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He finally looks up, those intense emerald eyes fixing me with a stare that would have made me cower a few moons ago. But not anymore. I’ve faced monsters and jumped across chasms. I can handle a little staring contest .

“You look good like this,” he finally says, completely unexpectedly.

My eyebrows shoot up. Is Zanyar Zareen, the king of stoicism, actually complimenting my new look? In the middle of a secret mission? What is this madness?

“Yes, yes, orphan rags to riches must be amusing. Though I’m not sure how my attire is relevant to finding whatever it is we’re looking for,” I say, trying not to be distracted by his words.

“Not your attire. I meant… ” He hesitates like he is trying to find out how to say something seismic. “You’re different these days. Bolder. More direct. More… wolfish.”

Wolfish? Is he making fun of me? Reminding me of how timid and scared I used to be back in Firelands?

I narrow my eyes at him. “This wolf has learned to bite.”

A spark of amusement dances in his eyes. “Indeed. And a glorious sight it is to behold.”

Those golden-green eyes are no longer icy, and the air between us crackles with a strange tension that is unsettling.

“So,” I clear my throat, trying to break the tension, “are you going to tell me what we’re looking for, or are we just going to stand here admiring each other’s attire choices and sudden change of character?”

Zanyar’s lips curve slightly. “Bakewell’s wealth comes from Martysh’s coffers.

He controls the flow of goods to and from the Martysh strongholds.

While his trade routes may seem ordinary, they hide the movement of Martysh forces.

I was hoping to gather some information from him about his recent trades when he was drunk enough.

However, with a Martyshyar present, that plan won’t work.

Instead, I am searching for anomalies and patterns in his writings that could uncover hidden strongholds or secret gatherings. ”

Understanding begins to take hold in my mind. “So, you think that by tracing the supply lines, we’ll uncover the locations where Martysh is searching for the Star?”

“Yes,” he confirms.

This is brilliant. Everyone expects Zanyar to try to sneak into Martyshyar’ s wing, like the Izadeonians. Instead, he looks somewhere that no one expects him to look.

He picks up a scroll and unrolls it, revealing a detailed map of the continent, then rummages through the mountain of scrolls and documents until he finally snatches up a massive leather-bound book and flips it open to reveal page after page of numbers and scribbled notes.

Yes, that is the merchant’s ledger, all right—the key to his little hunt.

“That looks… ancient,” I say, peering over his shoulder. “Looks like it’s been through a war or two.”

The pages are yellowed and crinkled, the ink faded and splotchy. It is a miracle it hasn’t crumbled to dust.

Zanyar’s eyes scan the pages, inhaling the information. “A goldmine!”

My gaze darts to the door, half expecting Lord Bakewell to materialize at any moment. “Should we take it with us?”

Zanyar shakes his head. “If we take the ledger, it will alert Bakewell, and he’ll inform Martysh. We can’t risk revealing Firelands’s intentions.”

My eyes scan the endless columns of figures and cryptic notations. “It’s a hefty tome. Deciphering its secrets will take time that we simply don’t have.”

“We can memorize the key sections. Compare the patterns in the ledger to the map, look for anomalies, for anything that stands out.”

I stare at him, incredulous. “You want to memorize this entire book?”

He taps a finger against the ledger. “I’m suddenly very grateful for your persistence in joining this mission, Arien. Your distinctive memory will be invaluable.”

I can only stare at him blankly, blinking as if to clear a fog that wasn’t there. He knows about my eidetic memory. But…

“How… ?” I start, then stop, the question hanging unfinished in the air.

“We did work in the same alchemy hall for a year, remember?” There is a hint of dry amusement in his tone as if I’ve somehow forgotten a glaringly obvious fact.

“But we barely spoke…”

He noticed my memory when I barely registered him as anything more than a distant golden figure in the periphery of my world. What else had he observed during those long, monotonous hours in the alchemy hall?

“We didn’t need to speak,” His gaze holds mine with a subtle intensity that wasn’t there.

“We shared the same space, the same air, the same tedious tasks, for moons. And your remarkable ability to recall any text after a single glance was hardly a secret one needed constant conversation to uncover.”

It’s true; we’d shared a workspace. But Firelands, with its hierarchy and my own crippling self-consciousness, had made any real connection feel impossible.

And Zanyar… Zanyar had always seemed so far removed, a prince in all but name, aloof, untouchable, surrounded by an aura of effortless superiority.

