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“What in the nine hells is this lunacy?” Pippin whines, his ginger hair practically staging a revolt. “The man’s gone completely daft, I tell you. The last trial nearly had me swapping spit with the forest floor.”

He pokes his cauldron with the zest of a sloth on the run, his hands quivering with anger. We’re brewing potions to prepare for whatever wild challenge awaits us next. However, Pippin’s potion looks like a murky swamp, which clearly means he skipped an important step.

Poor guy seems to be running on fumes; his eyes are heavy with dark circles, and his skin is as pale as a ghost’s bedsheet.

“Did he offer any explanation?” I ask, my voice laced with concern as I eye his potion, now turning a worrying shade of sludge.

“The fool is as tight-lipped as a maiden on her wedding night,” Pippin grumbles.

“All he said was we need to win again as if it is as simple as winning a pissing contest. I nearly became a monster’s midnight feast in that godforsaken wilderness.

If not thrown away in the wild with Kameel and Maleed, I’d be contributing to the local flora by now.

In the last two trials, using sorcery and losing consciousness was almost as dangerous as staying in the game.

Next time, though, I’ll unleash my sorcery immediately to get disqualified. ”

Zanyar has given him and the rest of the Ahiras a strict order: stay in the competition. I empathize with Pippin’s frustration. This is sheer madness. It’s too much to ask from someone who doesn’t want to win. To suffer this long. And risk this much.

Based on what we overheard in the tavern, Zanyar is here on a mission.

He’s a Fire Eye, which means he is aware of most of Firelands’s secrets.

Maybe he is on a mission to seek knowledge of the Star, but who knows?

All we know is that he is playing the long game with the patience of a priest. But of course, I can’t share that knowledge with Pippin.

But why is he keeping the other Ahiras with him? The only logical reason that comes to mind is that he needs allies for the trials so he can continue to stay a contestant, giving him time to fulfill whatever order he was given.

“Do others dare to question his highness?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Not a peep. He’s growing more stoic by the day, a regular statue with his usual superiority complex.

You know how everyone idolizes him, right?

They act like he has this master plan, and they’re too scared to even challenge him.

It’s ridiculous! At the very least, he could shed some light on what this whole spectacle is about. What’s the endgame?”

I recall his heroic declaration on the battlements, his vow to stay in the game and wait for my decision. What a blatant lie! I know he is here on a mission given to him by Ahira Emmengar.

But why lie? So much has happened since that dawn that I’ve barely had time to process his offer, interpret his actions, or decipher his expression.

The truth is, the thought of him watching me in Firelands, the intensity of his gaze in the arena, wanting me to go with him to Aramis… It’s deeply unsettling, which in itself is incredibly baffling.

I used to idolize him and see him as everything I aspired to be. A kind word from him in the alchemy hall used to make my entire day. Now, he’s claiming he has watched me for years, that he wants me by his side, and I… I’m not sure what to make of it. It’s surreal.

Sometimes, late at night, when I’m in bed, before going to sleep, I allow the memories to flash through my mind: his eyes lingering on my lips, the heat that coursed through me, his touch when he healed me…

But I never asked for his affection, nor did I expect my childish fantasy to be reciprocated.

And now, to my own surprise, I find myself distancing myself from it.

If it even was affection. I never approached him again or risked asking for clarification.

The possibilities terrify me: either he would laugh in my face, mocking my foolish imagination, or…

or the opposite. He would confirm my doubts. And that is what truly frightens me.

It shatters everything I’ve built my life on.

The belief that no one in Firelands cares about me, that all Ahiras are just different variations of my Sage, Ahira Brutus.

I’ve clung to that assumption for so long that it has become my armor.

It’s too late to change. It’s too… alien.

No. I won’t think about it. I can’t acknowledge it. It’s easier to believe he lied.

Pippin groans again, his gaze falling on his cauldron. The potion has now turned a deep shade of brown, bubbling up like a small volcano.

“This is a disaster,” he mutters, waving his hand as if to dismiss the chaos.

“I have enough to spare,” I reply, grabbing a few empty vials from a shelf nearby.

His gloomy mood is infectious. It’s been three long days since we returned from the wilderness.

I’ve seen Darian only in passing. He’s all smiles and charm when we cross paths, but our conversations are pointless, bland, and leave me feeling strangely hollow.

Faelas is nowhere to be seen. For all I know, he might have joined a traveling circus.

The only constant has been Bahador, my steadfast training master. Our afternoon sparring sessions are the only break from the heavy silence that fills the space around me.

They are certainly involved in something significant, focused on developing a plan to access that restricted area without using any sorcery, leaving little time for anything else, including me.

Pippin seems to notice the existential trouble brewing beside him. “Why do you look like a wet kitten? We’re almost at the end, you know. Only eighteen contenders are left standing. Surely, the last trial is approaching.”

“I’m not a kitten,” I retort, though the analogy is oddly fitting. “Just pondering the trials ahead. Here, have this.” I press a vial of my revitalizing potion into his hands.

He accepts it with a nod of gratitude. “I’ll miss you, Arien. The alchemy hall won’t be the same without your unique presence. ”

I chuckle. “Unique? That’s a bizarre way to describe it.”

“You are unique. You’re a rare breed among Ahiras. A nice break from the ceaseless chorus of self-importance.”

I give him a weak smile. His kind words weaken the gloom that has taken up residence in my heart for the last three days. “I’ll have to win this first for you to miss me. You never know; we might be working together in the alchemy hall in no time.”

Pippin looks at me with a confidence that surprises me. “You will win. You’re in the top nine, remember? And if there is only one trial left, you’re almost knocking on the door of triumph.”

His words ignite a small flame of hope in me. A kind that I haven’t felt for days.

“I’ll miss you, too, Pippin.” I give his shoulder a friendly squeeze. “And don’t worry about the trials; you’ll be out of this circus soon enough.”

“I’m not sure why you’d want to join this madhouse, but I can only assume Firelands wasn’t exactly a haven of joy for you if you prefer this forsaken place,” he says before returning to his cauldron.

Looking back at my own cauldron, I realize just how much I will miss Pippin, too.

I suppose Pippin was the one Ahira who actually cared about me during my time in Fire Temple.

Who never made me feel weak and unworthy.

As I reflect on that, I feel a great amount of gratitude toward him.

I regret the way I kept him at a distance and how I hesitated to fully embrace the connection we could have had.

As I look up at him, scrubbing his ruined cauldron, I wish I could go back and embrace our shared moments to show him the appreciation I felt but never expressed or the meaningful bond that could have unfolded if only I had allowed myself to be more present.