Page 27

It’s as if everyone has collectively forgotten that trials must continue. A moon and a half pass, and time crawls at a snail’s pace. I’m not complaining, though. I treasure every moment of my new daily routine so much that sometimes I forget I’m in the middle of a cutthroat competition.

After breakfast with Darian, Faelas, and Bahador (who, surprisingly, hasn’t burned the castle down yet with all his flirting with every woman in the vicinity), I vanish into the library, only reappearing when my brain is filled with more knowledge than a hoarder’s garret.

Zanyar, the master of brooding and dramatic stares, is also glued to a chair in the library, always circled by his loyal puppets, the Ahiras, and the Aramisis.

But while they flutter and chirp, Zanyar himself remains a figure apart, a lone lion observing the lesser creatures from a distance.

Even the Aramisi women, whose devotion borders on fanatical, usually trail him and maintain a respectful, almost fearful, distance.

The entire scene reeks of Fire Temple all over again.

He has that inescapable quality that makes him stand out, regardless of the crowd, even here, among the Martysh folks.

During his training sessions, I’ve seen hardened Martysh warriors halt their own exercises to watch him as he moves with his blade.

When he walks in the corridors, it’s as though an invisible edict is issued: conversations between servants, guards, and soldiers die mid-sentence, a peculiar hush falls, and people almost instinctively create a wide berth to allow his unimpeded passage.

It’s not just his striking height or the undeniable, almost cruel perfection of his face. No, it’s something more profound, that same powerful effect he had on everyone back in Fire Temple, an invisible mantle of command that he carries with him everywhere he goes.

All of their drama is fine by me. Except for the fact that Zanyar keeps staring at me.

All. The. Damn. Time. It’s as if he expects me to march over there and demand an explanation for his minor betrayal in the second trial.

Or maybe he wants me to yell at him. Or perhaps he’s hoping I’ll chuck a hefty book at his perfectly sculpted head. Who knows?

But I’m not giving him the satisfaction.

I refuse to acknowledge his existence altogether.

He doesn’t deserve my anger, my tears, or even a fleeting glance.

He can stew in his own enigmatic juices for all I care.

I want him to know that he’s insignificant.

They all are. And honestly, it feels incredible to ignore him after I’ve been obsessed with the idea of him for years.

But despite all the deliciousness, I’m still a bit puzzled. Why does he care? He made it very clear that he was not planning to help me win and explicitly asked me not to have such expectations. He has done nothing to contradict his words.

Then why the sudden call for me to approach him— if that’s what he’s doing with his constant staring! I honestly don’t know. And I don’t care either. Maybe his precious ego can’t handle being ignored by a lowly sorceress like me.

Afternoons are a blur of Bahador trying to convince my muscles that swords are better accessories than books. By the end of each session, I am convinced he is secretly training me for a monster raid I haven’t signed up for.

Evenings are spent huddled around the fireplace in the small communal area of our secluded watchtower with the Izadeonians and Lila, swapping plans, discoveries, and old memories.

It’s like having a front-row seat to the best street play, complete with childhood mishaps, epic battles, and enough embarrassing examples to blackmail them all later.

Truth be told, these evenings are the peak of my day.

Where in Firelands, I’d always been on the outside looking in, now I am a part of a pack, sharing inside jokes and trading stories like we’d known each other for centuries.

Sure, I might still be the weird, quiet one, but at least I am my crowd’s weird, quiet one.

I try to hide these emotions, to appear aloof and unaffected, like I have practiced all my life.

But when I retreat to my quarter each night, remembering the day’s conversations and laughter in my head, I can’t help but feel a warmth spreading through me.

It is a feeling more intoxicating than the strongest Hamdeni wine, and I find myself craving it more than any prize, adventure, or glory.

It may be foolish to crave connection in this chaos, but who cares? Right now, this unfamiliar warmth is like a precious gem. And even if it all fades away when these trials are over, I will keep it tucked safely in my heart, a reminder that for a short while, I was part of something special.

Now, I am sitting in the library, neck-deep in a book about Jahanwatch history, when a voice startles me from above my head.

“Can we have a word?”

I look up to see Sir Popularity himself, Zanyar Zareen. Apparently, staring daggers at me from across the room is no longer effective. He actually had to walk over and talk. The honor!

And yet, my naive heart leaps at the sight of him, as always. I ignore the sudden tightness in my body and contemplate his request.

He can only have three intentions…

Either he is planning to offer me some lame potions again, which will be perfect for throwing back in his face.

Or he will lecture me about my behavior after the second trial, which will prompt a book-to-the-face reaction.

Or he wants to go as far as to remind me of Ahira’s modesty like Maleed, which might earn him a slap!

In conclusion, I see no path that this conversation can lead to anything good. So, like any sane person, I try to spare us both the effort.

“No,” I say .

I can almost hear his mind scratch. He probably has not heard that word since, well, ever. Even his usual stoic mask can’t hide the shock. But that quickly morphs into a you-are-in-big-trouble glare.

“It won’t take long,” he mutters under his breath.

“A time I do not have. I’m rather busy,” I say coolly, gesturing to my ancient book with the utmost nonchalance.

It is a real page-turner about stair woods they used in Jahanwatch two hundred years ago. I can feel his eyes burning holes into the pages. When he realizes the mundane subject, those green eyes rise to meet mine again, and the fury is no longer concealed.

He narrows his eyes, clearly scrambling for words with the desperation of someone who is used to people bowing down to his every whim.

The sight of him squirming is priceless, and it takes everything in me to stifle my glee.

Finally, he seems to swallow his pride and says, “Those eastern men. They are not to be trusted.”

