The crowd roared as Arya stepped into the arena, her pulse pounding with the beat of a distant drum. The banners of the competition fluttered in the desert wind, each one emblazoned with the image of Rostam astride Rakhsh. This was no ordinary competition—it was The Trials, an event so steeped in mysticism and legend that no one knew where the challenges truly came from.

Arya adjusted her gloves and scanned the open plain. The announcer’s voice echoed from unseen speakers.

“Seven challenges. Seven tests. Only the brave survive.”

The first trial was announced: Lion's Fury.

A massive gate creaked open, and a roaring lion emerged, its mane wild as fire. Arya froze, her heart thundering. It looked too real to be theater. But the stories of Rostam flooded her mind—how he had slain a lion barehanded. Gritting her teeth, she snatched a spear from the sand and faced the beast. With swift precision and a steady aim, she drove the spear into the lion’s path, forcing it to retreat.

The crowd erupted in cheers, but Arya barely had time to catch her breath before the next trial began.

The Poisoned Well.

The arena transformed, the ground opening to reveal a deep, dark pit. Above it, a rope bridge swayed precariously. The announcer’s voice boomed: “Cross, or the venom claims you.” Below, the pit seethed with a glowing, green liquid.

Arya steadied herself. Her arms burned as she pulled herself across the rope, the toxic fumes stinging her eyes. She reached the other side, coughing but triumphant.

Then came The She-Dragon.

Flames burst from the ground as a mechanical dragon emerged, its eyes glowing like molten lava. Arya grabbed a shield and dodged the jets of fire, remembering how Rostam had outwitted the dragon of legend. Timing her movements, she lured the beast into a trap, leaping onto its back and disabling its fiery breath.

The fourth trial, The Sorceress, unnerved her the most. A figure in black robes emerged, whispering words that made Arya’s vision blur. It was a battle of willpower, not strength. Arya clenched her fists, reciting a mantra her grandmother had taught her, breaking free of the sorceress’s spell with sheer determination.

The fifth challenge, The Wild Steed, brought a flash of familiarity. A stallion resembling Rostam’s legendary Rakhsh galloped into the arena, untamed and furious. Arya reached for it cautiously, whispering soothing words. The horse reared, but she stood her ground, finally mounting it with a mix of strength and trust.

By the sixth trial, The White Div, Arya was bruised and exhausted. The towering figure of the div—a hulking, snow-white creature—stood before her. She had no blade, no weapon. Instead, she used her surroundings, pulling down a net of chains hanging above the arena to ensnare the beast, bringing it crashing to the ground.

As she collapsed to her knees, the crowd fell silent.

“Seven Trials complete,” the announcer declared.

But Arya knew there was one more.

The earth trembled. From the shadows, a final figure stepped forward—herself, but twisted and dark, her mirror image glaring with malice.

“The Final Trial,” the announcer intoned, “is within.”

Arya stared at the doppelgänger, the whispers of doubt and fear from her own mind manifesting in its taunts. She clenched her fists.

“You don’t belong here,” it hissed.

“I do,” Arya said firmly.

She charged, not with fists but with truth, striking the shadow with every memory of her struggles, her triumphs, her endless training. The darkness dissipated, and the arena erupted in blinding light.

When she opened her eyes, she stood alone, the crowd in stunned silence. Then, they rose in unison, cheering her name.

Arya raised her fists to the sky. She wasn’t just an athlete anymore. She was a legend in her own right.