The wind howls a mournful song through the jagged teeth of the Albir Mountains. As it tugs at my ragged cloak, a shiver, not entirely from the cold wind, races down my spine. I run my eyes over the majestic fortress emerging from the mist. Jahanwatch! A brownstone behemoth standing defiant against the nine elements.
It is every bit as the tales describe. Perched impossibly on the precipice, it dominates the sky like a vision from a dream. Its spires pierce the clouds, catching the sunlight and reflecting it back in a thousand golden shards. The majestic castle sprawls across the clifftop, a breathtaking painting of towers and turrets, courtyards, and keeps.
It’s not just a fortress, not a palace, but a living proof of its creators’ ambition and extraordinary artistry. Atop the highest tower, a banner bearing the sigil of a wolf head wrapped around an eagle head snaps proudly in the breeze.
The path is a relentless climb, a battle against the mountain’s stubborn stone. With each upward step, my lungs burn from the thin mountain air, and my legs ache with the effort. But, with every rise in elevation, the castle emerges in greater splendor, rewarding my perseverance with its breathtaking majesty.
Jahanwatch, the seat of Martysh, has stood here in the heart of the Albir mountains since the Union was established three centuries ago and Martysh was founded. It is indeed a place where laughter dies in the wind. Yet, here I am, drawn by a yearning I can’t explain, staring at a place that beckons me with an enigmatic allure.
“What a dreadful sight,” Pippin growls beside me, his breathing labored by the hike.
I stare at him, utterly bewildered. Is he seriously disparaging Jahanwatch, the architectural marvel that’s been inspiring bards and terrifying enemies for centuries? Maybe his vision’s blurred from all the dust he inhaled in the alchemy hall. Or perhaps he just needs food. Then I remember that he’s always hungry and can’t appreciate anything that is not in the form of a parchment full of spells.
We met two years ago when I joined the Fire Temple’s Alchemy hall after finishing the Academy. He, a seasoned alchemist, oversaw me, and for the past two years, we have worked tirelessly, attempting to create lighter, stronger blades for Firelands’ forces. Unfortunately for him, he was selected to represent Firelands in the Martysh trials. He is eager to fail spectacularly, return to his beloved alchemy hall, and bury himself in a mountain of forgotten lore.
I look at him, and he is the embodiment of misery, walking evidence for why scholars should not go on forced trials. His bulky frame is better suited to scrutinizing endless scrolls, not scaling mountains and dodging disgruntled mountain goats. The man could out-eat a horde of goblins and still have room for dessert. This whole parchment-free, foodless purgatory must be a nightmare for him. No wonder he’s grumpy.
“Jahanwatch is truly awe-inspiring,” I remind him.
“It’s nothing compared to Fire Temple,” He objects.
Now, that is a ridiculous claim. Fire Temple, the capital of Firelands, with its cluster of castles, is undoubtedly grand. But it doesn’t compare to Jahanwatch in size and ferocity.
But I know arguing with a hungry Pippin is pointless. And judging by the looks of our fellow competitors in the Martysh trials, he’s not the only one feeling the strain.
There are eighty-one contenders, nine from each province of the Asyrion Continent: Aramis, Jamshah, Eyria, Myra, Hamden, Maravan, Kish, Izadeon, and, of course, us nine Ahiras from Firelands. Some are as awestruck as I am by the scenery, but most are battling exhaustion, well, again, just like me.
Since dawn, we’ve been scrambling up these mountain trails, led by a group of silent Martyshmen who met us at an inn near Shemiran, the Union’s town nestled in the valley below. It’s been nothing but wind-whipped faces and blistered soles ever since.
The sun is now a cruel eye, staring down at our parched throats and aching limbs. Nonetheless, the sight of Jahanwatch finally coming into view is a welcome relief, although it remains distant, indicating that our ascent must continue, albeit not for long. My feet hurt, and my stomach growls with hunger, but my heart is excitedly pounding.
Jahanwatch is more than just a castle; it is a symbol—a chilling reminder to those who dare threaten the peace that holds the Union together. As if amidst the howling winds and razor-sharp peaks, defiance has taken root, its talons dug deep into the mountain’s heart.