The thought is baffling. I’d been so consumed with escaping Firelands, with proving myself to the Ahiras who ignored my existence, that perhaps I’d been blind to the people around me who didn’t.

He seems to know me, to have seen things about me that I assumed no one in Firelands cared to notice.

And a small, treacherous part of me thrills at the prospect.

Zanyar averts his gaze from me and turns a page. “The past year’s records should suffice.”

I nod, shoving aside the nervous implications of his words and the sudden awareness that has sprung up between us.

Focus. Arien. Focus.

I force my attention to the ledger and the task at hand.

Dates, figures, and destinations blur before my eyes, then coalesce, resolving into a vivid picture of Martysh’s movements across the continent.

It’s not just commerce; it’s a map. Supply caravans, like veins, snaking through treacherous mountain passes.

It’s a military map, hidden in plain sight, written in the language of trade.

Zanyar’s finger traces lines on the map, matching it with the records in the ledger. “Jamshah,” he murmurs, the word a low, almost inaudible rumble, more to himself than to me. “They’ve never maintained such a strong presence in the east of the forests.”

The words of Martyshbod Lirael echo in my mind: the Daevas are searching the Jamshahi forests, which have now become a focal point in the search for the Star. Should I share this knowledge with Zanyar?

No! Aligning yourself too closely with either side would be foolish.

“Where does Firelands believe the pieces of the Star are hiding?”

Zanyar’s eyes flick to mine, a brief, stoic contact before returning to the ledger with a silent signal that I’ve been dismissed.

“Why so secretive?” I challenge, deliberately provoking him.

I really can’t help myself. It’s like poking a sleeping lion, a reckless impulse I can’t quite explain.

Maybe it’s my lingering resentment towards the Ahiras, or maybe it’s just him .

In Firelands, he used to reduce me to a stammering mess.

But here, something’s shifted. I’m different. But more importantly, he’s different.

“Afraid I’ll run to Martysh and spill all of Firelands’s secrets when I join their ranks?”

“ If you join their ranks,” he corrects in a deliberate jab.

“If?” I repeat, the word dripping with disbelief. “Is that doubt I hear? Why? Do you think a sorceress is incapable of succeeding in winning the trials? Or is it just me? Do you believe I’m nothing more than a weak girl, good for brewing potions and nothing else?”

He finally looks at me, really looks at me, his eyes filled with a sudden fierceness. “I am growing weary of your constant misinterpretations, your insistence on twisting my words into the worst possible meaning.”

“What else am I supposed to think?” I shoot back, my voice rising. “When you blatantly doubt my chances? Last I checked, I’m still standing in the game. Still fighting. No thanks to you or any other Firelanders.”

This isn’t the time to fight; this isn’t the place. But I can’t stop myself.

“I question your aspirations , not your abilities.” His voice is infuriatingly calm.

“And why would my aspirations change?” I challenge, crossing my arms with a defiant gesture.

“Perhaps because I still hope you’ll realize that Martysh isn’t the heaven you imagine.

That the Firelands, for all its faults, offers something you won’t find anywhere else as someone with sorcery in her bones: Genuine protection.

Something our kind never found for millennia when they were slaughtered, exiled, and hunted with nowhere to run to. ”

I scoff, a harsh, bitter sound. “Protection? Is that why you’re dangling a measly envoy position as if that’s some grand prize?

As if I’d trade my dreams, my ambitions, my freedom, for another cage?

You assumed—without even providing any explanation as to why you’re making me this offer—that a few empty compliments and a pat on the head would be enough to make me forget everything, to make me run to Aramis, grateful for the scraps the golden prince deigned to throw the poor, pathetic orphan.

” My words are dripping with years of pent-up resentment.

I know I’m being irrational, but I can’t help it.

I wait for his retort, a biting quip, or the icy glare he usually wields like a blade.

Instead, I notice understanding softening his gaze.

He takes a deep breath, and his emerald eyes cloud with a storm of unspoken thoughts.

He takes time to process them and finally says with a calm voice, “You are right. I should not expect you to accept my offer without a proper explanation. When we leave this place, I will offer one.”

My eyes narrow, and I make no attempt to mask the doubt clouding my gaze. He meets my scrutiny unflinchingly, his own eyes radiating the confidence of a man untouched by uncertainty.