The declaration hung in the air, thick and cold as the desert night. Faris, his obsidian armor glinting like polished shadow, held Shirin in his unwavering stare. The other novices, a hundred statues carved from disbelief, shifted on their heels. A low murmur rippled through the ranks, quickly shushed by the grim-faced overseers. Faris merely turned, his cape swirling behind him like a storm cloud, and marched toward a gaping archway beyond which the colossal, jagged peaks of the Qaldir Cliffs loomed, their crags already shadowed by the predawn light. Shirin’s stomach churned. This was it. The start of the ‘Trial of Machismo’ Roshan had babbled about. And she was apparently Faris’s special project. “Novices!” a booming voice, not Faris’s, sliced through the dry air. It belonged to a hulking drillmaster with a scar that bisected his left eyebrow. “Today, you will ascend the Viper’s Fang, the lowest of the Qaldir Peaks. Each of you will carry your assigned burden. Fail to reach the summit by sundown, and you will be remanded to the Latrine Detail for the duration of your training. Do you understand?” A ragged chorus of “Yes, Drillmaster!” echoed back. Shirin joined in, her voice a reedy whisper compared to the gravelly tones around her. Then came the pack allocations. One by one, youths stepped forward, receiving a coil of rope, a heavy waterskin, a stack of rations. When Shirin’s turn came, a grin split the drillmaster’s face, revealing a missing tooth. He gestured to a stand where a single object rested, glittering absurdly in the dim light. It was a sword, yes, but not a weapon. This was a monument. Its hilt was encrusted with rubies and sapphires, its blade wider than her torso and at least twice her height. It wasn't merely oversized; it was ostentatious, a grotesque parody of power, clearly designed for ceremonial display rather than combat. “The Great Cleaver of Resolute Pride, Shirzad,” the drillmaster rumbled, amusement lacing his voice. “Commander Faris’s personal request. Handle it with the reverence it deserves. Or perhaps, attempt to.” Shirin swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. The sword, she quickly realized, wasn’t just large; it was impossibly heavy, its ornate scabbard alone weighing more than she did. She had to use both arms just to shift its polished brass pommel, an act that sent a dull ache through her shoulders. She managed to hoist it, awkwardly balancing the ridiculous weapon against her chest, its jeweled hilt digging into her collarbone. “Move!” Faris’s voice, now amplified by some unseen device, boomed from the base of the cliffs. “Ascend, you mewling pups! Show the Sands that you are not mere dust to be scattered by the wind! Let your ambition carve paths where only scorpions dared to crawl!” The climb was brutal. The Viper’s Fang wasn't a smooth ascent but a treacherous scramble over loose scree and crumbling rock faces. The sun, a vengeful god, beat down on them, turning the ochre cliffs into a fiery furnace. Shirin, burdened by the preposterous sword, found herself falling behind almost immediately. Her chest, already tightly bound, felt like it was caving in with every gasping breath. The rough rock scraped her palms, and her fingers, weak from disuse, burned. She saw, bewildered, as other boys, desperate for purchase, stepped on each other’s outstretched hands, snarling curses and shoves. When one burly stripling inadvertently ground her fingers into the rock while scaling a small shelf, Shirin blurted, “Oh, thank you! That was a helpful boost!” The youth paused, blinked, then stared at her as if she’d sprouted a third eye. He shook his head, muttering something about “soft city boys,” and continued his ascent. “Struggle, you worms!” Faris’s voice echoed again, laced with a strange, poetic fury. “Let the sweat of your toil etch your names into the very rock! Let the mountain taste your defiance!” Shirin could barely focus on the motivational poetry. Each upward lunge was an agony. The absurd ceremonial sword felt less like a symbol and more like an anchor, dragging her back down into the scorching sand. She was nearing a particularly precarious overhang when a low, guttural growl ripped through the air, sending a ripple of panic through the climbers above her. A creature, no bigger than a lean desert dog but all teeth and claws, sprang onto a ledge just above Shirin. It was a Sand-Pup, its fur the color of baked clay, its eyes gleaming with feral hunger. Its snarl was loud, directed at the closest climber, a lanky youth who fumbled for the dagger at his belt. Panic erupted. Boys scrambled, some slipping down the scree, others shouting. Shirin, frozen by surprise, stared as the Sand-Pup arched its back, ready to pounce. Then, without a conscious thought, Shirin reacted. Not by drawing the small, dull training blade she carried, but by dropping the monstrous sword with a clang and extending a hand, palm open, toward the snarling beast. “Oh, you poor thing,” she cooed softly, a voice utterly out of place on that brutal cliff. “You look so hungry, little one. Are you lost?” The Sand-Pup paused, head cocked. Its growl softened to a wary rumble. Shirin, emboldened, took another tentative step, her hand still outstretched. The creature’s fur, coarse and dusty, was unexpectedly soft as she tentatively stroked its head. It leaned into her touch, a small whimper escaping its throat. Then, astonishingly, it rolled onto its back, exposing its belly for scratches. Shirin, delighted, obliged, her fingers working through its matted fur, finding a particularly sensitive spot. The Sand-Pup began to purr, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through her arm. Silence descended on the cliff face. Every climber above and below froze, utterly dumbfounded. A wild, snarling desert beast, pacified by a belly rub. It was an impossible, frankly embarrassing, sight. “What… in the name of the Shahanate’s Sacred Sands…” Faris’s voice was no longer booming, but a dangerous, incredulous whisper. He stood on a higher ledge, his face a mask of utter horror, his eyes locked on Shirin and the purring Sand-Pup. The ground beneath Shirin’s feet, already weakened by the discarded weight of the ceremonial sword, suddenly groaned. A spiderweb of cracks erupted from beneath her worn boots. The small ledge she stood on, brittle and unstable, began to give way. Shirin gasped, scrambling for purchase, the Sand-Pup still blissfully purring as the rock crumbled around them. She plunged downwards, the purring creature falling with her. Before she could even register the fall, a blur of obsidian armor descended. A powerful arm shot out, catching her around the waist. The other hand snagged the Sand-Pup by its scruff, tossing it with surprising gentleness onto a stable ledge further up. Shirin collided with Faris’s chest, the impact knocking the wind from her lungs. She slammed flush against him, her bound ribcage striking the cold, rigid plates of his armor. His grip was iron, immovable, even as his ribs heaved against her. For a dizzying moment, their faces hung inches apart, his gaze pinned on hers in sheer, rigid horror. His breath blew hot against her cheek in ragged gasps. Then, as quickly as he’d caught her, Faris recoiled. He shoved her back onto the ledge with sudden, violent revulsion. His face, usually a mask of icy control, was now slick with a fine sheen of sweat. He wrenched his face aside, a muscle twitching beside his ear. Without a syllable, he balled his fists and launched himself up the rockface, disappearing into the glare of noon. Shirin peered after him, bewildered, as the other trainees slowly resumed their climb, casting her curious, confused glances. The Sand-Pup, now perched safely, gave a final, mournful whine before scampering away. She retrieved the ridiculous brass monstrosity, its balance more awkward than ever. Her mind replayed the brief, breathless contact, the strange revulsion in Faris’s eyes. What had just happened? Below, crouched in the shadow of a colossal overhang, Roshan observed the rockface. He turned a small silver coin stamped with the Grand Wazir's crest—a fanged viper coiled around a crescent moon. He rubbed his thumb over its cool surface, a faint, almost imperceptible pulse emanating from the metal. He smiled, a tight, satisfied curve of his lips. “Target located.”

The Trial of Machismo