I am finally here. Not in some dusty room in Fire Temple, but at the very seat of heroes - the heart of the continent! Here, the bravest souls are forged into steel, their courage honed for the continent’s most perilous tasks. To join them is a dream once I whispered on the wind, a legend I dared not believe. Yet here I am, to answer the call and face the trials.
“Three blasted centuries of forced peace,” Pippin grumbles, “and still we’re dancing to the Martysh’s tune.”
Pippin’s grumbling is as predictable as the sunrise, constantly repeating the same complaints ever since he volunteered for these trials—a symphony of sighs and moans that could lull a dragon to sleep. Worse is how he keeps looking at me for a response as if my silence is further fueling his discontent. So, as I expected, he continues, making the same argument for the hundredth time, “Why are we still bothering with these outdated trials when every year some traitor Ahiras slip through the cracks and join Martysh anyway?”
But before I can answer, a bright and surprisingly cheerful voice cuts in. “I know you, Ahiras, think you’re the core pillar of the world, but these trials aren’t just for enlisting sorcerers. They’re designed to find the best and brightest from across the entire continent, giving everyone a fair shot at becoming a Martyshyar.” The speaker is one of the five women from Kish walking near us. “And why all the Martysh hate? They’re the reason we have peace, and I, for one, am grateful they’ve been the ones facing those monstrous Ahimans, not us.”
She’s short and curvy, with braided brown hair and sun-kissed skin of the islanders. Despite her small stature, she speaks confidently, and a wide smirk splits her tanned face.
Pippin scoffs. “Peace is a double-edged sword, and Martysh wields both. But mark my words, one edge is always sharper, and it’s aimed squarely at sorcerers.”
The Kishi girl looks like Pippin just told her the sky is brown. “Sorcerers? Martysh has been the linchpin of this continent since the Treaty of the Nine ended the Great War. Who else has kept those power-hungry High Lords in check and protected us from those lurking monsters? Certainly not the sorcerers, holed up in their white towers. It’s been Martysh, and Martysh alone.”
Pippin looks at me with disbelief at the audacity of the islander girl. I am staying silent like a scarecrow in a windstorm, but inside, I’m screaming, “Preach, sister!”. I offer him a noncommittal shrug and a half-smile that can either mean agreement or constipation. It’s a versatile expression, really.
Pippin, bless his eternally grumpy heart, takes this as a cue to launch into another one of his rants, “Martysh demands Firelands to send lambs to the slaughter. But we don’t raise sheep for the Union’s feast.”
The Kishi girl rolls her eyes and, without missing a beat, claps back, “More like stubborn mules refusing to pull their weight for the common good. I have news for you: the Union’s feast is a shared provision, and Firelands keeps showing up empty-handed.”
I am trying my best to stifle a laugh, but it’s a losing battle. This girl has gotten Pippin sputtering like a leaky cauldron. Who knew the trials could be this entertaining?
With a huff of annoyance, she dismisses us and strides away. Even though I haven’t said a word, her disapproving glare suggests that she has lumped me in with Pippin, branding us as arrogant Ahiras who don’t appreciate Martysh’s virtues.
I can’t really blame her. Pippin’s views are common in Firelands; we are a proud, possessive bunch, and the thought of giving one of our own to the Union is about as appealing as mold on bread. Firelands is loath to send its sorcerers to join Martysh, as it depletes our already limited numbers.
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Firelands, though obligated to participate in Martyshyar trials, often views these trials with a degree of ambivalence. Rarely do some Ahiras like me genuinely aspire to become Martyshyars and join the Firelands fellowship, but the rest, like Pippin, who are selected by the council against their will, see the trials as disrupting their duties within Firelands. Consequently, they will subtly sabotage their own chances, as swearing allegiance to any entity beyond Firelands is considered a betrayal of their core values.
“Well, this isn’t so bad,” one of the Myrans sneers, pointing at the fortress. He’s a fellow the size of a small ox, with piggish features and hair like a bleached turnip. Most of their crew, who appear to be from southern Myra, strut ahead, noses held high if the very mountain air stinks of commoners and offends their delicate sensibilities.
I recognize their type—those southern Myra nobles who always think they’re a cut above the rest, especially the Gajaris, the desert folk from northern Myra. Only two Gajaris are among the Myrans, trailing behind the southern nobles as if their presence is barely tolerated.
