Page 16 of The Ninth Element

My eyes dart to that dimple, on full display, and my pulse quickens. He is so effortlessly handsome, I almost want to wipe that charming grin off his face. Does he have to be so infuriatingly attractive while I’m just trying to practice in peace? It’s incredibly distracting.

Focus, Arien!

He gestures to me to attack, and that, I do.

I lunge forward as my sword whistles through the air. Darian, with an expression that strikes a balance between amusement and boredom, doesn’t even bother raising his blade. Instead, he sidesteps casually, causing my sword to whistle past his ear.

“Trying to carve yourself a new hot spring? Because that’s about the only thing you’ll hit with that swing.”

I whirl around, cheeks burning. “Oh, I’ll hit something all right.” I lunge, aiming for his ribs, but with a slight movement, he brings his sword in line to clash with mine.

He raises an eyebrow. “I must suggest embroidery again. They say it builds excellent hand-eye coordination.”

With a growl, I lunge again, and he deflects it with another infuriatingly effortless smirk.

“Think of it like threading a needle, not axing a tree,” he advises.

Frustrated, I snatch the sword back. “If I can’t overpower you, how am I supposed to disarm you?”

“There’s more to combat than brute strength. It’s about finesse, precision, and control.” He takes his position opposite me once more. “Let’s try again, but focus on your form and movements this time, not how forcefully you wield your sword.”

Taking his advice, I mirror his posture, carefully observing how he holds his sword and shifts his weight. Instead of my previous wild swings, I attempt controlled jabs and parries. Darian deflects or blocks each move effortlessly, but he refrains from striking back, patiently guidingme through the motions.

The sun seems to have a personal feud against me as sweat trickles down my back. Darian, however, moves with the grace and fluidity of a willow tree swaying in the spring breeze.

He has finally shown some sign of sweating, but it’s more from the sun than effort. And what makes me madder is that it only makes him look like he has emerged from a particularly steamy maiden’s dream. His tunic clings to those ridiculously sculpted muscles in a way that makes me swallow. His dark brown hair is artfully tousled, framing those piercing dark blue eyes that watch me with a pulse-quickening hint of amusement.

Honestly, the man is a devastating masterpiece, effortlessly handsome. The way he moves, that easy grace and confident swagger… It’s a silent declaration that the world bends to his will. And let’s be frank, it probably does. Who can deny that wicked curve of his lips, the artistry of those sculpted arms? (Certainly not I.)

“You’ve got the fire, all right,” he says, watching me futilely try to wipe my forehead with my soaked sleeve. “Just need to work on… everything else. Unless your combat strategy involves drowning your opponent in perspiration.” He chuckles at his own joke.

I glare at him. “Hilarious. I’ve been practicing. Just not with actual, living opponents.” I shuffle my feet. “Sorceresses aren’t trained for swordsmanship. We tend to leave the stabbingto the sorcerers.”

“Right. Well, there’s not much time for sharpening your sword fighting here. Any other weapons you’re proficient with?”

“Archery,” I say, a touch of confidence entering my voice. “And throwing daggers. That’s where I’d best anyone.”

He nods, a single, curt nod, and the surprising thing is, he doesn’t question it. He doesn’t scoff, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t demand proof. He just accepts my declaration of skill based on absolutely no evidence. It’s… unexpected.

“Good. Stick to what you know. If there’s a ranged combat trial, that’s your strength. But it wouldn’t hurt to at least familiarize yourself with a blade. Just in case. You never know what they’ll throw at you.”

“Nine hells, isn’t it early for swinging steel?” A booming voice cuts acrossthe training yard, shattering the morning’s fragile peace. I turn and see the other two Izadeonian men, Faelas and Bahador, strolling toward us.

Darian, with his sun-bronzed skin, unruly brown hair, and large, expressive eyes, embodies the rugged, earthy strength of the Izadeonian mountains. He’s handsome, undeniably so, but in that grounded, practical way of the Easterners. But his friends… they’re a different breed entirely.

The giant, Bahador, has golden brown skin, hinting at a mixed heritage and a touch of Jamshahi blood. He dwarfs even Darian, who’s no small man himself. Bahador is pure, raw power—broad shoulders, a chest like a barrel, a narrow waist, all sculpted muscle honed by years of carrying steel and wielding weapons that would make a lesser man weep.

His face is striking, almost intimidatingly perfect: sharp angles, a strong jaw, and piercing golden eyes that seem to mock the world. He’s not just big; he’s the very embodiment of a mountain, immovable, unyielding. And yet, there’s a cheerful spirit to him that softens the edges. His dark hair frames a face that seems almost inhuman in its perfection.

Faelas, however, is like a moonbeam next to a bonfire, standing beside Bahador. He is lean, almost ethereal, with a grace that borders on heavenly. His hair is a cascade of pale silver, almost white, shimmering like spun moonlight as it falls down his back in a single, intricate braid. His skin is flawless, porcelain-pale, and his features are delicate and refined, almost too perfect for this rough, unforgiving place. He looks like he belongs in an Eyrian court, surrounded by silks and jewels, not here, amidst the dust and sweat and steel of the training yard.

The contrast between the three of them is almost jarring.

“Just doing a little dance with our top competition,” Darian replies casually.

Bahador’s deep voice rumbles, “Working up a sweat builds an appetite. Let’s eat.”

Darian nods and heads to the weapon rack to drop his sword, then turns to me. “Want to join us for breakfast?”

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