Unlike the Fire Temple’s library, this one is filled with knowledge about Martysh, meticulously chronicling every battle, conflict, and triumph—everything but the details of the trials. I can only find general references to them.
Zanyar is also always in the library, devouring every book in sight. I often feel his eyes on me, a sensation that’s both bewildering and flustering.
Bewildering becausewhy? Flustering because… well,why not? The most handsome and admired man from my childhood is constantly looking atme for no discernible reason.
I spent years tracing his outline from the shadows, admiring him like a distant, untouchable idol. He was the unattainable jewel, impossibly beyond mine, or anyone’s grasp. Now, the roles have been reversed; I’m the one caught in his sight.
Not that his gaze is admiring. It’s far different from the innocent worship I used to offer. It’s… intense. Assessing. A calculating heat that feels like he’s slowly unwrapping me, piece by piece.
I suspect he’s not even trying to hide it. It’s like a dare. A dare to what, exactly? I haven’t the slightest idea. All I know is that it has been going on since the first trial. I keep thinking I should just march over and demand, “WHAT IS IT? WHY ARE YOU STARING AT ME?”
But I don’t. I can’t. Old habits of silent reverence die hard, or perhaps it’s just the fear of what might happen if I do. Instead, I try to bury myself in my reading, anything to anchor me against the tidal pull of his attention. But it’s a futile effort. I feel his eyes on me like a weight against my skin. It makes me clumsy. It distracts me.
Afternoons are for training—archery and daggers, mostly—until my arms ache and my fingers blister. The training ground is also the perfect place to observe and analyze my competition.
Seventy-three contenders are still standing in the games, with Izadeon, Maravan, Hamden, Kish, Jamshah, and Aramis boasting a roster of nine. Eyria and Firelands each lost three to the mist’s challenge, and to my delight, five Myrans didn’t make it inside. The muscle-bound oaf, whose name is Kortyz, and the remaining two southern Myrans, Syriad and Rygnar, who look as brutish as Kortyz, are now clinging to the Aramis contingent, desperately trying to compensate for their dwindling numbers.
By the time eight suns bleed into darkness, I’m certain that if blades are the measure, I’m at the bottom of the pack. Archery and a well-placed dagger are all I can claim with any confidence. Unless this is a contest of who can swing a sword like a frenzied windmill, a swift defeat seems inevitable tomorrow, when the second trial is supposed to happen.
Now in the library, my stomach does a nervous dance, so I bury my nosein an old book, hoping that ancient wisdom will magically transform me into a sword-wielding prodigy.
“Gods, Arien, you look like you’re about to face a Daeva, not reading some ancient book,” a cheerful voice chirps.
I look up to see Lila, cool as an ocean breeze, leaning against my desk with her arms crossed, looking far too relaxed for someone in a death-defying competition. “That’s not the face of someone at the top of the leaderboard.”
“I’m not nervous,” I lie, possibly unconvincingly, as I am sure my eyebrows are twitching.
She snorts in response. “Right. You need to inject some ‘fun’ into that ‘function’ of yours. You’re always running around like a trapped bee or chewing on your lip like it owes you gold.”
I frown. “We’re not here toenjoy our time. We’re here to win a highly competitive and, in case you have forgotten,lethalcontest.”
“So what if we lose? We can always toddle off and join the Martyshgard Order,” she says with the casual air of someone deciding between tea and juice.
Of course, I can’t tell her that I have been forbidden to pursue that option by one of the continent’s most powerful men. “And you’d really be happy with that? Knowing you had a shot at being a Martyshyar and just… became a powerless cadet?”
“Honestly? Don’t carethatmuch.” She examines her nails. “Sometimes I think Martyshgard is the smarter path anyway. At least you don’t have to swear your soul away until you hit seven stars. More flexible, you know?”
She’s right onthat. Martyshgard soldiers aren’t oath-bound to their jobs. They can pack up their boots and leave if they fancy a change of scenery. It is only at the seven-star rank that the Martysh oath is administered, and deep Martysh secrets are revealed. After that, attempting to leave Martysh usually results in an unscheduled meeting with the afterlife.
“Why are you already plotting your departure strategy when you haven’t even been accepted into Martysh?” I ask, baffled.
She shrugs with an elegant movement. “Always good to have an escape plan. Or two. Or three.”
I blink in disbelief. “You’re risking your life in a trial that could very well end you, and you’re not even sure this is your lifelong commitment?”
She ignores my question entirely. “Or, I’ll just head back to the islands. Lounging on a warm beach sounds pretty good after all this cold mountain air and these aggressively gray walls. You should visit if you flunk out. We’re desperately short on people who can look serious while holding a summer wine.”
She gives a cheerful little wave and saunters off, leaving me with my mouth still agape, contemplating the profound mystery that is Lila. Just as I am trying to re-hinge my jaw, a voice as cold as glacial meltwater startles me. “Follow me, if you may.”
I spin around (nearly toppling my tower of anxiety-books) to find the undisputed master of silent judgment and bone-chilling glares, Zanyar himself, standing there.
I barely have time to be surprised that he is finally talking to me before he starts walking away. Standing up quickly, I follow him out of the library, my foolish heart doing that damn stuttering again at the sight of his captivating presence.
I am increasingly perplexed by his behavior. He had always been nice to me in the alchemy hall, more so than the other alchemists—aside from Pippin—but he’s spent the entire time since joining the trials ignoring me or glaring at me. Now this. As we leave the library and head into the adjacent alchemy room, I can’t help but wonder what he might want from me now after more than two moons of icy silence.
In contrast to the solemn air of the library, the alchemy chamber is a lively mix of strange and absurd sights. Glass vials filled with bubbling liquids line the shelves, with colors ranging from emerald green to an ominous blood red. Rows of dried herbs hang from the ceiling, while shelves are stocked with countless jars, each containing a meticulously preserved specimen—grotesque insects, gnarled roots, and even a few shriveled animal parts.
In the center of the room, a large stone cauldron sits atop a roaring fire. Zanyar strides purposefully toward a wooden table against the far wall, where two smaller cauldrons simmer over a low flame. One bubbles withan emerald green liquid while the other seethes with a deep, dark purple hue.
