<mark>Eshavan</mark>, with a curt nod towards the door, utters, “Follow me if you may.”


    Surprise passes through me. Is he talking to me? After two moons of icy silence on the road to here from <mark>Firelands</mark>, this single sentence feels like a verbal avalanche. I’m too stunned to resist, so I stand up and follow him out of the library.


    Honestly, I find myself increasingly perplexed by his behavior. Although our interactions in the alchemy hall were not warm, he always treated me with politeness and seemed to value my input, often asking me questions and sharing task details. His approach set him apart from the other alchemists, and I even began to hope for some camaraderie when I learned he was joining the fellowship. However, he completely disregarded my presence throughout our journey from <mark>Firelands</mark> to <mark>Jahanwatch</mark> as if we had never met before. As we leave the library and head towards the adjacent alchemy room, I can’t help but wonder about his sudden behavior change from the alchemy days and what he might want from me now.


    The alchemy chamber is just down the same corridor as the library. But in contrast with the solemn library, it is a mirthful jumble of strange and absurd sights. Glass vials filled with bubbling liquids line the shelves. The colors range from emerald green to ominous blood red as if a mad alchemist couldn’t decide between making a potion or fruit juice. Rows of dried herbs hang from the ceiling. Shelves are lined with countless jars, each containing a meticulously preserved specimen – think grotesque insects, gnarled roots, and even a few shriveled animal parts. In the center of the room, a large stone cauldron rests atop a roaring fire.


    <mark>Eshavan</mark> strides purposefully towards a wooden table nestled against the chamber’s wall, where two smaller cauldrons simmer over a low flame. One cauldron bubbles with an emerald green concoction, while the other seethes with a deep, dark purple hue. I watch him intently, trying to gather the meaning of it all. At this point, If he is secretly trying to recruit me for his secret potion-making society, I wouldn’t be surprised.


    <mark>Eshavan</mark>, noticing my bewilderment, explains, “These are potions I prepared for our fellowship. The green one is for healing and cleansing wounds, while the purple one helps build stamina and deter fatigue.”


    Wait, is he offering me the opportunity to use these potions? My eyes widen in surprise, but I quickly remember the strict rules. “But… we’re not allowed to use sorcery in the trials,”


    “No sorcery was involved in the making of these potions. They’re based on ancient <mark>Madrisa</mark> recipes, from herbs and other natural ingredients.” He pauses. As always, his expression betrays nothing. “The trials can strike at any moment. It’s wise to keep a pouch on you at all times, stocked with these potions, dry food, water, and other essentials. You never know what dangers you might face.”


    I stand here, momentarily speechless. His jawline is so sharp it can cut diamonds, and his eyes are so vividly colored they practically command their own realm. It is almost unfair how handsome he is as if the gods have used up all the good on him and left the rest of us with mismatched socks and a tendency to snort when we laugh.


    I clearly remember the first time I laid eyes on <mark>Eshavan</mark>. I was a timid nine-year-old, fresh off in <mark>Firelands</mark> from Myra. Even at thirteen, he cast a long shadow, chilling every room with an unspoken, potent power. It clung to the air long after he’d disappeared down a corridor, leaving an indelible mark on everyone, myself included. He didn’t need to say much; his presence alone spoke volumes.


    To my younger self, he was like a mythical creature, a shining embodiment of everything I wasn’t: popular, powerful, and destined for greatness. I, on the other hand, was a wisp of a girl, lost, scared, ostracized shadow, unseen and unheard.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Every time our paths crossed, I would get a severe case of the flutters, a strange blend of awe and intimidation that tied my tongue in knots. It became better when we started working together in the alchemy hall, but even then, I still couldn’t shake that feeling entirely. So, I tried to avoid him as much as I could. He always had a way of turning me into a bumbling, blushing mess, which is why I’m genuinely surprised at my sudden burst of bravery when I speak, “Thanks for the potions, <mark>Eshavan</mark>. But I’d be even more grateful if you could, you know, press the other <mark>Ahiras</mark> in the direction of helping me win these trials instead of leaving me out in the cold.”


    I hold my breath, awaiting his response. To my surprise, he doesn’t look surprised at my audacity. He remains silent, his keen eyes studying me. For a fleeting moment, I sense that he is wrestling with his own thoughts, though nothing is evident on his face.


    “My task isn’t to ensure your victory or any of the <mark>Ahiras</mark>’,” he finally declares, his voice firm but laced with a hint of reluctance.


    “But <mark>Ahira</mark> <mark>Emmeline</mark> himself gave me his blessing,”


    “Perhaps he did. But he didn’t explicitly instruct me to aid you in winning.”


    “Isn’t that implied, though? Did he need to spell it out?” I retort, my voice rising. Gods, just a few moons ago in the Fire Temple, I wouldn’t have dared to question a senior <mark>Ahira</mark> like this, let alone <mark>Eshavan</mark> <mark>Eriel</mark>. But something about this place, this competition, is making me challenge things, even the most respected <mark>Ahira</mark> of our generation. “Honestly, I don’t care about orders. I’m here to win and need all the help I can get.”


    <mark>Eshavan</mark> remains unfazed as his icy emerald eyes meet mine. He has the kind of expression that suggested he’d once stared down a charging bull while simultaneously calculating his taxes in his head…and won. But strangely, none of that scares me, “Traditionally, <mark>Ahiras</mark> who participate in these trials assist anyone who expresses a desire to win. It’s always been this way. Why is it different now, just because I’m a fourth-ringed? Or that I’m a sorceress?”


    “It’s the <mark>Firelands</mark>’ council that usually instructs the other <mark>Ahiras</mark> to help whoever is aiming for the win. Like I said, no one has given us those orders this time.” His voice is firm, final.


    “Alright, fine. No orders.” I utter, trying to keep the frustration from seeping into my voice. “But couldn’t you, I don’t know, choose to help me? I’m not asking for the moon and stars, just a small help.” My voice falters, and I bite my lip.


    Despite his best efforts, a flicker of something unreadable softens his expression. “I’m here to ensure the safety of our entire fellowship, including you. But that’s the extent of my commitment. I won’t make promises I can’t keep.” He gestures towards the empty vials on the table. “Take as much of the potions as you need.” And with that, he turns and walks away, leaving me alone with my swirling emotions.


    Isolation claws at my heart, its icy fingers tracing the familiar patterns of helplessness. My old foes, the panic attacks that have haunted me since childhood, are again threatening to consume me whole. This well-worn path is familiar. If I let these emotions flow, It always ends with a dizzying descent into hysteria and a choking despair that leaves me gasping for air. It would be so easy to succumb, to let the darkness drown me.


    But I clench my jaw in defiance. I’ve learned to fight back. I’ve built walls around my heart, brick by agonizing brick. I have carved a path where I depend on no one. They can’t affect me if I don’t let them.


    Get a grip, <mark>Arien</mark>. You’ve got this. Breathe in, breathe out.


    Each breath is a battle won, a small victory against the suffocating tide of despair before it even dares to approach me. My gaze falls on the empty vials, a cruel reminder of <mark>Eshavan’s</mark> condescending offer. It’s not the support I crave nor the understanding that would truly soothe the wounds that fester in me. But it’s something. And I’ll take it.


    A surge of anger courses through me, hot and fierce. When I win these trials and prove them all wrong, I’ll shove these empty vials in <mark>Eshavan’s</mark> face and thank him for his generosity. I can practically see the shock twist his features, the disbelief in his eyes. In all their eyes.


    A defiant smirk curves my lips. I will not break. I will not be defined by their doubts or their pity. And with a resolute hand, I fill the vials.