voice, flat and devoid of emotion, echoes through the courtyard. “Rest well. The next trial awaits you in nine days.”

With that pronouncement, she turns and strides away, leaving behind a heavy silence.