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Faelas’s eyes narrow further, suspicion etched across his face. Desperate to change the subject, I blurt out the first question that pops into my mind.

“How long have you known each other?” I gesture toward them with a voice that sounds too high for such casual conversation.

“Twenty-nine blasted years,” Bahador mumbles, his voice muffled by a mouthful of bread. “Stuck together like glue since the day we were born.”

Darian picks at a piece of fruit. “Our parents decided we were going to be friends before we even knew what the word meant. We never really had much say in the matter.”

“Which part of Izadeon are you from?” I ask.

“Izadmond, the capital,” Bahador responds with a subtle pride in his voice. “My father’s side of the family has lived there for generations. My mother, however, hails from Jamshah. ”

I want to ask more questions, but I stop myself. Information is valuable in this game, and I don’t want to alienate myself by prying too much. And it’s not like I’m a seasoned artisan, flitting effortlessly through conversations with a pack of men I barely know.

“Firelands rarely send sorceresses outside of its borders for any purpose besides arranged marriage,” Faelas observes, his voice cool and analytical, one pale eyebrow arching in a silent question. His gaze is filled with a blatant display of distrust.

I can’t blame him. From his perspective, I’m the enemy—an Ahira. Even outside the context of this competition, we’re not on the best of terms.

“Those who earn their rings early are granted a single wish by the council. My wish was to come here.”

“So, you’re here to win, not just grace us with your esteemed participation?” Darian asks.

“Yes!” I say, the word bursting from me, fiercer, more passionate than I intended. “I’m here to win.”

Darian chuckles, and the sound is beginning to become familiar to me. It seems like his most common reaction to all my emotional outbursts. “How about the others?”

I hesitate, my hand hovering over my food, and suddenly, a sharp pang of guilt twists in my stomach. Is he trying to extract information about the Ahiras from me? Is that why he invited me to eat with them?

I shouldn’t be here.

Sharing a meal with the Izadeonians suddenly feels wrong, a betrayal of… of what? The Ahiras, who’ve shown me nothing but contempt? And yet, the guilt persists like a nagging voice in the back of my head. “I… I’m not sure.”

“You know,” Darian says, “I thought Ahiras only reserved their special trade of prickly for non-sorcerers. But seems like they can be mean to their own just as well.”

He gestures at something behind me, and I whip my head around, my eyes landing on the Ahiras. I hadn’t even noticed them entering the hall.

There, perched like a pair of brooding gargoyles, are Maleed and Kameel, staring at me with deep frowns.

Pippin nervously darts his gaze between his food, me, and Zanyar, who sits chewing his breakfast with a stony silence.

But that silence… oh, it’s the kind that speaks magnitudes.

All the years I’ve seen him at the Fire Temple, Zanyar had been the picture of stoic calm.

Now, he looks like a predator trying very hard to appear like a priest, just like he did after the first trial.

Anxiety claws at my throat. Is he mad I’m fraternizing with the competition?

Do they think I am spilling Firelands’s secrets over porridge and prunes?

It’s obvious that my breakfast companions do not amuse them.

The urge to bolt from the table is strong, but making a scene in front of the Izadeonians isn’t precisely the most dignified plan.

“Uh… " I stammer, the word sticking in my dry throat. “They’re not… mean to me.”

It’s a pathetic lie, even to my own ears.

Bahador snorts. “They treat you like a stray dog at a feast.”

I feel a wave of guilt as I steal another glance at the Ahiras’s table.

I can’t sit here and make fun of my own kind with strangers.

Clearing my throat, I try to explain, “Different ranks don’t usually associate in Firelands, and they’re all five-ringed.

And I’m also a sorceress. There are guidelines about interactions between sorcerers and sorceresses. ”

Darian’s brows knit together. “Guidelines?”

“We can’t fraternize much unless it’s necessary.”

“What kind of backward nonsense is that?” Bahador grunts with a mixture of surprise and disbelief on his face. “Even in our corner of the continent, where religious fervor runs high, we don’t have such archaic traditions.”

I suddenly find myself defending Firelands’s strict rules. “There are very few of us sorceresses. In my year, there were only two other girls compared to hundreds of boys. And for three whole years after, no girls came to the Academy. The rules are meant to protect us from unwanted advancements.”

Faelas’s eyes narrow. “Unwanted advancements?”

“So, men and women aren’t allowed to interact at all?” Darian asks, his forehead creased with obvious disapproval .

“Not really,” I say, my voice a little smaller now, feeling the weight of their disbelief. “Not unless there’s a specific, sanctioned reason. A shared task. A project. Something official.”

“Backward and outdated, that’s what it is!” Bahador declares, shaking his head.

Darian nods in agreement. “Sounds like a relic from a bygone era.”

I’d never really questioned these rules before. My entire life, I’ve been surrounded by other sorcerers, and I’ve been constantly told that distance was the key to my safety. It was more than a rule; it was a reflex, an ingrained belief. We were few and, therefore, vulnerable.

But now, noticing the Izadeonians’s reaction, a small seed of doubt begins to sprout.

Was it really about safety, or was it a way to keep us sorceresses separate, isolated, and, therefore, easier to manage?

The thought is deeply unsettling. I’d accepted the isolation without ever truly questioning why they existed.

“Speaking of oddities, his presence here still baffles me. The Aramisi boy,” Faelas says suddenly, casting a thoughtful glance toward the Ahiras’s table.

The moment the words are out of his mouth, the air begins to feel thick and heavy, the room too small. A primal urge to flee, to jump up from my chair and run far, far away, bubbles to the surface.

I really, really don’t want to discuss anything about the Ahiras with strangers, especially Zanyar. Even if they don’t consider me one of their own, some ingrained sense of loyalty, or perhaps self-preservation, still lingers in my head.

“He’s not aiming for the win, is he?” Bahador asks.

“That will cause a war in the Union, wouldn’t it?

My father told me that when Zanyar’s sorcery manifested, High Lord Zardalan Zareen summoned all the other High Lords to Shemiran for a crisis council, claiming that Zanyar couldn’t become a Firelander.

He claimed a High Lord’s firstborn son has a duty to his people.

They remained there for turns, locked in heated debate.

Quite amusing, really,” he chuckles, “that Aramis, the province that founded Firelands, had its own heir claimed by them three hundred years later. ”

Faelas responds, arms loosely crossed. “The law of the land is clear. Any child with sorcery in their blood belongs to Firelands, regardless of their birthplace or lineage.”

“Then why is he here?” Bahador asks with a frown. “He can’t be here to win! I’ve heard he’s now Firelands’s special envoy to Aramis. High Lord Zardalan wouldn’t stand for losing his heir again, this time to Martysh, right?”

“I honestly have no idea,” I mumble, feeling heat creep up my neck. My unease is growing rapidly. I risk another glance at the Ahiras’s table, and my heart plummets when my eyes lock with Zanyar’s icy gaze.

Just like after the first trial, he is staring directly at me, and he isn’t breaking eye contact.

I feel panic rising within me, and my breath hitches in my throat at the intensity he radiates.

He’s like a simmering volcano barely concealed beneath a thin layer of snow.

Is it judgment? Fury? I can’t tell, but every instinct screams at me to run. Now.

“I think I’ve, uh, had enough breakfast,” I stammer, rising from the bench. “I’ll see you all later.”

And with that, I flee the dining hall.