The room falls into a stunned silence. If I weren’t about to combust from anxiety, I would find the sight of these stoic sorcerers losing their composure laughable. Honestly, a flock of ancient sorcerers collectively experiencing an emotional meltdown? It’s almost enough to make me giggle if my heart weren’t trying to escape my chest.

Ahira Sunar, the second senior councilman sitting beside Ahira Emenshah, looks like he’s about to say something profound: mouth opens, mouth closes, but his words are nowhere to be found. The man always reminds me of a giant frog with bulging eyes and an intense stare. Now, it’s as if he’s on the verge of croaking out some sage reprimand, but the sheer absurdity of my request has left him speechless. He’s trying hard to keep it together, but that pulsating vein on his forehead is a dead giveaway. Any second now, I half expect a long, slimy tongue to shoot out and snag me like an annoying fly.

Meanwhile, Ahira Emenshah remains the lone island of calm in this sea of sputtering outrage, though a flicker of concern briefly shadows his usual serene expression.

“You want Firelands’ support to join Martysh.” It’s not a question, just a statement, as if he’s trying to break the awkward spell that’s taken over the room.

“I do,” I reply.

“You are aware of the implications?”

“I am,”

Ahira Sunar snarles, “Your allegiance to Firelands will be relinquished. You are required to declare your loyalty to the Union.” He seems to have finally found his voice, ensuring that I fully comprehend the implications of my choice, just in case I missed the notice on my own life-changing decision.

“I am aware,” I say with the gravitas of someone making a truly monumental sacrifice. “It was a difficult decision for that precise reason. But I have thought about it long and hard and made this difficult choice.”

I am trying to sound as genuine as possible. But of course, I’m lying through my teeth. Truthfully, it has always been an easy choice. This has been my dream since I was eleven, wandering the empty halls of Fire Temple Academy during one of those lonely winter breaks when all pupils were with their families. Year after year, I spent those solitary days plotting my escape, and this was the only way out.

“Martysh is no place for a sorceress. Our traditions and customs have long dictated that females are best suited for other roles in the service of Firelands. Martysh requires a level of physical and mental toughness better suited to others.” Ahira Frankel deadpans. Late in his sixth decade of life, he is the youngest member of the council, earning his ninth ring only one year ago.

A raspy voice, drier than a week-old bread, crackles from the corner. “Do you forget your place? You’re barely a four-ringed Ahira and only just achieved that rank! We traditionally send only five-ringed sorcerers to Martysh trials. We wouldn’t want anyone thinking poorly of Firelands’ superior skills, even if we only intend to participate and not win.” Ahira Mahand, older than time itself and looking suspiciously like a well-worn rug come to life, wheezes. His beard, a tangled white forest, holds his face hostage. Every word that escapes his lips sounds like a rusty hinge protesting his existence. It is a marvel he can even speak, let alone form coherent sentences that drip with such disdain.

“I understand this is an unconventional request, but I have spent many years preparing for this moment. My talents and skills lie not in alchemy or bookkeeping but in the art of combat and strategy. I have trained relentlessly, honing my abilities to perfection. I believe I can serve Firelands best by joining Martysh and protecting our province by fighting Ahimans and protecting the peace and safety within the Union.” I conclude with a steady voice.

My claim may cloak my ambition with a veneer of selflessness, but the truth lies somewhere in between. Firelands, being the smallest and most vulnerable province on the continent, has the most to gain from a stable Union, which Martysh is tasked with maintaining.

Our continent stands apart from others ruled by monarchs, as each province has its own High Lord, with the exception of Firelands, which is governed by a council of nine-ringed Ahiras. After devastating wars against dark sorcerers, called Ahimans, and the internal conflict between eastern and western provinces, Martysh emerged as a neutral, independent force. Tasked with defending the continent from external threats, Ahimans, monstrous creatures, and potential inter-provincial conflicts, Martysh acts as a unifying peacekeeping army.