“It’s remarkably similar to the paintings of it I’ve seen in Madrisa,” a woman from Aramis observes. She is so beautiful that it is almost painful to look at her. Four of the Aramis delegation are women, their hair a wonder of golden hues, ranging from light orange to pale yellow. All four are so breathtakingly gorgeous that I almost want to hide under a rock instead of walking beside them. Though taller than me, they lack the hardened bearing of soldiers. It’s a relief to see I’m not the only one who hasn’t spent their life training for war. Judging by their flowing, elaborately embroidered robes, they are scholars from Madrisa, the continent’s equivalent of Fire Temple Academy, only for non-sorcerers.
I squint, trying to make out every detail of the castle. Its numerous towers and spires pierce the sky, reaching for the heavens. Are those figures patrolling the battlements or mere illusions cast by the sunlight? High above, a majestic eagle with dark plumage circles a distant tower.
The vibrant greenery blanketing the slopes softens the fortress’s imposing front. Towering pines with sunlight-drenched needles ascend the lower slopes, giving way to dense, emerald firs as the terrain rises. Unexpectedly, vibrant wildflowers dot the seemingly barren peaks, adding bursts of color to the verdant landscape.
“Any chance of a hint now that we’re practically sniffing the castle gates?” the Myran oaf booms at the stoic Martyshman beside him.
The Southern Myrans have been chattering incessantly with the dozen Martyshmen escorting us on horseback, hoping to glean information about the upcoming trial. The Martyshmen, however, remained tight-lipped since dawn, offering only the barest of instructions:
Leave your belongings and weapons behind.
Keep only the clothes you’re wearing and accessories on you.
Climb up the mountains behind us.
“You’ll have about as much luck prying information out of them as a weasel trying to milk a stone.” One of the Maravanians smirks, a dark-haired man who is obviously not a fan of the Myrans’ constant chatter with Martyshmen. The comment sparks a wave of agreement from the Hamdenians and a few chuckles from the Kish contingent.
“Isn’t a weasel the sigil of House Markham?” Pigface shoots back. Big men don’t like being compared to small, squirmy rodents, even metaphorically.
“Seems your knowledge of heraldry is as impressive as your ability to keep your mouth shut during a climb.” The Maravanian retorts smoothly.
Myran Man’s face flushes with anger. He starts to retort, but the Martyshman beside him, silent until now, lets out a low growl, effectively silencing him.
“Martysh folks can’t discuss the trial. The lot of them are oath-bound. Don’t bother asking; it’s a waste of breath. No one knows anything about past trials.” the Kishi girl who was arguing with Pippin interjects. “Believe me; I have a brother who returned from these trials. Defeated.”
That comment whips everyone’s heads around toward the Kishi girl.
“Well, then spill it, islander!” a Southern Myran fellow barks impatiently. “What juicy secrets did your brothers share?”
“Not much, really,” she chirps. “His last memory was leaving the inn we left this morning, then waking up back there days later. No clue how he even got to Jahanwatch, let alone what part of the trials got him the boot.”
This isn’t surprising. It’s common knowledge that failing any part of the trials results in instant elimination followed by a memory wipe, leaving your mind as blank as a fresh slate. That’s how Martysh has kept the trials secret for centuries. There is no way to prepare, and no one knows what awaits them inside those ancient walls. Will it be tests of strength, intelligence, or something far more sinister? It’s anyone’s guess.
“At least your brother made it back alive,” grumbles another Kishi man, “Young Jorren from our village wasn’t so lucky. They only returned his body a moon after the trials began.”
A somber silence descends on the group, broken only by the crunch of gravel underfoot. The reminder of our possible death tosses a shadow over our initial excitement.
The Southern Myran bellows, “You lot are a bunch of spineless cowards! I’ll show you all how it’s done when we get there!”
The Kishi man replies with a smirk, “Ah, the sweet scent of Myran ego. It’s like a particularly pungent cheese, isn’t it?”
The Myran, clearly missing the subtle art of insult, growls, “Perhaps you’d like a taste of it yourself. I’ll happily oblige.”
The Kishi girl, surprisingly feisty for her size, chimes in again, “Myrans and their boundless arrogance! Remember, this path is treacherous, littered with the bones of those who dared to boast too loudly.”
