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 ayou-are-in-big-troubleglare.
“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.”