“What? A virtuous Ahira wouldn’t throw herself at men?” I shoot back, amazed at the audacity of this sorcerer giving me unsolicited advice.

His eyes light up with green fire, but he manages to say calmly, “You don’t know their real identity. They are liars. And they have ulterior motives.”

“They want information about the Ahiras? Well, the joke is on them if that’s true because I know nothing about my fellow Ahiras.” My voice is soaked with sarcasm.

“It’s not about us; it’s about you,” he insists, his voice rising. “You don’t know them. You don’t know who they are. What they’re capable of—”

“I know them a hell of a lot better than you or any of the other Ahiras who pretended I didn’t even exist!

” A surge of long-suppressed resentment breaks through my voice.

“And let’s not forget the last trial, when all of you, every single one, left me to the wolves.

So don’t stand there and lecture me about trust! ”

The words are a torrent, a dam bursting, and I take a shaky breath. The release is almost overwhelming. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need your advice. I don’t need your help. You refused it when I begged for it. Twice. So why bother now? ”

Zanyar stares at me, speechless, and his usual composure shows signs of crumbling right before my eyes. And in the cracks that spread across that impassive mask, I see something that looks like… regret? I have no idea why he might feel that, and honestly, I don’t care.

He opens his mouth as if to speak, but before he can utter a single word, four Aramisi women, all smiles and eyelashes, descend upon us like a flock of swans.

And they look like it, too: all tall, willowy, with eyes the color of glacial ice and hair in varying shades of pale blonde and fiery red, like a sunset captured.

They’re all ridiculously beautiful, and they know it.

Lila had told us they were all students of Madrisa. So, not only are they beautiful faces, but they are the intellectual elite, trained from birth to believe they are a cut above the rest. No wonder they have that permanent air of disdain.

Their eyes, I notice with detached amusement, are turned into hearts at the sight of Zanyar, their faces shining with pure adoration. Zanyar, however, looks like he’d rather be facing a charging beast. A muscle in his jaw ticks as a visible sign of his annoyance.

He gives me one last, seething glare, maybe a silent promise of future retribution, or perhaps just frustrated impotence, and then storms off, leaving me to face the twittering flock alone.

Before I can even savor my victory over the pompous prince, one of the Aramisi ladies—Helmira, I think—turns toward me.

“What is wrong with you?” she demands, her voice dripping with that typical Aramis condescension—the kind that makes you want to simultaneously curtsy and punch them in the face.

I’m very familiar with the type. The only two girls in my class were both Aramisi nobles.

“What do you mean?” I ask, feigning innocence.

“You can’t speak to a Zareen like that!” Helmira declares with a haughty expression.

She is so breathtakingly beautiful that it is almost painful to look at her. Even Bahador, who usually wouldn’t be caught dead admiring anything Aramis, has been seen sneaking a peek at her. She is undoubtedly the most beautiful woman among the contenders .

Beside her, Roshana, the redhead with the temper, chimes in. “In Aramis, we respect our High Lord and his family. We don’t shout at them like some uncouth barbarian.”

Oh, this is rich. I almost laugh. “Last I checked, he’s an Ahira. And in Firelands, we don’t care about bloodlines. Or titles. Or,” I add, with a pointed look at Helmira, “stolen heirs.”

Helmira’s face turns an interesting shade of purple. “He’s a Zareen!” she sputters as if that single word explains everything. “Our true leader, stolen from us by sorcerers like you! You should be bowing to him, not insulting him!”

“And even by Firelands standards, he’s your senior,” Roshana adds. “You weren’t raised in a barn, were you?”

I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Don’t lecture me. You know nothing about me or my past.”

Helmira’s nostrils flare. “We know you’re an orphan ,” she voices the word as a deliberate insult. “A lowly orphan with no manners and no right to speak to a Zareen that way.”

“And you,” I retort, my voice rising, “have no right to tell me what to do. I’m not your servant. And I’m certainly not going to grovel at the feet of some entitled prince just because of his name.”

“Ladies, ladies,” a voice drawls, cutting through the escalating tension like a cool breeze.

We all turn. Lila stands there, a few paces away, arms crossed, with a look of bored amusement on her face. “Is this really how you want to spend your precious time? Squabbling like children?”

Roshana and Helmira fall silent, but the air they exude promises of future vengeance.

“We’ll settle this later,” Helmira hisses, her eyes narrowed at me. With a dramatic swirl of her hair, she stalks off, her flock of perfectly coiffed swans following in her wake.

I watch them go with a strange blend of pride and apprehension. I had just faced down both an untouchable Zareen and a gaggle of Aramisi mean girls and lived to tell the tale! My newfound inner rebel is bouncing with joy.

When they’re gone, Lila looks at me with a hint of curiosity in her eyes. “Didn’t count you for a feisty one. You barely speak two words during our fireside chats with the Izadeonians.”

“They started it,” I say, feeling the need to defend my outburst.

“Indeed,” she says with a sly smile. “I heard your little exchange with the Aramisi princeling, too. Always thought you Ahiras were docile. Respectful of rank and all that. You keep surprising me.”

I only offer a sheepish shrug.

Lila’s smile widens. “You certainly seem to have a knack for choosing formidable adversaries. The Ahiras, the southern Myrans, and now the Aramisi women. Be careful. All these proud peacocks won’t take kindly to being challenged.

Especially Zanyar Zareen… he doesn’t seem like someone you want as an adversary. ”

She is right. I have been poking the hornet’s nest, I realize. Quickly, the joy I felt is replaced by a sinking feeling that those hornets are about to come buzzing. And whatever happens, when they do, it won’t be pleasant.