Unfazed, the Myran puffs out his chest. “Spare me the dramatics. The truth is, strong men forge history, while the weak are naught but footnotes.” He glares at the Kishi fellowship as if they are insignificant gnats buzzing around his head.
Before the inevitable retort could commence, a Hamdenian, a fellow with a face only a mother could love and a star-shaped amulet of faith as big as his fist around his neck, interrupts with the wisdom of a dense owl, “The gods laugh at the plans of men. Fate, not ambition, often decides our destiny.”
Even his fellow Hamdenians seem to stifle chuckles, thinking he’s wandered into the conversation from a different storyline.
The Myran oaf, clearly confused, roars, “Then why in the Nine Hells are you here? Testing your luck against the gods?”
Unfazed, the Hamdenian replies with a pious air, “Gods tell us to play the game of fate with cunning and courage, lest we be cast aside like broken playthings.”
Kishi girl flashes him a grin, “Though I reckon even the gods wouldn’t mind a little wager every now and then.”
She sends a playful wink in my direction. I can’t help but admire her. She is like a splash of color in a world of grays. Compared to her, I am as exciting as a pot of cold porridge.
I breathe in the pine-scented air, a refreshing change from the dust and grime of the road. We left Fire Temple nearly fifty days ago and have not taken a single rest day since, giving me little opportunity to pause and appreciate the beautiful scenery along the way.
I count the number of women again. Among the eighty-one participants, there are seventeen women, myself included—five hail from Jamshad, four from Hamden and Aramis, and three from Kish. I would like to think that gives me a chance if the trials require body strength. But then I glance back at the Jamshahi women.
Towering and muscular, they exude an air of quiet strength. Their dark skin gleams like polished ebony, and their long, thick braids sway rhythmically with each stride. Compared to them, I feel like a fragile sparrow. They are a fearsome combination of beauty and power.
The delegations from Izadeon, Eyria, Myra, and Maravan are entirely male. Thankfully, not all of them have the swagger of seasoned warriors. The Kishis, Maravanis, and Hamdenis boast a few slender scholars who seem more comfortable with books than blades. But as any seasoned observer knows, appearances can be deceiving.
Then I remind myself again that numerous past trial winners have come from backgrounds very different from the battlefield. This goes to show that these trials assess more than just sheer physical prowess.
A Hamdeni woman speaks with a voice tinged with admiration. “Three hundred years, and they still manage to keep the details of this whole competition secret. I heard last time the trials lasted for six moons, and only three emerged victorious!”
A man from Maravan, his face marked by the harsh lines of a life spent in the unforgiving storms of his homeland, adds, “And nine years before that, it was over in a mere twenty days. Only one made it through,”
“Thirty lives were lost that year,” the Kishi girl adds, “They call it the Red Trials—bloodiest damn year Martysh ever saw.”
The Red Trials. A chilling tale whispered among those who dare to dream of becoming Martyshyars. We all know that trials can be perilous and that death is a constant, lurking shadow. But thirty casualties? That wasn’t a competition; it was a massacre. The families of the fallen had clamored for answers, but Martysh remained silent like a fortress of secrets.
“Maybe they made them fight blindfolded, riding those fancy flying crows of theirs. Now that would be a sight to see!” the Myran oaf mocks, sparking a ripple of laughter through the other southern Myrans, the sound harsh and guttural.
I glance ahead at my fellow Ahiras, marching forward like emotionless statues, and my anxiety spikes. These are supposed to be my allies, yet their cold indifference feels like a betrayal. The journey here has been nothing but a frosty affair. My fellow Ahiras have treated me like a bland mushroom—ignored and inedible, barely acknowledging my existence in the fellowship.
Pippin, the only one who speaks to me, says they resent my participation in the trials. As the youngest Ahira and the only sorceress ever selected, I’m seen as an insult to their traditions. Even Ahira Emenshah’s support hasn’t softened their hostility. It’s painfully clear they won’t be offering any help to me to win these trials. Once again, I’m on my own.
They march with the practiced arrogance of Ahiras, their eyes fixed on Jahanwatch as it owes them a wagonload of gold. No flicker of awe, no hint of nervous sweat – just the same steely-eyed stares they’d likely been practicing in the mirror since they were knee-high to a grasshopper—emotionless gits.
And then, there he is, towering before them like a mist sculpted into a man: Eshavan!