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We return to our task as the room falls silent.

We examine the ledger and the map, tracing the web of supply routes while Zanyar carefully marks them on the map.

Gradually, patterns begin to emerge from the chaos: clusters of isolated locations receiving a steady stream of supplies but showing no signs of any known Martysh base.

Most of these locations are scattered across the desolate expanse of the Gajari deserts, some are hidden in the borderlands of Maravan, a few are daringly close to western Izadeon, and most recently, some have been identified within the dense, ancient forests of Jamshah.

“Are these the same locations where Firelands believes the Star’s fragments are hidden?” I ask.

“Most of them,” Zanyar replies. “We’ve long suspected Martysh activity in these areas—except for Jamshah. That’s new. But this ledger…” He taps the open book. “This confirms their exact locations. It’s invaluable.”

In the distance, the music from the ballroom fades, the lively melodies dwindling, the boisterous sounds of the gathering diminishing, signaling the end of the night.

“The ball’s ending,” I say.

Zanyar nods and carefully rolls up the map he has been marking, tucking it safely into his coat. Retracing our steps, we slip back into the heart of the festivities. It seems our quiet departure and return have gone unnoticed, lost in the hustle of lords and ladies who crowd the hall.

Lord Bakewell, looking a bit like a flustered rooster with a goblet glued to his hand, hiccups and slurs his way through a toast. “A toast to Shemiran, our second home! A beacon of peace and prosperity, built on the wisdom of our founding High Lords and the fearless Martyshbod Jiva. Here, unity blossoms. Fortune smiles on all who seek her favor. May the wisdom of our forebears guide us, and the might of Martysh shield us, now and always!”

The hall echoes with the clinking of crystal glasses and murmurs of approval. Honestly, it is hard to take him seriously when he looks like he is about to topple over and land face-first on the floor.

But as I look around, I think that Shemiran is indeed a haven for those who dare to dream.

A land where bloodlines matter less than ambition and cunning.

As I look around at the crowd, I notice how much this gathering stands out for its blend of cultures and backgrounds.

Here, even common-borns have found ways to gain wealth, unlike many other places on the continent where only nobility holds power.

As the last notes of the previous tune fade away, Lord Bakewell proclaims, “Let the final dance begin! I look forward to seeing you all at the Harvest Ball, where I hope to be a bit less… fluttery.” He chuckles at his own joke as a servant approaches to ensure he doesn’t stumble.

The musicians transition to a slow, languid ballad, and the ballroom, already crowded, becomes a sea of swaying couples lost in their own private worlds.

My world, however, is currently focused on finding Lord Palewyne, making our escape, getting back to Jahanwatch, and claiming victory.

But before I can even formulate a plan, Zanyar asks, “Care to dance? ”

The question is so bizarre, so completely out of this world, that I just stare at him, blinking like a startled owl. Did he actually just ask me to dance? My life has officially entered the realm of the absurd. This was definitely not on my mind for the evening, or… ever .

“Is that a no?” he asks, his lips curving faintly, almost imperceptibly, as his eyes watch my bewildered expression with disconcerting amusement.

“Oh… I… I don’t know how to dance,” I stammer. The excuse is clumsy and transparent.

“Just follow my lead,” he replies. His voice is smooth and unconcerned as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

My head bobs in a numb nod, a purely reflexive response, my mind still trying to catch up with this bizarre turn of events. And then, with a practiced ease that speaks of countless dances, he draws me onto the dance floor.

The music, soft and romantic, wraps around us.

The air is thick with the scent of perfume and something subtly, intoxicatingly masculine that I realize—with a jolt—is him .

The couples around us are close, pressed together, and we’re no exception.

It’s almost cheek-to-cheek, except, given our height difference, it’s more like cheek-to-chest. He places one firm hand on my waist and takes my other hand in his, the contact sending a shockwave of heat through me.

My cheeks blaze, hotter than any fire opal, and my heart performs a frantic, erratic dance of its own.

“Just follow,” he murmurs, his breath stirring the hair near my ear, sending another shiver down my spine.

I’m stiff and awkward at first, my movements jerky and uncertain. But Zanyar is patient, guiding me with a subtle pressure of his hand and a gentle sway of his body. Slowly, surprisingly, I start to relax and find a rhythm.

Dancing, something I’d never even considered, certainly never desired, is suddenly… enjoyable. Embarrassingly enjoyable. Especially like this. With him . This is beyond ridiculous; it has entered the territory of utter surrealism.

I try to focus on the music, on the steps, on anything but the feel of his hand on my waist, the warmth of his body so close to mine, and the disconcerting flutter in my stomach.

For a few precious moments, the trials, the Star, the weight of the world all fade away.

There’s just this. The music. His presence.

And a feeling I’m desperately trying not to analyze.

“You’re a surprisingly good dancer,” Zanyar murmurs with a soft, intimate sound. “Truly, you’re not stepping on my toes.”

I snap out of my daze, and my gaze flies up to meet his. His eyes are alight with amusement, and… something warmer. Deeper. My cheeks, already flushed, burn even hotter.

Is he… happy? That we’re dancing? This light, unguarded joy radiating from him is so unfamiliar that it is disarming. It makes me wonder why he doesn’t allow himself to feel like this more often. If Zanyar Zareen can’t find joy, what hope is there for the rest of us?

“Maybe it’s your expert guidance,” I say, trying for a light tone, eager to deflect the sudden heat that’s thickening the air between us. But my voice sounds breathless to my ears.

“Is this really your first time dancing?”

I chuckle. “Isn’t it painfully obvious?”

“It should be,” he says, his gaze roaming my face slowly, deliberately, making my pulse quicken. “I seem to recall you making a quick retreat from every winter feast when the dancing commenced.”

My gaze locks onto his at his casual recall of such a seemingly trivial detail.

Again. He noticed. He remembered. How does he have such an awareness of me and my past, of things I barely remember myself?

We were strangers, separated by age. By gender.

By status. We were in the same space only by circumstance.

“You have a remarkably good memory of my past,” I say, the words a breathless accusation.

Zanyar’s gaze holds mine. “I do,” he affirms. And the simple statement is heavy with unspoken meaning.

The question, the one that’s been simmering beneath the surface since the battlements, can no longer be ignored. “Do you make it your business to know this much about every Ahira?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, those intense golden-green eyes searching mine as if assessing my reaction. Finally, he says, “I can’t say that I do.”

The weight of his words, the unspoken implication behind them, settles between us like a tangible presence. It’s in the air he breathes out. I see it in the sudden stillness of his body. Smell it in the faint, clean scent of his skin, so close to mine. Taste it.

“Then why,” I whisper, “do you know so much about me ?”

His eyes darken. He inhales deeply, then opens his mouth as if to reveal some hidden truth. I’m terrified of what he might say, and yet, I suddenly need to hear it.

“Lord and Lady Lefford,” Lord Palewyne’s voice booms across the ballroom, “the carriage awaits your pleasure.”

Zanyar’s jaw clenches, and he swallows his unspoken words. The music fades, and the spell shatters. In a slow, almost reluctant movement, he releases me, and the warmth of his embrace is replaced by a sudden, jarring chill, leaving behind a promise—or a threat—of a conversation yet to come.