We are in a wide, dimly lit entry hall, illuminated by wall sconces that cast long, nervous shadows across the wooden floor. Several doors line thetwo hallways stretching to our right and left, each a potential gateway to vital information or a dead end.
“Alright,” Darian murmurs, his voice actually low, as if the concept of ‘stealth’ has finally made a grand entrance into his mind. “Where do we start?”
“Let’s try here,” I suggest, pointing to the nearest door on the right. It is solid wood, quite unremarkable, especially when compared to the dragon-fire-and-probably-everything-else-proof door we’d just elegantly slipped through.
We push it open cautiously. Several desks are crammed together, groaning under the weight of scattered parchments and quills. Shelves sag with ledgers, and in one corner, a stack of scrolls leans against the wall.
“Looks like the room for some of Martyshyars’s operations,” Darian observes, already sifting through documents with the air of absolute nonchalance, his usual. They are mostly logistical reports, supply lists, and records of tasks so minor they probably bored the ink itself. Nothing of interest about the trials.
We try another door and then another, each unveiling a similar scene. It is becoming abundantly clear that the ground floor is dedicated to the nuts and bolts of the wing’s operations, not it’s secrets.
Darian leans against a burdened desk. “If we want to find anything important, the real treasures must be upstairs with the higher-ranking Martyshyars.”
“You’re right,” I admit, feeling deflated and weak by the invisibility spell.
We re-enter the corridor and return to the entry hallway, where a shadowy staircase ascends into the unknown. As we climb, the very air seems to change, growing thicker. The hallway on the second floor is wider, and the doors are sturdier. At the very end of the corridor, one door stands apart from the rest. It is significantly larger, crafted from a dark, gleaming wood adorned with intricate carvings.
“Let’s start there,” Darian whispers. An undeniable thrill of the hunt is all over his face. My stomach, on the other hand, is performing a series of nervous flips, keenly aware that ‘more important spots’ usually come with ‘more important consequences for getting caught.’
We walk toward the door and enter the room. I anticipated a council room, a place for meetings and strategic head-scratching and plotting (hopefully about the trials). Instead, this feels intensely private. This definitely belongs to a very high-ranking Martyshyar.
A massive desk dominates the space, it’s dark wood gleaming in the subdued moonlight that filters through the tall windows. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line most of the available wall surface, and several maps are pinned to the remaining wall space.
I release Darian’s hand—partly because the invisibility spell is beginning to feel like wearing a lead coat and partly because he is dragging me toward the maps, which I doubt would have any useful information about the trials.
I let the invisibility spell drop, trying to recapture my breath and stamina. Darian, now fully visible as well, immediately begins a more leisurely circumnavigation of the room, peering at things with an interest and calm that is slightly unnerving given our precarious situation.
My gaze is drawn to the massive desk. I approach it cautiously, my eyes scanning the various objects scattered across its polished surface: a crystal inkwell glinting softly, a selection of quills in a silver holder, and neat stacks of parchment. One particular scroll is in the center, slightly unfurled as if it has been recently drafted. And there it is, nestled beside it like a royal warrant: the Martyshbod’s personal seal.
“I think we’re in Martyshbod’s personal study.” My heart sinks as I struggle to fully comprehend the sheer audacity—and monumental stupidity—of our current predicament.
“Don’t worry,” Darian offers, his dimple making a reappearance. “If we get caught, we’ll just tell them we got lost looking for the wine solar and took a wrong turn.”
“I’d prefer a plan that doesn’t involve us being sent to the dungeons,” I mutter, realizing it’s impossible for him to feel scared and worried.
He stands in front of a large map depicting various trade routes and military paths, tracing the intricate lines with a thoughtful finger. He seems genuinely more captivated by potential Martysh adventures thanby our pressing need for information about the trials. I, however, have a one-track mind, and it isn’t currently set on cartography.
I start with the bookshelves. I scan them quickly, my fingers flying over spines, searching for anything related to the Martysh trials, but they are no different from the similar versions in the library—plenty of heroic deeds, remarkably little about the details of the trials.
I glance at Darian again. He is still engrossed in the maps. But finally, the usual teasing on his face has faded, replaced by a focused intensity as he studies them. Whatever secrets he is hoping to unearth in this room, they clearly aren’t related to the trials.
I ignore him, a knot of desperation tightening in my chest. Should I move to another room? It seems unlikely that the intimate details of the trials would be casually lying about in Martyshbod’s private study. Surely, she wouldn’t concern herself with such an administrative subject.
My gaze returns to that scroll on the desk, the one that looked like it had been interrupted mid-sentence. I know I shouldn’t. It is reckless, foolish, a direct invitation to disaster. But if thereisany sensitive, handwritten information about the trials here, that scroll feels like the prime candidate.
Slowly, with the caution of someone approaching a sleeping dragon, I reach for it and begin to unfurl it. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly as dry as old parchment, as my eyes scan the elegant script.
It isn’t about the trials. It is a letter from Martyshbod Lirael herself, addressed to Martyshyar Revaan, the commander of the Martysh base in Jamshah:
I am commanding that you immediately dispatch three hundred men to the eastern side of Ardaseer Woods in secret. There have been large Daeva sightings, hundreds of them, the sorcerous kind, and the reports indicate that they are searching for a fraction of the Star in the forests. This information is to remain concealed from High Lord Jabbar Jafar and the Ahiras stationed in Jamshah. Do not attack the Daevas, but follow them, see what they are doing, and confirm if they are, indeed, looking for a fraction of the Star. Report back only to me, in person, within a moon.
Chapter Eight
My heart plummets faster than a stone in a well. I forget everything about the trial and why I am here!
Daevas. The sorcerous kind. Hundreds of them.
In the east of Jamshah, not far from here, the very heart of the continent. It sounds like a fever dream cooked up by a madman. Impossible. It is a bedrock fact, taught to children alongside their first nursery rhymes:Daevas are ancient history, and if some exist, they are mainly behind the Doozak Mountains, a distant threat, not loitering on our mainland.
