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I am soaring through the endless expanse of the sky, the wind whipping through my hair as I cling to the feathers of a majestic Nohvan.

The massive creature’s sturdy, gray-furred wolf-like body ripples with muscle beneath me, as its eagle head scans the earth below.

Pure joy fills my heart as a vibrant, breathtaking world stretches out: mountains rise like ancient, snow-capped giants, forests are like emerald carpets, and rivers snake through valleys, sparkling like diamonds.

Fear, doubt, and loneliness—my old foes—are absent in this exhilarating moment.

I feel confident. My usual anxieties have been replaced by a certainty I have never known.

I am no longer the scared girl desperate for affection and validation; I am a woman of strength and power.

I am the woman in Zanyar’s visions, the fearless heroine capable of shaping the world around her.

The wind whispers secrets in my ear, tales of ancient heroes and forgotten sorcery. Here, in the sky, riding on the back of this majestic creature, I feel a sense of belonging I have never experienced before. I am Arien, the sorceress, the savior, the fearless woman who can move mountains.

It’s the warmth spreading through my wrist that jolts me awake.

My eyes flutter open, and it feels as if I’ve been dropped from the peak of the mountains, bathed in the warmth of the sun, into the depths of a dark, cold chasm.

The colorful world of my dream turns into the gray of my small quarters in the blink of an eye.

My gaze lands on the familiar sight of the Martysh coin glowing softly against my skin.

It’s a summons—the final trial is about to start.

As I walk toward the water basin, the remnants of the dream cling to me like a fading fragrance. The boundless confidence, the absolute certainty, and the sense of belonging all evaporate in an instant.

The woman in the dream, so strong and certain, feels so far away from the lost, confused girl staring back at me in the mirror.

That dream wasn’t just some external power or influence.

It was the power of knowing myself, of being defined by my own strength, not by my insecurities or others’s opinions.

And I want that. I crave it with a desperation that aches in my bones.

The question, the impossible question, is how? What path leads me there?

Martysh offers power and purpose, but at what cost?

Would I become just another forgotten soldier in their endless quest for the Star?

Would my individuality be completely swallowed?

Would my life have any meaning, especially now that I know they are sitting idle, pursuing a fantasy while the helpless in the East suffer?

Izadeon offers friendship, adventure, and a chance to fight for something greater than myself: to help those in need, just as Lirael helped me all those years ago. I would be fighting alongside those for whom I have deep affection.

But Darian… can I trust him? Do I truly know the Izadeonians well enough to leave everything behind in the hope that their friendship will last? Can I risk another heartbreak, another betrayal? And is that path, despite its appeal, truly mine? Would it make me genuinely happy?

Then there’s Zanyar…

I have no idea why his offer is the most terrifying to me, even though, on the surface, it should be the safest. Living in Aramis. It would offer a life of quiet study and intellectual pursuit, far removed from bloodshed and brutal power struggles.

In that life, I could lose myself in knowledge and maybe, just maybe, find some semblance of peace and control over my destiny. And I would be able to do that side by side with someone like Zanyar.

The thought shouldn’t have the allure that it does. And yet, the memory of his confession and the connection I felt linger in my mind. And that’s precisely why it’s so frightening.

I liked Zanyar for years, from afar—a silent, secret admiration I had buried and dismissed as a childish fantasy. But it was infatuation nonetheless, even if it was in my own guarded and insecure way.

Now, Zanyar is reaching out to me, offering the prospect of a connection that feels surreal, but it also carries the almost certain possibility of a heartbreak so profound and devastating that it could shatter me completely.

The truth is, I don’t know him well, and he doesn’t truly know me either.

Even if I were foolish enough to develop romantic feelings for him and fantasize about a future together, it would be pointless.

Our roles as Ahiras are strictly defined and do not allow for such a union.

Additionally, his position as a Zareen comes with its own set of expectations, making any bond between us impossible.

It’s simply unthinkable. Allowing myself to develop any feelings for him would be an act of sheer foolishness.

