Page 17 of The Ninth Element

My heart stops in shock. Is he actually asking me to eat with them? A strange feeling creeps through my chest. It’s a simple gesture, but it feelsmonumental—the first time I’ve ever been invited to eat with a group of people. Heat rises to my cheeks, and I silently curse my body’s betrayal.

Get a grip, Arien! It’s just breakfast, not a royal ball.

By the time I regain control of my runaway emotions, all three of them are staring at me in confusion.

“Uhh, sure,” I squeak, trying to sound casual.

One side of Darian’s lip curves, clearly finding my flustered state amusing. He nods toward the keep, and the three of them, myself trailing nervously behind, begin the trek to the kitchen. On our way, the three of them effortlessly banter and engage in comfortable silence while I mentally kick myself for signaling my lack of social skills with a beacon fire. Their easy camaraderie suggests a friendship that’s been through more trials than this.

We arrive at the communal kitchen, filled with the clamor of clanging pots and shouting orders, and they each load their trays with steaming porridge, hearty bread, and an assortment of fruits. My own tray holds a meager two slices of bread, butter, and a lone boiled egg.

When we are seated at the communal table, Darian looks at me curiously. “Is that all you’ll be eating?”

“I’m not much of a morning eater,” I mumble, feeling the weight of three pairs of eyes on me.

Bahador snorts. “Well, you can’t be a stick figure for these trials. You’re about as thin as a quill.”

Faelas scolds his friend with frost in his voice. “Perhaps you should concern yourself with matters of greater import than the shape of a stranger’s body.”

Bahador chuckles. “Merely concerned about the well-being of our newest companion.”

“I’m stronger than I look,” I say defensively.

Bahador lets out a hearty snort, and Darian’s smirk threatens to split his face. Only Faelas remains stoic. Oh, great. This breakfast is shaping up to be a social obstacle course worthy of its own trial. I might be bad at swordplay, but battling with words is surely more daunting for me than battling with swords.

“So, where are you from?” Darian drawls through a mouthful of porridge.

“I’m an Ahira. From Firelands, obviously.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine… Where were you hatched?”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Of course, that’s what he meant. “Myra.”

“Which part of Myra?”

“Near Myriel,” I say curtly. It’s not quite a lie. Myriel, the capital of Myra, is close to Myrielfort, the seat of Myra’s High Lords.

“Does your family still live there?” Darian probes, clearly enjoying countering my short responses and watching my discomfort.

There is no graceful escape. With a sigh, I say, “No family. I’m an orphan.”

Now, thatis a lie, obviously, but I decided long ago that lying was less embarrassing than admitting I’m High Lord Helmsworth’s abandoned bastard child. Besides, trotting out the word “orphan” is usually a conversation killer. Instant social repellent, preventing any additional questions. At least, it had been until now. These Izadeonians, though? They are a strange lot. Instead of politely backing away, my fake orphan story seems to have only piqued their curiosity. All three of them are staring at me with an inquisitive expression. Hoping it will stop the interrogation, I shove half my egg and a chunk of bread into my mouth at once.

No luck. As soon as I swallow my food, Bahador asks, “What happened to your kin?”

I try to focus on my tray as I lie again, “Don’t know. I grew up in an orphanage. Never knew my kin.”

“Orphanage?” Faelas finally breaks his silent observation. “That’s unusual. If you were orphaned, Firelands would’ve taken you in rather than let you go to an orphanage until you were of age.”

His pale blue eyes narrow in either suspicion or just plain curiosity. I’m not sure which, and it makes me nervous.

“I didn’t manifest any sorcery until I was almost nine,” I blurt, another lie spilling from my lips like a rogue fireball. Damn it!

“Were your parents Gajari?” Faelas presses with a blank, unblinking stare.

The question nearly forces the true story out of me. The word “yes” teeters on the edge of my tongue. My mother was indeed Gajari. A humblemaid to High Lady Helmsworth, who apparently caught the High Lord’s eye. When she became pregnant, she received a nice amount of gold to head back to her Gajari desert village, which she did, but forgot to take the wailing baby. Me. And the High Lord, equally thrilled with an unwanted infant, just sort of… re-gifted me to the childless gamekeeper and his wife. Who, in a shocking turn of events,alsoweren’t thrilled about a random child but didn’t dare to disobey the High Lord.

Naturally, I can’t unpackthatstory for them. Or, more accurately, I don’t want to. Also, I’ve claimed ignorance of my lineage, so it’s time for another creative story. “I’m not sure! Like I said, I never knew my parents. Why do you ask?”

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