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Martysh is a two-headed order, with most of its members, Martyshmen and Martyshwomen, serving in the military wing. This wing offers stable work and enough coin for an easy life, a rare opportunity for upward mobility among commoners, and a place where many nobles send their sons to demonstrate their honor and duty.

The second, smaller branch of Martysh is its prestigious intelligence wing, the Martyshyars. Becoming a Martyshyar, an elite operative within this intelligence wing is the ultimate aspiration of many who join Martysh. These covert agents, chosen from the most skilled and promising members of Martysh, undergo rigorous training and participate in covert missions. Martyshyars enjoy unparalleled prestige, influence, and access to influential figures, including the High Lords. This coveted position is the stuff of legends, attainable only by those who join Martysh early in life and dedicate years to honing their craft.

Every nine years, however, Martysh holds a high-stakes competition to recruit new members for its intelligence wing from outside of Martysh. Each of the nine provinces sends nine representatives to compete in grueling trials.

“I am not asking for this opportunity out of selfishness or pride. I genuinely believe that I can make a significant contribution to Martysh and, by extension, to Firelands. I am willing to undergo the Martyshyar trials to prove my worth.”

The council chamber goes so silent you could hear a feather fall if feathers were allowed in this hallowed hall of white marble and disapproving stares. (They’re not. Feathers are strictly prohibited, along with laughter and any expression of joy.)

I feel their gazes, heavy with disapproval and simmering anger. Yet, I refuse to cower, maintaining my composure as I meet Ahira Emenshah’s penetrating stare.

He studies me with an expression so inscrutable it could rival a statue, leaving me wondering if he’s contemplating my future or simply trying to remember where he left his beard comb. Finally, with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of a thousand disappointed ancestors, he leans back in his chair, shattering the tense silence.

“Arien, with your exceptional abilities as a sorceress, the potential for your future is boundless. It is within your reach to grasp a position on this very council in due time,”

The council chamber erupts in a cacophony of gasps and splutters as if Ahira Emenshah had just suggested they replace their white robes with pink tunics. The notion that a sorceress, a creature of delicate weakness in their eyes, could ascend to the hallowed ranks of the council was clearly more shocking than a snowstorm in Myra.

“I also earned my fourth ring at twenty. My role could be yours one day. Wasting your magical talent for a seat in an army is a waste. Would you ask a dragon to light a campfire?”

His voice is calm and steady, and for a moment, I can almost picture it: a future where I sit at that grand table, a respected member of the council, wielding respect and power. The thought is tempting and secure, especially compared to the uncertainty and danger that awaits me in Martysh.

Doubt slithers in like an uninvited guest—subtle but chilling. It whispers promises of retreat, of returning to my chambers and letting this whole grand plan crumble under the weight of second thoughts. But I know the longer I linger, the louder it’ll roar, drowning out every ounce of resolve.

“Ahira Emenshah,” I begin with a steady voice despite my inner turmoil, “I value your high regard, but a position on the council is not my aspiration. My path lies elsewhere, and I have chosen it deliberately.” I meet his gaze, hoping he sees the sincerity in my eyes. “I trust that my decision will be understood and honored, just as the wishes of those who preceded me in this council.”

I stop and hold my breath, waiting for his response. Ahira Emenshah’s gaze cuts through me. His eyes, brimming with wisdom and scrutiny, seem to look straight into my soul, peeling away the carefully crafted facade I’ve maintained over the years.

A wave of insecurity washes over me as I stand here. Every doubt, every fear, every hidden longing I’ve kept buried feels exposed under his intense gaze. Does he truly grasp the depths of my loneliness, the silent struggles I’ve endured, the burning desire for belonging that has driven my every ambition? I feel as if I’m teetering on the brink of a decision that could change the course of my life forever.

“For three centuries, it’s been our tradition to honor the wishes of any Ahira who outpaces their peers in earning their rings. Arien, you’ve earned this right, and we won’t deny you what’s rightfully yours,” Ahira Emenshah finally speaks. His voice is resolute despite the visible disapproval from the other council members. “Therefore, we hereby grant your wish. You shall be the Firelands’ prospect for Martysh.”