So, if I decide to pursue the path of Aramis, it must only be for the peace it brings, for the opportunity to gain knowledge, and, hopefully, to earn more rings. This could offer me greater autonomy and more control over my life, even if that control remains limited and tethered to Firelands.

But is that the life I’m choosing out of fear?

The burden of this decision feels heavy on my shoulders. No one can guide me. No one can tell me what to do. It’s a leap of faith, a terrifying jump into the unknown. And as the coin grows warmer against my skin, I know that whatever I choose, my life will be irrevocably changed. Forever.

I open the door and find Darian slumped against the wall in the narrow hallway, fast asleep, his head resting against the cold stone.

Has he been here all this time? Time has become a meaningless blur.

I have no concept of whether hours have passed, or days, or an eternity since I woke in Lirael’s solar.

I kneel beside him slowly, and the familiar scent of damp soil, rain, wood smoke, and something uniquely him washes over me, bringing an unexpected wave of comfort.

He looks so peaceful in his sleep, just as he did in the wilderness when I held him in my arms. The lines of tension have smoothed away, and for this moment, he seems less like the heir to Izadeon and more like a lost, lonely boy.

Over the past two moons, he has been carefree, light-hearted, cheerful—very different from the troubled, guilt-ridden man who confessed his sins in the quiet darkness of my room.

Perhaps the freedom of anonymity, the ability to shed the crushing weight of his identity and simply be Darian instead of Dartheon, has allowed him this brief respite.

My heart aches for him with a sharp and unexpected pang of empathy.

It aches for Zanyar, too, and strangely, for myself.

We are all children of High Lords, I realize.

The three of us bear the weight of burdens we did not choose, trapped by memories we cannot escape.

As I gaze down at Darian’s sleeping face, it becomes painfully clear that we are all desperately clinging to an impossible hope—a dream of reconciling duty and desire—despite knowing, deep down, that it is a futile pursuit.

Right here and now, I forgive him. I forgive Zanyar as well. They acted in accordance with what they believed was their duty and what they thought was right for their people. Can I honestly say I would have acted any differently had I been in their position?

I look at Darian, really look at him, and I remember his confession: a thread connecting our souls.

I feel it too—that inexplicable pull, that sense of familiarity and recognition, as if we have known each other in another lifetime.

It explains the ease with which I have lowered my guard around him and the trust I have instinctively placed in him, so unlike my usual cautious and guarded nature.

He has been an unexpected comfort I have clung to.

And yes, foolishly, I have allowed my feelings to blossom unchecked, leading to this inevitable heartbreak. But it wasn’t his fault; it was mine.

Without thinking, I reach out, my fingers hovering just above his face, a hair’s breadth from touching the soft stubble on his jaw. He stirs, and his eyes flutter open. Blinking slowly and unfocused, confusion clouds his gaze as if he is unsure whether he is awake or still dreaming.

Then, his charming, lopsided grin spreads across his face, revealing the dimple in his cheek, and my foolish, treacherous heart sinks in response.

His smile falters as his gaze shifts to his wrist, and his face darkens.

We’re impossibly close. Kneeling here in this cramped hallway, I’m framed by his legs and surrounded by his massive body. I can feel the warmth radiating from his chest and smell his faint, clean scent.

A voice—from a reckless and impulsive woman, yet shockingly similar to mine—whispers a question I hadn’t even realized I was contemplating from my own lips. “Darian, can I kiss you?”

He stares at me, frozen—not with disgust or rejection, but with stunned surprise. It feels as if my question has completely blindsided him. A serious expression settles on his features as he carefully considers my question, and for a long moment, I am suspended in uncertainty.

Is he going to refuse?

I’ve always known, on some level, that he doesn’t see me that way.

But I don’t care. If this is our last encounter, I need to experience this.

I need to know what it feels like to kiss him, to share this moment of intimacy.

I want to carry this memory—this single kiss with him—like a secret treasure, regardless of what the future may hold.

Finally, after a long moment, he nods with an almost imperceptible movement. My hand, still hovering near his face, trembles slightly as I touch his cheek and close the distance, pressing my lips softly and tentatively against his.