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 hername. 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 gainedtwostars 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 thetrial’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 acrossmy 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.
Chapter Five
Gray.
Of all the colors in the world, Martysh had to choose gray for our outfits.
I grumble at my reflection in the mirror, tugging at the coarse tunic that falls to my mid-thigh.
It isn’t uncomfortable, exactly. The leggings are snug and feel a little rough against my skin after what seems like endless washes, but they allow for free movement. Even the tunic is not restrictive.
Over the tunic, I wear a well-worn, dark brown, sleeveless leather vest I found in the only closet in my small quarter. It fits close to my torso, providing a degree of protection without hindering mobility. Long leather bands wrapped around my waist and forearms complete the outfit.
It is not glamorous, the attire. No fancy embroidery or flowing sleeves. But it is sturdy, and that’s what matters. Honestly, after a lifetime of those high-necked, long-sleeved kirtles at Fire Temple, I welcome the practicality.
Butgray? That, I absolutely hate. I have already endured nine years of gray, not having any other clothes besides the Fire Temple Academy’s official garb. Other kids wore vibrant colors outside our lessons, but not me. I was stuck with Academy’s gray.
It wasn’t that I envied the golden or blue dresses the other few girls in the Academy wore (well, maybe I did a little). I just hated the way wearing the same gray garb all the time marked me as different, poor, an orphan, asif everyone needed another reminder.
No, gray is definitely not my favorite color.
