Page 14

In contrast to the solemn air of the library, the alchemy chamber is a lively mix of strange and absurd sights.

Glass vials filled with bubbling liquids line the shelves, with colors ranging from emerald green to an ominous blood red.

Rows of dried herbs hang from the ceiling, while shelves are stocked with countless jars, each containing a meticulously preserved specimen—grotesque insects, gnarled roots, and even a few shriveled animal parts.

In the center of the room, a large stone cauldron sits atop a roaring fire. Zanyar strides purposefully toward a wooden table against the far wall, where two smaller cauldrons simmer over a low flame. One bubbles with an emerald green liquid while the other seethes with a deep, dark purple hue.

I watch him intently, trying to understand why he brought me here. At this point, if he is secretly trying to recruit me for his potion-making society, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Seeing my curious look, he says, “These are potions I prepared for our fellowship. The green one is for healing and cleansing wounds, and the purple one helps build stamina and deter fatigue.”

My eyes widen in surprise. “But… we’re not allowed to use sorcery during the trials.”

With a small shake of his head, he says, “No sorcery was involved in making these potions. They’re based on ancient Madrisa recipes, from herbs and other natural ingredients.”

My mouth drops open in shock.

“The trials can strike at any moment,” he says.

His expression betrays nothing, per usual, but I still try to find hidden meaning in that chiseled face.

“It’s wise to keep a pouch on you at all times, stocked with these potions, dry food, water, and other essentials.

You never know what dangers you might face. ”

I stand here, momentarily speechless. Is he really offering me potions?

I clearly remember the first time I laid eyes on Zanyar.

I was a timid nine-year-old, fresh in Firelands.

Even at thirteen, he cast a long shadow, chilling every room with an unspoken, potent power.

It clung to the air long after he’d disappeared down a corridor, leaving an indelible mark on everyone, myself included.

He didn’t need to say much; his presence alone spoke volumes.

To my younger self, he was like a mythical creature, a shining embodiment of everything I wasn’t: popular, powerful, and destined for greatness. I, on the other hand, was a wisp of a girl, lost, scared, ostracized, and a shadow, unseen and unheard.

Every time our paths crossed when we were both trainees in Fire Temple Academy, he easily turned me into a bumbling, blushing mess. It got marginally better when we started working together in the alchemy hall two years ago, but even then, that unsettling flutter never entirely disappeared.

Being near him is like experiencing a sudden, inexplicable heat wave—a flutter in my chest, a warmth creeping up my neck.

It is purely physical, of course. Like admiring a particularly stunning sunset or a perfectly sculpted statue.

Beautiful, impressive, but ultimately… untouchable.

It is more like a distant appreciation, with a pang of jealousy at how he effortlessly commands attention.

He just has that effect on me. And, I suspect, on every other woman on the continent.

Which is why I’m genuinely surprised at my sudden burst of courage when I utter, “Thanks for the potions, but I’d be even more grateful if you and the other Ahiras would include me in your deliberations and help me win these trials. ”

I hold my breath, bracing myself for his reaction.

Anger? Scorn? Dismissal? But he doesn’t react with anything I expected.

He simply stands there, silent, those keen, perceptive eyes studying me.

I feel like his stare is burning my face.

It almost seems that he is wrestling with his own thoughts, though nothing is evident on his face. The suspense is agonizing.

“My task isn’t to ensure your victory or any of the Ahiras.” His words, so carefully neutral, are a slap in the face. But it’s a slap I fully expected.

Every instinct, every lesson learned in Firelands, every voice in my head is screaming, Don’t do it. Don’t beg. Don’t show weakness. And yet, a desperate, foolish urge makes me blurt out, “Why not? Ahira Emmengar himself gave me his blessing.”

Internally, I am cringing so hard my insides are shaking.

I’m name-dropping Emmengar like a child invoking a parent’s authority, hoping it will be enough to sway him.

Emmengar is basically a deity among sorcerers, and it doesn’t hurt that he was also Zanyar’s Sage when he was in the Academy.

His Sage was the head of the council himself, and mine was the grumpy Brutus who hated the sight of me.

That alone should summarize how different our Fire Temple experience was.

I hold my breath, bracing for the inevitable rejection, for the cold, hard no that will crush this last, fragile flicker of hope.

And he doesn’t disappoint, of course. His face is a mask of stone, his eyes devoid of any emotion, his voice flat and implacable, when he opens those perfectly full lips, “Perhaps he did. But he didn’t explicitly instruct me to aid anyone in winning. ”

“Isn’t that implied, though?” I insist, fully aware that I am entering pathetic territory. “Did he need to spell it out?”

Zanyar cocks his head and his voice is maddeningly calm and collected when he responds, “As I said, Firelands council never explicitly instructed us to provide assistance to you.”

“All right, fine. No orders. But couldn’t you, I don’t know, choose to help me?

Why don’t I deserve help from my own kind when it wouldn’t hurt you at all to offer it?

Because I’m a sorceress?” My voice falters from hearing the desperation in my own voice, and I bite down hard on my lip, cursing my helplessness.

For the first time since this agonizing conversation began, a flicker of something that resembles regret, a shadow of something that suggests he might be a mortal man with the capacity to feel, softens his sculpted features.

When he speaks, his voice is a lower timbre, but it loses none of its resonant firmness.

“I’m here to ensure the safety of our entire fellowship, including you.

But that’s the extent of my commitment. I won’t make promises I can’t uphold.

” He gestures to the empty vials on the table. “Take what you require of the potions.”

And with that, he turns and walks away. A frustrated sigh escapes me, noticing that even the sight of his back is breathtaking and dangerously elegant.

The very line of his shoulders, broad and perfectly defined, seems an inherent proclamation of power, a challenge to any lesser being.

I can’t help but contrast it with my own tendency to shrink, to curve my shoulders inward as a constant effort to become invisible in any corridor.

I force my shoulders back, standing as tall as I can as my only claim to dignity, and watch his measured steps carry him away, leaving me stranded, alone, and adrift in a sea of bitter emotions. The rejection, though sickeningly familiar, still stings.

Isolation claws at my heart, its icy fingers tracing the familiar patterns of helplessness. This well-worn path is painfully familiar. If I let these emotions flow, it always ends with a dizzying descent into despair. It would be so easy to succumb, to let the darkness drown me.

But I clench my jaw in defiance. I’ve learned to fight back. I’ve built walls around my heart, brick by agonizing brick. They can’t affect me if I don’t let them. I shouldn’t have asked for his help. But at least—I tell myself—a swift, clean dismissal is preferable to a lingering uncertainty.

Get a grip, Arien. You’ve got this. You don’t need them. Or anyone. Breathe in, breathe out.

The empty vials mock me. It isn’t the support I want, nor the empathy that could truly heal my old wounds. But it is something . And I am desperate enough to take it.

A burning resentment flares inside me. When I conquer these trials, when I silence every single doubter, I’ll shove these empty vials in Zanyra’s face and thank him for his generosity .

I can almost taste the satisfaction of seeing his face crumble, the disbelief that would widen his eyes—and the eyes of all the other Ahiras who dared to underestimate me.

A defiant smirk lifts the corner of my mouth. They wouldn’t break me. Their doubts, their disloyalty, mean nothing.

My resolve hardening, I fill the vials.